Bruar's Rest

from the others they warmed themselves and pit-roasted the pigeons. Rags were added to smother the delicious aromas.
    Fat crackled on the roasting birds, and though Rokeby could appear at any minute, the acids building in their guts were stronger than any fear. They were starving, and the birds smelt like a heaven to die for.
    ‘What we need to complement our meal, my half-bred tinker, is a nice wee claret!’
    ‘I have the very thing!’ Bruar fumbled with his rucksack, and retrieved two green bottles. ‘The finest from the Loire Valley,’ he said, popping out the corks with his teeth and spitting them in the fire.
    Sandy’s eyes almost left their sockets to perch on his blackened cheeks. ‘Well, well, a dark horse. Where did these come from?’ He gently caressed the bottle. ‘Come to me, my love!’
    ‘The lassie, remember the thin wee soul I met on the road? The poor thing was desperate for food, two little bairns to feed, my heart sank. You know we’d nothing, bur she gave me these “for France”, she said.’ The bottle slipped from his hand as he told his companion how much she resembled Megan.
    ‘Listen, lad, we can’t do anything about wars. Old armchair generals cause them, and they have the say on who lives or not. But never mind that, let’s get on with something more important than any war, a damn good feed. God knows it might be our last! Lift your bottle and drink to Scotland!’
    Roast pigeon, gulped down with ruby red wine, was on the menu that night, but it had a high price!
    It wasn’t either man’s style to finish a whole bottle, but ‘when wine’s in, wit’s oot’, as they say in temperance circles. Ballads soon came loud and tuneful from behind the pigeon cart—so loud a certain captain had to investigate. Downing two bottles of local plonk wasn’t a shooting offence, but consuming His Majesty’s birds—that did indeed merit a death penalty! If Sandy had had just one ounce of sense he would not have offered Rokeby the birds’ feathers for a softer pillow, but therein lay more than enough evidence to convict them.
    ‘Shot at dawn!’ screamed a red-faced, foaming-mouthed Captain. ‘No trial.’
    Handcuffed and still singing, the criminals were marched off, still oblivious of their impending doom.
    Next morning, with a watery sun to their back and an angry Rokeby to their front, both soberly admitted the offence, but never for a second did they imagine that the Captain would have the execution carried out.
    He first subjected them to a tirade about how crucial carrier pigeons were for communicating army intelligence; without these worthy birds, messages of strategic importance would be lost, and everything depended on keeping abreast of the movements of the enemy. Sandy, in their defence, assured the captain that those birds, the ones they had roasted, were injured and useless, unable to perform their duties.
    This provoked another tirade of curses from Rokeby. He hit a wooden table so hard a notepad shot into the air, along with a nib pen and a pot of ink. Bruar glanced at Sandy, who had turned deathly pale, and whispered, ‘Shit, we’ve had it, this idiot’s lost his marbles.’
    Twelve soldiers lined up, guns stiff at their sides. Rokeby unholstered a service revolver, straightened his peaked cap, and clicked the heels of his high boots. He seemed to enjoy the whole situation, lording himself above lesser mortals once again. But one young soldier, who’d been chosen for the firing squad, had seen his own companions die once too often. He took a brave step and laid down his rifle, refusing to take part. Rokeby threw him aside, aiming a hard kick into the soldier’s back, who scrambled for cover. Rokeby was mad!
    Fear gripped the platoon, and another brave lad broke ranks and went to find Taylor who was overseeing the arrival of the long-awaited supply convoy. In the nick of time the Sergeant Major came up to the command post. The order to fire was about to be given.
    ‘Stop, ya bloody fools!’
    Rokeby spat fire at Taylor, who in turn raged. Everyone listened to see what the outcome of their argument would be—none more so than two blindfolded, hand-tied Scotsmen.
    ‘What the hell are you playing at? Taylor screamed. ‘Every bloody available man is needed to fight an increasing enemy, and what are you doing? I’ll tell you, will I? You’re doing a fine job for them—shooting your own bloody soldiers. Has old Kaiser promised you a medal, eh, Rokeby? Rokeby