He also possessed the ingrained distant look of a man who had been pushed to the limits of endurance.
‘I must watch him closely.’
Returning to the first two characters, he found the German 2IC, Oberleutnant Dieckhoff, in animated conversation with the newest arrival, 1st Lt Fielding of the US Engineers. Apparently, both men hailed from the same birthplace, and they conversed rapidly in German, bringing forth memory after memory.
Rosenberg, after some disagreement with Hässler, renewed the contents of each mug there, the new pot seemingly containing something other than coffee.
Whatever it was, it was welcome, and created a more relaxed atmosphere amongst the group.
Interrupting Robertson in mid-swipe, Ramsey sought an answer to a vital question.
“So, how are your legendary powers? Will it rain today, Sarnt-Major?”
Returning the Tomahawk to Bluebear, impressing the Cherokee with the reverence he displayed towards the ancient weapon, Robertson sniffed the air, taking in the night sky, biding his time before replying.
“Aye Sir. Not as much rain as yesterday. Only Angels tears, Sir. Enough for us to know that heaven cares about the men that will die here this day.”
Ramsey nodded, aware of Robertson’s folk status amongst the men, be it for his weather predictions, or his ability to create poetry in an instant, words that could impress even the roughest of soldier’s minds.
“That’s rather poetic, Sarnt-Major. Time for one of your creations, I think.”
The group was made more affable by the inclusion of some fiery spirit in the coffee, and they all encouraged the RSM to speak.
“Go on, man, give us one of your poems.”
Robertson rose to his feet, the very act attracting everyone’s full attention.
“Aye, that I will, Sir. But I’ll no be alone tonight. There are more here than me as can bend their minds to the craft, of that I’m sure.”
He grasped Bluebear’s shoulder, indicating that at least his new friend should be able to contribute.
They shared a grin.
“Anyways, I’ll tender ye something appropriate, but not just the now; I will have a moment to mysel first, Sah.”
Loud enough to be heard, Rosenberg could not resist a comment to his friend.
“I thought theesh limeysh all talked English. What the fuck wash that he wash shpeaking?”
Those in earshot laughed, knowing the statement for the baiting it was.
Robertson duly retaliated.
“Listen, ye colonial bas. I’m nay English. I’m Scots born and bred, and my daddy’s daddy’s daddy were at Waterloo, with Ewart and the Greys, snatching the Eagle from the Frogs!”
Rosenberg feigned shock and horror.
“Oi Vey Shergeant Major! Eaglesh? Frogsh? Did your family run a zoo?”
Robertson set his jaw and bent over, bringing his face level with the diminutive Jew.
“It’s called tradition, ye mouthy dwarf, something of which ye know little, unless ye are talking docking your cocks.”
The little soldier looked mournful.
“I had mine done for medical reasons, Shergeant Major.”
Hässler snorted.
Robertson waited, grinning widely.
Rosenberg continued.
“Parshially because the docsh shaid that the extra shtrain on my heart was too much of a rishk,” laughter erupted from the group, “And Parshially becaush the Rabbi ordered me to shpare the female of the shpecies and redushe it to more of a normal shize.”
Robertson’s retort was lost in loud and uncontrolled baying, amusement that doubled when Dieckhoff tried to translate the lines for Strecher, and failed to finish the job, coming apart long before he had made sense.
Honours roughly even, Robertson sat himself down and produced a small pad, his pencil quickly going to work.
As he completed his work, small raindrops started to fall, complying with his earlier prediction.
He nodded at Ramsey who rose to his feet.
“Gentlemen, I pray silence for the Bard of Black Watch, Murdo Robertson.”
Ramsey’s gentle call brought a stillness to the group.
The RSM adopted the mournful Scots style of delivery.
“Aye well, here is ma wee offering to the day ahead.”
The start was delayed by a small flash in the night sky, a brief light that rallied and grew, marking the return to earth of an aircraft that had died violently in the darkness above.
Robertson read his poem.
A gentle clapping commenced, the words so quickly penned making an impact upon those who had listened.
Rosenberg took his time and spoke as clearly as he could.
“For shertain, you ain’t English, Shergeant-Major. Ain’t one of ’em could shtring together wordsh like that,” he caught Ramsey’s eye, “Preshent company exshcluded of coursh!”
Bluebear rose, silently encouraged by Robertson. His voice was soft and firm, and he made no attempt at rhyme or balance, but his words seemed to take poetic form naturally.
The Indian resumed his seat to the sound of approving voices, shaking the extended hands of both Robertson and Hässler.
“Excellent, excellent.”
Ramsey’s approval was genuine.
Checking his watch, he was about to announce his departure, when he noticed Aitcherson standing quietly, just waiting to be recognised.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen. I’m afraid that I must depart, time is pressing now, but, before I go, I believe our comrade from the Cameron Highlanders wishes to contribute.”
“Aye, that I do, Sir. If I may.”
Silence fell on the group, not even the sound of a distant barrage or a waking bird, even the remainder of the courtyard was silent, men either asleep or withdrawn into their own thoughts.
Aitcherson rehearsed his presentation, his lips moving silently before he spoke.
The Cameron’s officer spoke the words with great meaning, his voice of perfect tone for the delivery.
“Bravo old chap, bravo. However, I do hope that you are incorrect, Aitcherson. To be frank, I rather hope that no-one will remember the name of Barnstorf in a week!”
He got no disagreement, and whilst the ensemble appreciated Aitcherson’s efforts, they all preferred to hope that battle would pass them by that day.