Salter
In one of the final actions of the battle of Paardeburg, Private John Bates finds himself in a sticky situation. His knee cut from beneath him by a random scrap of shrapnel, he lies quietly awaiting medical attention which may be some time in coming. He's not particularly worried. The artery is sound and the bones have not been shattered. He's in pain, but he'll walk again. Left behind as the mopping up operations unfold some distance away, he sees something he is not supposed to see. It is an act of brutality perpetrated on unarmed enemy wounded who now will never return home. At home, in England, some are beginning to call such incidents war crimes.
The perpetrator is a raw-boned youth from his own unit, the Yorkshire Regiment. If he has set eyes on the fellow before, he doesn't remember him. This is not especially odd. His position as batman to one of the regiment's titled junior officers has kept him apart in some ways. Bates has little sympathy for the dispatched enemy. He hates the Boers and their stupid war and now the fact that they've made him a cripple, even if only temporarily. The sticky part is that he's been seen by the perpetrator. The man has already shown he has no mercy for the wounded Boers, and Bates wonders whether he will feel the need to eliminate the witness as well. There is no one around. It could easily be done. Who would question the death of a wounded man on an active battlefield, struck by a stray bullet? It's beyond doubt that no one will ever question the peculiarly heaped-up pile of the enemy and the neat holes in their skulls that sent them to hell, or wherever it is the Boers will go. When the private locks eyes with him, they both know that something must happen between them. They cannot just walk away and pretend it did not happen. Bates cannot even walk away.
Bates stares at the other man, determined to hold his eyes until the fateful moment when he follows the Boers into oblivion. He will not make it easy for this fellow. He will challenge him in every second that remains to his life. His own rifle disappeared in the explosion that sent the shrapnel into his knee and made it impossible for him to escape now, let alone to defend himself. He waits, but he waits fiercely. He will not let this man off the hook.
He stares hard as the young man makes his way down into the dip and then up the slope that separates them. Bates is young, too, twenty-five his last birthday, but this one is younger, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two. They've both lived hard lives; he can tell this about the other from the grim determination with which he reloads his rifle, the deliberation with which he returns Bates's brittle glare. Perhaps this makes them comrades, more so even than the uniform they both wear. There must be something, because the private does not bring his rifle to bear on the wounded man before him. Instead, he props the weapon up against a nearby tree and crouches down beside Bates, drawing back some of the shredded fabric, sodden with blood, that still covers Bates's knee.
"Bad?" he asks. He doesn't know, can't tell.
Bates shakes his head. "Hurts like hell, but I'll live." He says this quite deliberately, willing an acknowledgment of it from the other as much as imparting a fact.
The private nods and sits back on his haunches. The position stabs at Bates as ruthlessly as any knife blade. Will he ever be able to do that again? Then he realizes he's thinking about living again, suddenly confident that the other man will do him no harm.
This appears borne out when the young fellow stuffs a hand into a pocket and comes out with a small package which he carefully unwraps. Cigarettes. He holds them up to Bates, who nods. What else is there to do in this moment but have a smoke? The other lights two of them and hands one to Bates, and for a long moment they puff on their cigarettes and say nothing.
"What's your name?" the other asks.
"Bates." Bates sees no reason to lie to the man. In fact, he senses that this effort at cordiality will only ensure his survival. Some men can't kill when the target has become human.
The other fellow doesn't offer his own name, but he nods as he takes a long drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out in an impressive series of concentric circles. "Well, Bates, I've just sent three damned Boers to hell." His eyes suddenly fix on Bates's. He is asking a question.
"Isn't that our job?" Bates responds coolly, blowing smoke out through his nostrils. He does not go in for cigarette smoking theatrics. He stares right back, giving nothing away.
A smile slides across the younger man's face. "Are you from Yorkshire, mate?"
Bates thinks he said 'mate,' but it might have been 'Bates.' The accent, a distinctly Yorkshire one, is a little hard to decipher. "No."
The other nods. "Well, one good turn deserves another, Bates," - this time he does say the name - "so if you ever find yourself up north and in need, drop by The Pickerel in York." He laughs at the line of incomprehension that creases Bates's forehead. "It's a pub. The family business. After this little adventure," he adds, his gaze wandering across the bloody veldt, "I'm going back there and never leaving again."
Bates understands the code of honour on display here. The fellow owes him, and needs at least an acknowledgment that he might someday be able to pay his debt. "I'll keep that in mind," he says noncomittally, and then poses a silent question of his own.
The other laughs and holds out a blood-soaked hand in friendship. "Salter," he says.
"How will you know me?" Bates asks, not particularly interested in the response.
Salter laughs. "You'll be the one with the limp."