Bruar's Rest

stood stiffly, removed his cap and threw it at Taylor. ‘They killed and ate the King’s carrier pigeons.’ His tone of voice lowered as he added threateningly, ‘I am your superior officer. You will face a court-martial. Make no mistake, you’re for the chop. The next bullet is for you!’
    Taylor had taken enough from this cold-blooded man. ‘I’ll kick your superior arse, you little needle-faced shit, and if I so much as see a firing squad again I’ll shoot you myself.’
    Rokeby coolly touched his holstered handgun and sneered, ‘For that outburst of insubordination, I’ll have you, boy.’
    Taylor had said his piece and would have walked away, but he couldn’t help one last jab. ‘Listen mate, when this war is over you can do what you want, but while we face a mighty enemy, it’s them or us, and if the King is insulted by the loss of measly fist-sized pigeons helping to feed his own soldiers, then I’ll personally apologise to him myself.’
    Sergeant Major Taylor grabbed a rifle, stepped closer until they stood nose to nose, and said, ‘You’re a disgrace to that uniform. If I so much as hear your weedy voice barking orders at my men, I’ll stick this bayonet as far up your bloody arse as it’ll go, and spit roast you for the crows. Now, let’s get on with the war.’
    Captain Rokeby could see in the faces of his men how little regard they had for him. To save face he ordered the condemned men to be freed and walked off into his tent, cap pushed under a stiff arm.
    From then on, a pair of very sober Highlanders were determined to keep eyes firmly in the back of their heads where Captain Rokeby was concerned.
    Fate, that invisible stalker, has its own way of watching and waiting however. Before a week was out an enemy shell exploded, obliterating a single vehicle. This car had been ferrying the captain to a meeting with his superiors, who no doubt would have been informed of Taylor’s interference with the execution and insults to his Majesty.
    The bond between Sandy and Bruar grew stronger after the ‘pigeon’ incident and secured their friendship. As one month followed close behind another, they protected and watched out for each other like brothers.
    Sergeant Major Taylor continued to lead a fine body of men, taking out the enemy when opportunities arose. Their war was a matter of brutal man-to-man combat, spying behind enemy lines, and charging blindly through fire and choking smoke following orders regardless. It was a far cry from Bruar’s misty hill-roads of home.
    It is only right to mention other duties which immersed them in the horrors of war. There was usually a mess to be cleared before they moved on. What one minute before had been healthy specimens of manhood had become mangled corpses to be used as ramps for the advance of an ever increasing column of lorries and black-booted feet.
    There were a variety of dead. Some shot cleanly, others crushed and twisted, some blown to smithereens. Fire turned flesh to cinders and left half burnt lumps of singed bodies. Gas tormented the lucky ones who survived with breathing problems and blistered faces. Unlucky lads lay screaming as their guts protruded through bloodied fingers.
    Emotion is a luxury in hell. Men who in civilian life had never so much as cut a finger had to remove dead companions from muddy shell-holes, never knowing if the next flames of death would land in their own shelter.

     
    Sometime later the battle-hardened troops were lined up on shore, waiting to embark on the Royal Navy battleship Inflexible . The war had taken a new twist. Turkey had thrown her weight on the side of Germany. The battlefield had opened a new front—Gallipoli.
    18 March 1915 saw Sandy and Bruar on deck, wondering if their luck would hold. Bruar’s heart ached for Megan. He’d never been on leave, but according to Taylor it wouldn’t be long before everyone was heading home, the war triumphantly over.
    Sandy, who had recently abandoned pigeons in favour of Belgian gundogs which were trained to transport small cannons, asked when.
    ‘This next one will be the big change, like nothing we’ve seen before. This is bloody big! I’d be shitting myself if I was the Kaiser. The whole bloody world has turned against him and this tin-pot Turk. I bloody bet you this battle will be the last. Aussie, French, Indians, Yanks, no one could beat a force like that.’
    All the soldiers tight-packed on the ship, sickened by war and desperate to see their