The Long Earth

suchlike. So he gave them a resounding chorus of ‘Tipperary’, and finished by saluting and crying, ‘God save the King!’
    Whereupon the Russians surprised him by waving their heavy great hands in the air and booming ‘God save the King!’ with considerable enthusiasm, their voices sounding like men shouting into a tunnel. Then they put their shaggy heads together as if reaching a conclusion, and once again broke into ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’.
    Only this wasn’t the same kit bag and nor were they the same troubles. Private Percy tried hard to understand what he was listening to. Oh, yes, the song was there, but they sang it like a Sunday choir. Somehow the singers took his song apart so that it gained a strange life of its own, harmonies that broke and twisted into one another like mating eels and then came apart again in another bubble-rush of sound, and yet it was still good old ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’. No, it was a better ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’, it was more, well,
there
, more real. Private Percy had never heard music like it, and clapped his hands, and so did the Russians with a sound like heavy artillery. They clapped as enthusiastically as they sang, possibly more so.
    And now it occurred to Percy that last night’s crayfish had been more of a snack than a meal. Well, if these Russians were his friends, then maybe they had some Russian rations to share? They looked bulky enough under those furry greatcoats. It had to be worth a try, so Percy rubbed his stomach, poked his finger suggestively in his mouth and looked hopeful.
    After their singing, again they huddled amongst themselves, and the only sounds he could make out were whispers as faint as a gnat, that tiny annoying whine that keeps you awake at night. However, once they had reached some sort of accord, they burst into song again. This time it was whistles and trills, very much like impressions of birds, and good impressions at that, a touch of nightingale, a hint of starling, birdsong that flowed like the best dawn chorus he had ever heard. Still, somehow he got the impression that they were talking, or rather singing, about
him
.
    Then one of them walked closer to him, watched carefully by the others, and sang, in the voice of Percy, ‘Tipperary’ perfectly all the way through, and it was
his own voice
, he was certain, his mother would have known it.
    After that a couple of Russians disappeared into the woods, leaving the rest sitting around Percy placidly.
    When Percy sat on the ground with the Russians, waves of tiredness suddenly washed over him. He’d had years of war and not even a day of this peaceful green, and maybe he deserved a little nap. So he drank a few scoops of water from the river and, despite the presence of the hairy Russians all around him, lay down on the grass and closed his eyes.
    He surfaced only slowly from his nap.
    Private Percy was a practical and methodical young man. And therefore, still lying in the grass, he decided, in this waking dream, not to worry about these Russians, as long as the Russians weren’t trying to kill him. Save your worrying for your boots, boys, the veterans always said.
    Boots! So his sleepy brain reminded him. They were the thing! Look after your boots and your boots would look after you! He had always spent a lot of time thinking about his boots.
    At this point it occurred to Private Percy, waking slowly, still somewhat battered by his war and adrift in time and space, to wonder if he still had any legs on which to hang those boots. You could lose your legs and not know until the shock wore off, or so he had been told. It was like poor old Mac who never knew his feet had gone until he tried to stand up. He remembered walking around this forest, of course he did, but maybe
that
was all a dream as like as not, and maybe he was back in the mud and the blood after all.
    And so he tried gingerly to pull himself upright, and was cheered by the realization that at least he appeared to have both hands . Shifting gently he moved his aching body until he could rise enough to see, yes, boots! Blessed boots! Apparently on legs that were probably his and, as a bonus, apparently still attached to him.
    They could be treacherous, could boots, just like legs. Like the time when a forty-pounder hit a box of ammunition and he was part of the detail that had to go and sort things out. The sergeant had been a bit quiet, and uncharacteristically soothing when Percy was in distress because,