Bruar's Rest

one essential item in a soldier’s bag—ammunition. It weighed a ton and buckled the knees of the weakest, scrawny men among them.
    ‘Don’t get close to the natives, now lad.’ Taylor took several strides to reach Bruar and repeated his orders.
    Bruar fumbled with his heavy rucksack and lied that his bayonet was loose, requesting permission to fix it.
    ‘Three minutes lad, be bloody quick,’ The SM hurried off to check his men, aware they’d not eaten all day, and as an army marches on its stomach, the setting sun worried him.
    Bruar stood down, and instantly the Frenchwoman was at his side, pleading, ‘Please give, you have bullee, yes. I give you this.’ She pulled from behind her back a small jute bag and opened it to show two dusty green bottles. ‘See, fine wine for the beef, I ask please.’
    ‘Oh, I see, you think I have food. Well, I’m sorry, lassie, but there’s nothing.’ He held out empty hands and gestured with shrugged shoulders. She lunged at his rucksack, thumping at it in sheer desperation. His heart ached as he watched her, crying and hitting out at the foodless bag.
    She saw by his gaunt face and deep-sunk eyes that he spoke the truth. ‘Take please, mon ami , for you, for liberty, for freedom, for France.’
    He held the bag she pushed at him. A measly ‘thanks,’ was all he could muster.
    Dejected and helpless she ran off on blackened feet. He felt ashamed, although he could take no personal blame for the war that had made her beg or turned her peaceful country into a landscape of hell. It was futile, but feebly he called after her, ‘I’m real sorry, this isn’t my fault.’
    Two tiny children ran out from behind some vines, hands outstretched, crying ‘Mamma’. She hurried them away without a glance back. Why had she chosen him? Perhaps her husband was dead, or maybe in uniform like him. Her proud family brought to the point of hiding, sneaking around like foxes. It was unlikely they’d meet again, yet an overpowering longing grew in him to see them fed; warm in a bed with a roof over their heads. Sickened and hungry he joined his mates.
    Sandy whistled loudly. In seconds his silence at the signaller’s side was as loud as any bomb.
    ‘Best forget and think on your own bonny lassie back home. War takes more than soldiers,’ the signaller reminded him, then added, ‘We’ll soon be lousing. Now cheer up, I’ve a surprise for you.’
    Night thickly spread its darkness around and the halt was sounded. ‘Sorry, boys, but the bloody supplies took a pounding this morning. The word is, no rations until tomorrow. Best chew on grapes if you find them, but don’t let Rokeby know, because to leave your post is forbidden. He’d issue orders to fire at sparrows, if they flew too close.’ Taylor finished with, ‘At ease, men.’
    ‘Bloody grapes, what good is that to hungry men? Marched the whole day and no food, to hell with that!’ Sandy was spitting fire. Bruar patted him on the arm and said, ‘Rations will be here when we wake—surely you can wait till then?’
    ‘Listen, pal, every man has been carrying his own bodyweight on his back, but on top of this damn rucksack, I’ve had a cartful of pigeons. If food doesn’t pass my lips soon I’ll be shot for cannibalism. Keep your eye out for Rokeby, I’ll show you that surprise. Firstly get a fire on, I’ll sort these ladies.’
    Bruar felt his hair crawl at the sight of Sandy’s wide-eyed expression. It didn’t take much thought to work out what was coming next. ‘Man, you can’t be thinking on killing them, that’s the King’s birds!’
    ‘There mine tonight.’ Sandy rammed a fist into the doo boxes, and in no time three throttled and silenced birds lay limp on the ground. Bruar watched in amazement as a stick was pushed inside each naked fowl, while a heap of feathers lay around Sandy’s feet.
    ‘Start a fire, the quicker we get these birds cooked the better. The King has more birds than he can count—trust me, he’ll not miss these. Anyway, they had damaged wings and were no use. Hurry, man, I’m starving.’
    Bruar threw his tinker skills into overdrive; he dug a hollow, a ring of pebbles at its rim. In his hands he rolled a ball of dried grass, lit it and soon tiny flames spurted and a fire was born. Around them others were doing the same. Surely they would attract little suspicion, and have the time to cook some desperately needed supper.
    Over an embankment they positioned the cart; concealed