Rangiriri
November 1863
Mid-afternoon James made for his battle position. All was still except the scuffle of bodies crawling across mud and the rain that roared its own battle charge. Then, as quick as it came, the rain stopped, retreated for reload, readying itself for the next attack.
It had been a long month without Abel, and by the time James’s regiment was shipped down to Rangiriri, he was ready for some action. Pre-battle nerves that had once been quelled by the quips of his leprechaun friend caused his back to tense, his neck to ache. It was his first battle alone and the signs weren’t good: already he’d been assigned to ladder duty.
Muddied to the waist from crawling through ditches, James dragged his ladder into the dip right in front of the battlefield. It was the worst position to be in. Why he’d been chosen for the first charge, he wasn’t sure. Nor was he sure about the new Lieutenant Warren or his young ensign, who looked more like a boy than a soldier. Captain Swift would never have put him on ladder duty – he knew how to respect a man – but he was killed back in Cameron Town.
There must have been a thousand soldiers there, if he included the Navy. A few hundred had already left the gunboats to crawl through the thick swamp, heading around the back of the Maori fortress. The rest were up behind him in the scrub, hidden from view, where he’d rather be. James watched Lieutenant Warren as they waited. He could excuse fear – they all had nerves – but that stiffness, the way he twitched his chin to the side and lifted it like he was the bravest man alive: it was a lie, and James didn’t trust a man who lied on the battlefield.
Out front there wasn’t much to see, only a large mound of dirt that formed a parapet, with rifle ditches dug into the ground. James had seen the ditches from the ridge, but at ground level they vanished; he’d have to run right down the middle to avoid them. It was tricky, though; Rangiriri was the narrowest stretch of land they’d fought on, with a lake on one side and the river on the other. Nothing much to look at, but it was the gateway to the Waikato and its fertile, flat land. That’s what it was all about, and James wanted some of that land just as bad as every other man.
‘Not long now,’ Lieutenant Warren said. ‘God be with us.’
James crossed himself and prayed for Mother Mary’s protection, then shifted the ladder so it would be easy to grab when the call came. Instinctively, his right hand thrust into his trouser pocket and felt Aileen’s collar. He squeezed it in his palm, then released it, tucking it down into the depth of its tomb.
The rain beat down, then stopped, beat down, then stopped. It wasn’t cold, but James shook. Someone walked over your grave, his mother would have said. He looked to his right, where Abel should have been.
‘Remember,’ Lieutenant Warren called. ‘Ladders up, storm the parapet, don’t stop for anything. The 65ths will come in from the left, 12th and 14th from the right, 40th in from the back. The big guns will blast from the boats. Shouldn’t take long to surround these wily niggers. Good luck, men.’
Two rounds of shells boomed from the cannons up behind him, then the regiments in the scrub let loose. It was time. James looked back at the gunpowder sparks, hundreds of them, and for a moment he felt the urge to run back to them, abandon the ladder.
‘Charge!’ Lieutenant Warren yelled.
The men bounded forwards with their ladders and poles. Just over the mound one of the soldiers dropped in front of him. James jumped, his ladder bumping over the wounded man. Every one of the runners sounded the charge, an involuntary cry, something between fear and threat.
Everything moved far too slowly. James saw the tops of dark heads popping up and down in the gun pits like rabbits in holes. Heavy gunfire pelted down from the scrub and kept them ducking for cover. Before him the parapet appeared to rise from the ground. He was coming within range of those guns too. Bullets flew in every direction, the close ones shrieked past his ears, and the rain joined in again as he pushed to make it to the safety of the parapet ditch.
The parapet was a mighty construction, taller than any he’d seen. Runners disappeared down the mouth of the trench at its base. James rolled down, landing in a heap. It was much deeper than any of the natives’ trenches he’d seen before. He looked up at the towering mound of dirt shaped like the walls of a castle. The end of a double-barrel shotgun lowered over the top of it. James rolled to the opposite wall as pellets thumped into the dirt behind him. He stopped to catch his breath, pressing his body hard against the parapet. Then he stretched his leg to catch a rim of the ladder, inch by inch pulling it closer, until finally he could grab it and throw it up against the wall.
Ten pounds for the first man to down the enemy flag and replace it with their own, or to capture the Maori King. Either one, it didn’t matter; James wanted that money. He snatched a flag from Private Gallagher and climbed. Partway up, Gallagher took it back. But young Watkins scaled his pole faster than either of them and made it to the top first. James hesitated as Watkins fell backwards, his hands still wrapped around the pole, a hole in his head, clean and round, no blood. The pole went with him, down into the trench. James readied his musket with the bayonet. Gallagher could have the flag, he decided.
His ladder was too short. Gallagher’s was too, so James stood on the top rung while Gallagher climbed onto his shoulders. There was shooting, but James couldn’t see a thing, only the bodies of falling men to his left. The side of his face was pushed into the wet earth and Gallagher’s boots dug into his shoulders. The ladder wobbled beneath him, then swung out. The two of them fell into the trench, a pit of bodies. Some groaned, some moved quickly to the small security offered by the parapet wall, some didn’t move at all.
‘Take cover,’ Lieutenant Warren called.
James dug into the wall with his bayonet to create a nook to shelter in. It was unnerving how close the natives sounded, just on the other side of the wall.
Deafening blasts from big cannons cut through the rain and landed inside the fortress. The gunboats had joined in; the 40ths were getting near. Lulls in the defenders’ gunfire followed the big guns, but not for long. James ducked as some of the shells hit the parapet above him. Small avalanches of dirt tumbled, but the wall stood strong.
‘God Almighty! We be buried alive,’ James yelled in Gallagher’s direction, but Gallagher wasn’t listening.
Stuck, like meat between slices of bread. There was nothing to do but duck and watch for shotgun barrels coming over the top.
‘Where’s the grenades?’ Gallagher shouted, but no one answered.
It must have been another hour before the guns above started firing madly again. Something was happening, but no one was brave enough to look, until Captain Mercer bounded over the side of the trench with a good number of men wielding swords and revolvers. No command needed. The ladders were steadied for a second attempt to storm the parapet. This time it all happened too quickly. Men fell like logs, swords and revolvers dropped from their hands. Captain Mercer was shot through the side of his face, flung backwards over the top of the trench where no man could pull him to safety.
James reached for an abandoned revolver and tucked it into his belt. Stuck again. He looked for Lieutenant Warren but couldn’t see him. The young ensign was down further but seemed too stunned to give orders.
Another hour passed before a new deluge of men charged into the trench. This time it was the Navy, a good number, a hundred maybe. Someone uncovered a box near the foot of his ladder: hand grenades. James reached for one.
‘Only on command, soldier.’
James wanted to throw them now. Kill them all and scale the wall. Get that Maori King and be done with it. But it appeared the sailors were under orders to hold back.
When the time came, James gladly lit the wick of the grenade, then grabbed it off the sailor and hurled it high over the side himself. No way did he want it to hit the top and roll back down on top of him. The parapet wall shuddered with each explosion. He burned to get over the top when the ladders went up again. This time, when a human ladder formed to his left, James made sure he was the first climber.
The top of the parapet was much wider than he expected, and already lined with natives. One wielding a tomahawk rushed him. James dug his bayonet into his attacker’s belly. He wrenched it furiously but it wouldn’t come out. In a panic he blew a shot into the man; the bayonet came away, but his musket was now empty. He pulled out his revolver and shot three natives before running completely out of ammunition. Soldiers fought each side of him, but natives cutting at them with tomahawks and clubs far outnumbered them. Smoke rose thick and dark from behind the wall, and still more natives climbed to the top.
‘Pull back!’ he heard. He threw himself at a pole and slid into the trench.
Too many – the natives were like ants running from a nest. The third attempt to conquer the parapet had failed.
As soon as the soldiers were off the wall, the regiments started firing again. The gunboats boomed and more smoke rose. Soldiers tried to dig a tunnel while they waited, but it just kept collapsing. For two hours the bombardment continued. Every now and then another grenade would rattle the wall of the parapet while below the men waited, trembling in the rain.
Night was pouring into the smoke-smudged sky when a bugle sounded the retreat. Except for the ringing in James’s ears, and the weeping of women behind the wall, the world went quiet. Women. James couldn’t believe he heard women in there.
Scattered throughout the trench, wounded men started to cry. The silence had brought them to life again. It looked like a scene from hell. Broken men, blood and guts everywhere. A sailor in front of him pleaded for water. James dragged him out from under the fallen dirt. The man’s right shoulder was blown off and his arm hung in threads. James lifted his canteen and allowed small pools of water to fill the sailor’s mouth. Gallagher pulled the jacket off a dead man and covered the man’s wounded shoulder.
‘Got a name?’ James asked.
‘Samuel,’ he replied. ‘Samuel Lewis.’
Two sailors stepped over the rubble when they saw Lewis there.
‘Here,’ one said, holding a small bottle of rum to Lewis’s mouth. The other pulled a bottle from the wounded sailor’s vest. They shared the rum around the small group as the sky turned black.
It was the longest night, waiting it out in the trench. The rain had stopped, but sleep was impossible because of the occasional boom of a grenade to keep the natives away. It was a strange comfort, the shaking of the wall, a reminder he was still alive.
The balance was maintained until dawn, when they prepared to resume fighting; but just as they finished laying dynamite at the base of the parapet, white flags were sighted. It was over. Lines of natives marched out with their guns over their heads. No sign of the crying women, or the chiefs.
It wasn’t long before the regiments were sent inside the fortification. No one got the flag; it had disappeared in the night, along with the dead. Scattered all around were abandoned weapons, clothing and food. James picked a Bible from the mud and wiped the gold cross on the cover with his sleeve. He couldn’t believe they carried a Bible into battle, yet there at his feet was another, even bigger. He bent to pick that one up too.
‘You want this?’ James threw the Bible at Gallagher.
Gallagher leafed through the first two pages and threw it back.
‘No good to me,’ Gallagher said.
‘Can Burgess read?’ James asked.
‘I can read all right. English I can read. That’s Maori, that is. What’s the other one?’
Gallagher came over to see. He whistled between his teeth and raised his eyebrows. ‘Maori too. A Maori almanac.’
James had no idea what an almanac was and thought it best not to ask.
Gallagher spotted something else and moved away. Someone had found a couple of greenstone clubs while gathering guns, and now everyone was looking for more.
Mud from James’s fingers smudged the gilt edging of the two books. They were ruined, pages buckled and wet, worthless – who’d want them anyway. Lingering smoke made his eyes water. He dropped the books into the mud and kicked them. He didn’t want them, didn’t want the greenstone clubs either. He’d already lost his best friend to the natives. Was he now to lose his God to them too?
‘No good,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘No bloody good.’
Two days it took to load the natives on to the steam gunboat Pioneer. It felt like an eternity, especially with the arguments between them and Major Paul. The natives couldn’t understand why they’d been taken captive, complained of trickery. They thought the white flag meant surrender, and surrender meant they conceded victory and could go home. Prisoners of war meant the Queen wasn’t playing fair.
Least we’re not eating you, James wanted to say, but he didn’t.
Only so much a man could sleep after battle. Flashbacks shook the weary, and the only escape was inside a woman, or the drink. James knew too well the weaknesses of his comrades, and he was prepared for it – or DeRose was. He always knew the right time to sneak into camp with his grog.
As the darkness of a new night filtered down, the 65ths emerged from their canvas cocoons with mugs ready for filling.
‘Old man, over here!’ James ushered Smith into his tent.
‘Who you calling old man?’
James filled Smith’s mug, then waited for the clink of his coin in the hat. Instead Smith’s hand delved in like a hawk snatching a mouse for its dinner.
‘That’ll cover what you owe me from the week before,’ he said.
James grabbed Smith’s wrist and squeezed it. Half the coins dropped into the hat before he let go.
‘Well, all right then,’ Smith said. ‘You can pay the rest later.’
Heat stretched up James’s neck. Poker was a game, just a game, and the money he owed didn’t seem real, though he’d never say that out loud.
Smith took a swig from his mug. His face distorted with the first gulp. ‘That’s a strong one,’ he said.
‘Put hairs on your chest.’ DeRose took a swig of his own mug but his face remained impassive.
DeRose was a sneak: there was nothing but water in his mug. James knew he never drank while doing business.
‘Don’t need any more hairs on my chest.’ Smith took another, smaller sip. This time only his eyes cringed. James wondered what he did with all his winnings from the cards. Where he hid it all. He certainly ate well: he was the only soldier with a pot-belly James had seen.
James counted what was left of the coins after Smith’s greedy scoop. Twelve coins. Not as many as he thought, and most of it went to DeRose. Cost and risk, he called it.
‘How much did he take?’ DeRose asked.
‘Five pennies.’
‘We’ll take it from your cut.’
James threw a tin of matches in frustration. The canvas shuddered as the tin hit the side of the tent.
Outside, men’s voices rose in song. It had been a long time since he’d joined any kind of festivity. James filled his mouth with as much grog as it would hold, then swallowed. The burn started in his belly and reached up his throat to a tongue that was already numbing.
‘Back in a bit, aye,’ James said, but they both knew that once he started the drink he wouldn’t be back.
‘Just as well one of us takes the business seriously,’ DeRose said.
James filled his mug to the brim and went to join the others around the fire. DeRose’s grog was much stronger than rum or whiskey, and didn’t take long to have an effect. By the time James finished his mug, the men around him were already unhinged. Songs of old loves got loud; so did the embellished details of the last battle. James didn’t want to hear any of it.
‘God damn natives,’ he said. ‘Sick of them. Can go to hell, the lot of them.’
He waved his hand about as if to usher them all into hell himself.
‘You reckon they all go to hell?’ Turnbull turned to James with drunken concern. He was entering the love stage of intoxication, the camaraderie stage where men sang with arms around shoulders and the man sitting next to him was his best friend ever.
‘Where else?’ James swivelled to see who was talking.
‘Why d’you reckon Abel left us for them?’ Turnbull mumbled.
James pushed Turnbull off his log and held back a punch that he was longing to connect.
‘Sick of it,’ James said. ‘Sick of mud, sick of blood, sick of –’ He marched off to refill his mug. Truth was, he was sick of feeling deserted by Abel. Sick of the stories rolling about camp, sightings of a tattooed white man in a top hat. Although Abel wasn’t the only white man to switch sides, James knew it was him. Tattoos and a top hat. Who else would be so bold?
Back at the fire with his refilled mug, James slurred, ‘You a friend, Turnbull?’
‘Fought side by side, haven’t we?’ Turnbull said, as if it was the answer to anything.
The wind turned, spinning the smoke from the fire in their direction. Turnbull waved his hand against it, then gave up and stumbled around to the other side of the fire. James sat alone, eyes burning, willing the smoke to shift again. The heart of the fire popped and sent up a spray of sparks that made him jump. He patted himself all over, where the sparks landed and even where they hadn’t.
‘Come join us, Stack.’ Smith’s voice was all treacle. ‘Look, the moon’s a gold coin. Sure sign of luck.’
Smith was right: the moon was golden, and so close James felt he could reach for it. Was Abel looking at that same moon?
Over in the corner was the card table, away from the fire but still illuminated by it. Shadows of players stretched and flickered against ghostly rows of bell-shaped canvas. James looked at the moon, a good omen; then the card table, the spare place. He could afford it. Now that Abel had left, he didn’t have to split the grog profits. All he had to do was watch Smith’s hands, watch for tricks. If he could catch him just once, he’d be a happy man.
The spindly fold-out leg buckled at the knock of James’s knee. Cards splayed across the table, but he caught the edge and someone straightened the leg.
‘Like your legs, Smithy.’ James imitated Smith toppling over with his fingers.
Smith smiled, but not in agreement. He shuffled the cards without watching, the same way Mary-Jane’s mother knitted while talking. Unnerving, the both of them.
Cards snapped from Smith’s hands into six small piles. James felt himself being watched, but he didn’t look up; he needed to focus on the hands. It wasn’t easy. His brain swung like a pendulum with the grog, but he managed to pick the cards up without dropping any. Ten, Jack, Queen, all red. All red: he read them again just to make sure. These numbers he’d learned to read.
He threw a coin and two of his cards into the middle, then remembered to watch Smith.
Two cards lay face down in front of Smith already; the other three were strewn in the middle. This time James’s body listed too far to the left and the player next to him shoved him upright. He hugged his cards to his chest.
‘Two,’ James said.
Two cards landed in front of him face down. James lifted them, close to his chest, then curled them inside his palm with the others. A King and Ace, both red. He couldn’t believe it; he was finally going to win. He threw two more coins into the middle.
‘See.’
Smith lifted his eyes, and James was ready for them. He straightened his back, determined to be unreadable. Cards dropped to the table either side of him. Smith revealed his own fan of numbers.
‘Three of a kind,’ he said.
‘Ha!’ James slammed his hand down harder than he meant. ‘Royal flush,’ he yelled, arms raised to the moon. ‘Hey,’ he yelled. ‘Beat him I did.’
Turnbull and Burns raised their mugs.
‘I beat Smith.’
‘No you didn’t,’ Smith said.
James turned and pointed. ‘Ah, you’re having a joke.’ He moved over and patted Smith on the back. ‘Can’t be winning all the time. See the moon? Good omen, that is. Good for Irish blood tonight, not English.’
‘You didn’t win,’ Smith repeated. ‘Look.’
‘Ten, Jack, Queen, King, Ace?’ James wobbled, but he knew he wasn’t seeing things.
Smith pulled the jack out. ‘Diamonds. See? The rest are hearts.’
‘Was hearts afore.’ James’s voice boomed. ‘It were all hearts afore.’
‘No it wasn’t.’ Smith reached to claim the coins on the table.
‘You cheat. You’re a cheat and a liar.’
‘Who you calling a cheat?’ Smith rose from his stool.
‘Where you put them cards then?’ James tugged at the cuffs of Smith’s jacket.
Smith took his jacket off and shook it in front of everyone. Nothing fell out. James wobbled again and tipped the table over. Cards and coins toppled into the dirt.
‘Where you put them then?’ James reached for Smith’s trousers.
‘Get out of here.’ Smith pushed James away. ‘Bad loser you are.’
James batted Smith out of the way and made for the coins on the ground. He felt the others trying to grab his arms, tugging at his shirtsleeves, pulling him away, but he was stronger than them. His sight narrowed as if he was about to pass out. The ground surged and a drunken wave of dirt rose to meet him. Someone had hold of him, pushed him backwards. He remembered swinging, but only one of his punches landed before the moon in the sky fell on his head. Then there was nothing, until the morning bugle shook him awake, clawed at his brains, and daylight scratched his eyes.
James lifted his weight on to his hands and knees, then pushed back, his head a bulb of pain. The card table was gone, the coins were nowhere to be seen, even DeRose had scarpered. All that remained was the burnt-down fire, half circled with stumps.
Tentatively James touched the sorest part of his head. Blood on his fingers jolted him, and the vomit surged.
‘DeRose,’ he called, as the bugle beckoned the soldiers again.
Canvas and rope slapped against each other; men bolted for morning line-up. James felt the press of a hand on his shoulder.
‘I’ll tell captain to fetch the doc,’ someone said, then was gone.
Tents stopped flapping, boots no longer kicked up dust, and James knew he was in trouble when he felt himself start to float. It was a dream. It had to be, because he lifted higher and higher on what felt like a giant leaf.
Down below a boy stood back as a man swung his shovel and whacked the head of a woman, a baby wrapped in her frozen arms. Her head split like the fruit of the strawberry tree under the crush of a boot. ‘The baby moved,’ the boy said, but the man kept shovelling. ‘It’s them or us, boyo,’ the man said. James knew the dream. He knew the boy, the man, the tree. That was the first time his father had taken him to bury the wanderers.
James held tight to the thin sides of the leaf stretcher that threatened to lurch from beneath him, drop him into the dreamscape. He wasn’t letting go for anything. If it was his time to go, he wanted to drop into the dream of the Lough Leane. Or back before Aileen was lost, or in the bush with Mary-Jane. Anywhere but the strawberry tree.
‘At ease,’ the corporal said, then closed Major Paul’s door behind them. ‘Private Stack as you requested, sir,’ he said, addressing the major.
It wasn’t the first time James had been called before the major, but nothing ever came of it. Just warnings, endless warnings. Soldiers were too valuable to lose while the war continued.
‘Have a seat, Stack.’
James edged towards the chair in case he’d heard wrong. He’d never been asked to take a seat before. He lifted a hand to his bandage-wrapped head as if to steady it. The gash had needed stitches, and in the three days since, all he’d been able to do was sleep and keep the headache at bay with whiskey. Someone must have whacked him with a piece of wood, or the butt of a musket. He suspected Smith but was in no condition to do anything about it.
Major Paul stood in front of James, arms folded. He seemed larger than normal, looming above him like that. The corporal stayed by the door, as if guarding it.
‘I see we recently reissued you with a regimental button for your jacket, Private.’
‘Sir.’
‘Show me where it came from, if you will.’
James undid the last two buttons of his jacket and showed Major Paul the repair. He’d done the best he could. The stitched scar pulled tight and was only half covered with a new button, shinier than the rest.
‘Where did you lose your button, Private?’
‘Night watch, sir.’ James shifted on the flatness of the seat. If only he could stand, he’d prefer to stand. ‘Them pesky birds, green ones, snatched the button right off.’
‘I see.’
Major Paul unfolded his arms and tapped the desk with a finger.
‘And was that about the time Private Lovegod disappeared from duty on night watch?’
‘Afore that, sir.’
‘I see.’ Major Paul moved back behind his desk and paused before sitting. ‘And how long before Private Lovegod’s disappearance would that have been?’ He leaned back in his chair as if to take in the bigger view of the room.
‘About two weeks, sir.’
‘About two weeks. Yes.’
The pauses unsettled James more than they should have. He wasn’t exactly sure what the major was asking, what information he was trying to piece together.
‘You know Surgeon O’Neill at all, Private?’
And there it was. James felt the rush of guilt and fought to hold it in his throat, stop it from appearing on his face. Beards were good for hiding behind, but the eyes – he had to control the eyes.
‘No, sir. But I heard them natives got him.’
‘Well, it would appear one of our own was in the area at the time. Know anything about that, would you?’
‘No, sir. Not sure why I would.’
The major opened a drawer and pulled out a button, an old, faded 65ths button, and placed it on the edge of his desk.
‘Recognise that?’
‘Could be anyone’s, sir. Most lost buttons out there.’
‘Yes, but yours was around the same time wasn’t it, Stack.’
The wood of the seat felt hard beneath him. He glanced over to the corporal who stood at attention, eyes forward.
‘Don’t know, sir. Don’t know when I lost it. Just decided I best fix it. Don’t know about the surgeon. Wasn’t me that hurt the man, sir.’
And he was right, he hadn’t.
Major Paul lifted his chin and leaned forwards. Another pause.
‘And what about Private Lovegod? And the trading? Is that why he disappeared?’
‘Trading, sir?’
‘Yes, it has come to our attention.’
‘Don’t rightly know why he left, sir.’ James dipped his head in disbelief. Someone had peached him in, broken the unspoken rule of a 65th. He suspected Smith again. He was the only one nervous enough to want him gone.
James held back the curses he’d like to mutter, ground his teeth slightly to lock them in.
‘Tell me, if Private Lovegod was taken, why didn’t they take you? Or did he desert?’
‘Don’t know, sir. Fell asleep. When I woke, he was gone.’
‘Just fell asleep? Or was there foul play between the two of you over the surgeon’s attack?’
James gasped. ‘Would never hurt Abe. He was me best friend.’
The major relaxed back in his chair as if still considering James’s response.
‘So,’ he said at last, ‘he just up and disappeared? No reason.’
‘Sir.’ It sounded weak, James knew.
‘The truth of the situation, Private Stack, seems to elude us at present. How about we try this then.’ This time there was no pause. ‘I suggest your Private Lovegod went bad, and you know more about it than you’re letting on.’
‘Did some things we shouldn’t have, to be sure, sir, but we never hurt nobody, I swear on me mother’s grave.’
‘On your mother’s grave. Yes. Been here before, haven’t you, Private? With the flogging on the ship out.’
The mention of the flogging filled him with fright, and he sat up, stiff, unable to speak, refusing to speak – talking only got him further in trouble. He’d say no more, he decided, and he’d be damned if he’d go through another flogging, not for anything.
More accusations flew, but James remained silent, his jaw locked in fury. It was all Abel’s fault, and DeRose’s. None of it was his own doing, yet there he was, the only one taking the blame, being threatened with a court-martial. He’d like to tell them all where to go, tell them all to kiss his arse. But it was all over soon enough: the major gave up and ordered James to be held pending dismissal.
Outside the office the brightness of sunlight hurt. Residual grog always made the daylight savage, but the harshness of the day seemed to illuminate his dishonour. James hoped there would be someone else in lock-up too, someone else to be discharged, especially Smith. But there wasn’t.
The cell door locked behind him and the corporal left without a word.
‘Right then,’ James said as if to tuck the disappointment away.
There was nothing to be done. He would face it like a man: he was strong enough, his anger allowed him that much.
Men’s voices jostled on the other side of the wall, friendly banter, the kind he’d only really enjoyed with Abel. It was so unfair: the war was nearly over. All those battles and no pension to reward his survival. He flopped onto the cot and threw out thoughts of Abel, blocked the noise from outside by placing a blanket over his head, and wouldn’t allow himself to think of Mary-Jane.
‘Kiss me hairy arse, the lot of ya!’ he yelled, and shuddered as if his own mother was about to slap him.