Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (71 page)

“Aye, that I will, Sir. But I’ll no be alone tonight. There are more here than me as can bend their minds to the craft, of that I’m sure.”

He grasped Bluebear’s shoulder, indicating that at least his new friend should be able to contribute.

They shared a grin.

“Anyways, I’
ll tender ye something appropriate, but not just the now; I will have a moment to mysel first, Sah.”

Loud enough to be heard, Rosenberg could not resist a comment to his friend.

“I thought theesh limeysh all talked English. What the fuck wash that he wash shpeaking?”

Those in earshot laughed, knowing the statement for the baiting it was.

Robertson duly retaliated.

“Listen, ye colonial bas. I’m nay English. I’m Scots born and bred, and my daddy’s daddy’s daddy were at Waterloo
, with Ewart and the Greys, snatching the Eagle from the Frogs!”

Rosenberg feigned shock and horror.

“Oi Vey Shergeant Major! Eaglesh? Frogsh? Did your family run a zoo?”

Robertson set his jaw and bent over, bringing his face level with the diminutive Jew.

“It’s called tradition, ye mouthy dwarf, something of which ye know little, unless ye are talking docking your cocks.”

The little soldier looked mournful.

“I had mine done for medical reasons, Shergeant Major.”

Hässler snorted.

Robertson waited, grinning widely.

Rosenberg continued.

“Parshially because the docsh shaid that the extra shtrain on my heart was too much of a rishk,” laughter erupted from the group, “And Parshially becaush the Rabbi ordered me to shpare the female of the shpecies and redushe it to more of a normal shize.”

Robertson’s retort was lost in loud and uncontrolled baying, amusement that doubled when Dieckhoff tried to translate the lines for Strecher, and failed to finish the job, coming apart long before he had made sense.

Honours roughly even, Robertson sat himself down and produced a small pad, his pencil quickly going to work.

As he completed his work, small raindrops started to fall, complying with his earlier prediction.

He nodded at Ramsey who rose to his feet.

“Gentlemen, I pray silence for the Bard of Black Watch, Murdo Robertson.”

Ramsey’s gentle call brought a stillness to the group.

The RSM adopted the mournful Scots style of delivery.

“Aye well, here is ma wee offering to the day ahead.”

The start was delayed by a small flash in the night sky, a brief light
that rallied and grew, marking the return to earth of an aircraft that had died violently in the darkness above.

Robertson read his poem.

“Is that rain upon my face this day?

Or angels tears from heaven, to say,

We feel for ye, Oh sons of men,

Prepared to do your work again.

Though such a price was ne’er fore asked,

Or so brave a group, so heavy tasked,

So feel our tears upon your face, and know,

We care about you
, down below.”

A gentle clapping commenced, the words so quickly penned making an impact upon those who had listened.

Rosenberg took his time and spoke as clearly as he could.

“For shertain, you ain’t English, Shergeant-Major. Ain’t one of ‘em could shtring together wordsh like that,” he caught Ramsey’s eye, “Preshent company exshcluded of coursh!”

Bluebear rose, silently encouraged by Robertson. His voice was soft and firm, and he made no attempt at rhyme or balance, but his words seemed to take poetic form naturally.

“I am a warrior of my people,
of a warrior race,

Traced back through the line of
our ancestors.

I am Tsali Sagonegi Yona of the Aniyunwiya,

Brought forth upon this land to kill,

And if I am worthy, then tomorrow,

And for a thousand years to come,

The Aniyunwiya will know of my name.

I am Tsali Sagonegi Yona,

And
tomorrow, and for the days to come,

I will fight alongside fellow braves.”

The Indian resumed his seat to the sound of approving voices, shaking the extended hands of both Robertson and Hässler.

“Excellent, excellent.”

Ramsey’s approval was genuine.

Checking his watch, he was about to announce his departure, when he noticed Aitcherson standing quietly, just waiting to be recognised.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. I’m afraid that I must depart, time is pressing now, but
, before I go, I believe our comrade from the Cameron Highlanders wishes to contribute.”

“Aye, that I do
, Sir. If I may.”

Silence fell on the group, not even the sound of a distant barrage or a waking bird, even the remainder of the courtyard was silent, men either asleep or withdrawn into their own thoughts.

Aitcherson rehearsed his presentation, his lips moving silently before he spoke.

“The old folk speak of glory and honour,

Won on the bloody fields of yore,

Names that have long since passed into legend,

Such as Balaclava, Plassey, Quebec, Agincourt.

A thousand years, and a thousand battles,

Yet mainly the olds boast of Waterloo,

But after this day, a legend’ll be born,

For they’ll all speak of Bloody Barnstorf too.”

The Cameron’s officer spoke the words with great meaning, his voice of perfect tone for the delivery.

“Bravo old chap, bravo. However, I do hope that you are incorrect, Aitcherson. To be frank, I rather hope that no-one will remember the name of Barnstorf in a week!”

He got no disagreement, and whilst the ensemble appreciated Aitcherson’s efforts, they all preferred to hope that battle would pass them by that day.

Strecher received the last of the translation, and nodded his approval.

Patrick Green decided to throw in his two-penneth.

“Right, well here’s mine, with no bloody apologies.”

He coughed to clear his throat and then ran the words out in record time.

“I’m here fighting for the fookin English,

As my dadda did afore me.

When we will ever learn,

To leave it to the fookin English,

To fight their own fookin wars.”

Green’s skills were probably better adapted to the battlefield, but his contribution brought polite responses none the less.

“And something more from our American cousins?”

Ramsey laid down the gauntlet, and Hässler picked it up immediately.

“I’m American, so I guess my style is more direct and to the point than you old world types, Sir.”

“You have the floor, Master Sergeant.”

“OK, well, here goes.”

He winked at Rosenberg.

“Barnstorf, a boil on the arse of humanity. Fuck it!”

Even Strecher laughed, without the need of translation from Dieckhoff.

Ramsey choked lightly, regaining his poise before speaking.

“Thank you for that pearl of wisdom, Master Sergeant, and I daresay we all agree with you!”

A bout of rapid exchange in German followed, preventing the group from breaking up.

Dieckhoff stood to explain.

“Herr Hauptmann Strecher has ask me to quote something for him as his contribution, Kameraden. Before the war, Strecher is scholar of Ancient Greece, and he has ask me to speak his words at you.”

Unusually, Strecher had, for once, decided
that his English was not up to the job.

Strecher took his cue and spoke slowly, permitting Dieckhoff to deliver his words precisely.

“In 480BC, a small number of Greeks fights a huge army of Persia, using the ground to help resist the invasion. A small force, only few thousand Greeks, from a number of States, held back the power of,” Dieckhoff confirmed the pronunciation before continuing, “Xerxes, a king with an army totalling a million men.”

Strecher finished speaking his next portion and leant back to savour his coffee.

“At the end of the battle, monuments are erected in their honour, and this words comes from one such monument.”

Dieckhoff listened as his Captain repeated the
text twice, fixing it in his mind.

“Go tell the Spartans, stranger who passes by, that here, obedient to their laws, we lie.”

A modest ripple of acknowledging applause rose briefly, the occasional mug tilted to toast the words from ancient times.

As one, they rose. Handshakes were exchanged
, and they went forth to whatever the day held.

Back in their position, Hässler was unusually quiet.

“They might not attack ush. It might all be bullshith.”

The mumbled reply told Rosenberg that his friend was troubled.

“Hey Rish, it’ll be fine. What’sh got you sho blue?”

“Gotta bad feeling about this battle, Rosie, a real bad feeling.”

Rosenberg stayed silent, and an awkwardness filled the foxhole.

Hässler shook himself out of the melancholy, and sought to brighten the moment.

“So, brain box, that Spartan thing. What happened to them?”

“Shergeant, are you telling me tha
t you Gentilesh weren’t taught hishtory?”

“What I’m telling you is that this fucking soldier wasn’t taught that bit of history, ok?”

“Whoa, Mashter Shergeant,” Rosenberg realising quickly that there was no humour in his friend’s words.

“OK, OK, Isaac. I just wanna know, that’s all.”

The use of his first name indicated just how rattled Hässler was.

“They were killed to a man, Mas
hter Shergeant.”

“Well, that’s just fucking dandy!”

‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition. And gentlemen in England now abed, shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhood's cheap while any speaks, that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.’

Henry V’s speech to the English Army before the Battle of Agincourt.

William Shakespeare

The Battle of Agincourt was fought on St Crispen's Day, Friday, 25th October 1415.

1ST BALTIC FRONT -
MARSHAL BAGRAMYAN

‘Can there be any more bloody water in the heavens?’

It seemed a very reasonable question to Ramsey
, as he was drenched yet again, the cold water penetrating to every part of his body.

There was no time to change.

There was no point in changing, even if there had been time.

“My other uniform is probably just as bloody wet.”

Exchanging looks with McEwan, Ramsey could only grin at the man, who looked more miserable than the rest put together.

The first attack came in hard, direct, and with power behind it.

Fig #
68 - The start, Bloody Barnstorf.