Denis and Thomas

Behind the curtains, the little stage is lit by streaks of light and the reflected pallor of the yellowed ceiling. The other boy pulls the curtains together, and immediately it feels quieter, cut off and private, despite the heave and hum of the drunk men in the bar. Thomas sits down on a fold-up wooden chair; there are others stacked at the back of the stage, as well as a couple of tall stools and a low [chest/ottoman].

“I’m Thomas,” says the boy, “what’s your name?”

“Denis.”

“Is your daddy here?” asks Thomas.

“Yes, he’s here talking to his friends from the tram garage.”

Thomas splutters with laughter.

“ ‘Talking to his friends’, eh? Never heard it called that before!”

I laugh too, not wanting to be left out or to let him see that I don’t know what he means.

Thomas says, “My daddy’s here, too. He’s always here. He just comes here to get pissed,” and he pulls a face, twisting his mouth and looking at the floor.

The sound of the swear word is exciting; I know that adults are allowed to swear, but it’s not something that children are allowed to do in our house. Whenever I’m walking past a group of rough children in the street with mama, she always looks away from them and makes me hold her hand, putting herself between me and them, as if she doesn’t want me to be contaminated; she says that they’re ‘common’ and ‘grubby’ and ‘dirty talkers’. Thomas seems a different kind of boy, though: he’s quite smartly dressed, and his hair is combed over and oiled. The way he uses the swear word – just as description, and not as a way to annoy or upset someone – makes him seem less of a child, and more a part of the grown-up world where these kind of words are part of normal conversation, and not the taboo rarities that mama makes them out to be. Although Thomas looks as if he’s younger than me, he’s already at an advantage, with a kind of adult authority over me.

He swings his feet backwards and forwards under the chair a couple of times, then cocks his head on one side and says, “Would you like to play something?”

When I nod, he gets up and pulls one of the heavy curtains aside, letting the bar light flicker in.

“Come on, then – we can’t stay up here. The lady dancers will be starting soon, I should think.” He speaks with such authority that I’m compelled to follow him, content to wait for the meaning of what he’s saying to become clear. When I climb down from the stage he’s already disappearing into the throng at the bar, the light shining on his oily hair as he insinuates his narrow little body into the gaps between the men’s legs. I hurry, not wanting to be left behind.

Thomas and Denis in the field

Metal and wood scrape together heavily as the crew deploy the [towing ramps] across the verge and the ditch at the field’s edge. Each Leopard weighs over fifty tons, and we’ll need to make a separate trip for each tank if we can’t repair them in situ. We have to hook up the three [Bison/s] with towing rods and combine their pulling power to tow the loaded trailer. We’ll use the combined power of the three winches to drag each tank across the field to the road.

We start back towards the road to help the chaps get things ready. We’ve walked fifty yards before we hear the sudden sound overhead, like a rush of wind, falling in frequency, and then a column of earth fountains up from the edge of the field, twenty yards from the first Bison. The sound of the artillery shell’s detonation cracks and echoes across the field, and Tommy says, “Shitting fuck. Shit, shit, shit.”

He grabs my arm and we turn and run back towards the Leopard to take cover underneath its armoured bulk. The snow and churned earth make it hard to run properly.

More shells come in quick succession, whooshing over our heads and exploding behind us near the road. The third explosion brings the thunk and screech of tearing metal, and someone screams.

Tommy’s swearing as we run, and I’m laughing with the gulping, breathless excitement of the [adrenalin rush] and his characteristic string of profanities, the standard sing-song rhythms of his conversation: “Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit…”

I half-stumble, half-dive under the Leopard’s big exhaust pipes and into the dark space underneath the hull. Another shell explodes behind us, much closer, and I feel the blast’s pressure wave and hear the earth and snow and stones pinging against metal. Tommy’s weight thuds in against the back of my legs and I lie panting, face down in the dirt and snow, smelling metal and burned paint and ash and wet earth. The backs of my legs are wet.

“Christ, Tommy, that was close.”

Shells are still exploding, but they’re getting further away now. The one by the tank must have fallen short: it’s the road that they’re ranging on.

Tommy doesn’t say anything, and I jerk my legs to get him to move off them; “Shift, Tommy – you’re squashing me.”

He just lays there, though.