Part One: England Posted on Friday, 24 November 2000
Author's Note:
OK, the feedback I got was positive enough to encourage me to write this. However, I give you fair warning, it will not be all sweetness and light. It is based on a television series, which was based on the experiences of British peacekeepers in Bosnia. Some of the plot has been altered, but the spirit remains the same. Hopefully I can do it justice.
A couple of things just for clarity:
* Firstly, the characters are something of an Austen mish-mash. The plot is more devoted to the experiences of the peacekeepers than anything else, but other ideas are mainly from P&P.
* Secondly, for reasons of plot Georgiana Harris, Richard Fitzwilliam and William Darcy are friends rather than relatives.
Richard
Georgiana Harris was busy making spaghetti and musing about her approaching wedding. Lieutenant Richard Fitzwilliam was reading the newspaper. He occasionally interested himself his fiancé's deliberations, but seemed largely content to bury himself in yesterday's cricket scores.
"Derbyshire's doing well...oh sorry Georgie, did you say something?"
"Richard, do you think we need to hire someone to decorate the backyard?"
"I don't know. John said he'd be happy to give us a hand."
"I know, but John can be a wee bit unreliable, sometimes. Perhaps it'd be better to get someone else."
"Whatever you say, dear."
The harsh ringing of the telephone rudely interrupted this peaceful picture of domestic harmony. Georgina reached over to answer it.
"Georgiana Harris here. May I ask who's calling?"
She shook her head slightly and covered the phone. "Richard! It's for you!"
Her partner nodded and took the handset. No-one with any length of military service received strange phone calls with any degree of enthusiasm, and Richard was no exception.
"Lieutenant Fitzwilliam speaking."
"William! I'm assuming this isn't a courtesy call?
"Yes, I see."
"Tomorrow? Back at barracks? Ten o'clock?"
"I'm assuming full kit?"
"Six months?"
"Right. Thanks. See you tomorrow."
He replaced the receiver, looking dejected. Georgiana put an arm round his shoulder.
"What is it? Are they sending you back to Northern Ireland suddenly?"
He grimaced. "I wish. That was William. Apparently the UN's decided to send peacekeepers into Bosnia, and our lot's drawn the short straw. We're leaving tomorrow."
His fiancée blanched. "Oh Richard, that's terrible! I've been watching the news lately, and things out there..."
"Aren't too hot. But apparently we're only going to keep a lid on things, not to get involved. I'm only sorry that we'll have to postpone the wedding."
Georgiana snorted. "Stuff the wedding! What about you?"
"I'll be fine. You know me, I'm tough as an old boot!"
"I suppose so..." Her voice trailed off, and she angrily shook a tear out of her eye.
"Come on love, no need to cry. I'll be back in the new year, everything will be fine."
"I know...it's only..."
"I understand. Come here."
The two embraced as the pasta boiled over, unheeded.
George
Sergeant George Knightley was struggling unsuccessfully to disentangle himself from a large group of excited children.
"Do that again! That was way cooool!"
The man in the clown suit grinned wryly at his wife, Emma, who winked at him and disappeared inside. She returned a moment later bearing a stupendous chocolate cake, which she carefully placed on a table. The children gathered around eagerly.
The clown returned to his act, free of grasping hands. "Well, well, well, what have we here?"
The children responded immediately. "Choc'late cake!"
He pretended to look surprised. "So it is! But what are those things on top?"
"They're cwandles, silly!"
"Oh! And why are they there!"
"'Cause it's someone's birfday!"
"Really?" He paused. "Maybe it's my birthday!" He lent forward and tried comically to take a bite of the cake. His wife tapped him on the nose with a newspaper, as if her husband were an errant puppy.
The children giggled. "No, it's Izzy's birthday!"
He sighed. "Not mine?"
They shook their heads in unison.
"Oh well, we'd better get Izzy out here, then."
Seven-year old Isabelle Knightley stepped forward shyly, and was immediately enfolded in a bear hug by the fatherly clown.
"Happy birthday, darling."
Her father began to conduct the guests, as the birthday girl stood happily.
"Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday dear Izzy,
Happy birthday to you!"
She took a deep breath and blew out all eight candles.
"Hip hip, hooray!"
"Hip hip, hooray!"
"Hip hip..."
The final cheer was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Mr Woodhouse, Isabelle's grandfather. He kissed his granddaughter soundly as he went passed, but his face was serious as he whispered something to George Knightley.
George swore softly and, escaping from the children swarming around the cake, made his way into the house.
He returned five minutes later. His wife, reading the look on his face, went to stand with him.
"What was it?" she asked under her breath.
"Barracks. Tomorrow. They're sending us to Bosnia."
Her lips tightened, but she'd been a soldier's wife for too long to say anything. Anyway, there was nothing to say.
"At least you were here for Belle's party. But..." Emma stopped. She knew her husband was only too aware that Isabelle's birthday wasn't until Wednesday.
"Don't tell her till after the party, poor kid."
They watched the children demolish the chocolate cake in silence.
Edward
Corporal Edward Ferrars had spent all morning wrestling with a recalcitrant tractor. Eventually, he had given up and gone in to lunch.
He'd scarcely sat down before the telephone rang. He sighed, and went to answer it.
"Ferrars Farm, Edward speaking."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Sir, I didn't realise it was you."
"Bosnia? Tomorrow?"
"OK, I'll just get me gear together."
"Yes, Lieutenant."
Edward sank back down, and put his head in his hands. He'd known his leave was almost up, but he hadn't expected this.
I wanted a nice domestic posting. Somewhere close to Mam and Dad. They've not been coping since Robert died. Lucy's absolutely useless...how on earth are they going to manage without me as well?
He frowned and, grabbing a sandwich, went to his room to sort out his kit. He passed his mother in the corridor. Edward opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. Mrs Ferrars had heard the telephone as well. One look at his face, and she knew.
Fred
Corporal Fred Wentworth had been trying to decipher the instructions on the back of a packet of two-minute noodles when the telephone rang. Abandoning his snack, he hurdled the dog and grabbed the phone.
"Yup, Freddie here...er...Corporal Wentworth speaking."
"Barracks tomorrow?"
"Bosnia? Bloody 'ell! Oh, sorry, Sir."
"I see. Thanks."
He slammed down the receiver just as his girlfriend Anne Eliot walked through the door with the shopping.
"I'm ba-ack."
Fred looked up. "Unfortunately, I'm off again."
"Where?"
"Barracks tomorrow, then Bosnia." He wasn't particularly pleased. He and Anne had only just resumed their relationship after an extended separation, and he was in no mood to exchange her comforts for the dubious pleasures of the Balkans.
Anne was made of sturdier stuff. "Oh well. We knew it was coming." She bent over and picked up the packet of noodles from where they'd fallen. "At least I won't have to clean up after you all the time. And it will be nice to have the bed to myself for a while. You hog the blankets!"
Fred looked outraged. "Do not!"
"Do to!"
"Do not!"
"Do to!"
Fred raised his arms in mock surrender. "Oh well, maybe I do." He raised an eyebrow at Anne. "But that's only a problem if you're asleep!"
She squealed as he grabbed her around the waist and manoeuvered her onto the couch. "You're a devil Frederick Wentworth...I haven't even unpacked the shopping...the ice-cream's going to melt..."
"So?"
The dog delicately covered his eyes with his paws.
Charlie
Private Charlie Bingley struggled through the crush at Highbury on the way to the tube station, merrily arguing with his girlfriend Jane Bennet.
"I swear, that sendin' off were complete rubbish! Absolute rubbish! That ref needs his eyes tested!"
Jane shook her had. "Come on Charlie, Viera practically took Keane's 'ead off!"
"Yeah, but Keane was asking for it! He'd been tryin' to trip 'im up all game!"
Jane frowned. "I reckon' you've got a point. Anyway, what about the goal?"
Charlie grinned. "Pretty sweet, eh? That Bergkamp is a bloody genius!"
"Too right. I thought Schmeichel'd get there, but he didn't 'ave a chance."
They both laughed. "Anyway, it isn't everyday you beat Man United at home like that! The title'll be ours, this year."
The cheery banter continued in the tube. Charlie was only eighteen, and was an uncomplicated soul. He'd joined the army straight out of school, and had yet to regret his decision. His girlfriend, despite being almost a foot shorter than him, was the feistier of the pair.
"Hey, Charlie, did ya hear I've started learnin' the guitar?"
"Really? You didn't say nuffin'!"
Jane blushed. "I've not been playin' long, and I'm not too good yet. It's fun, though."
Her boyfriend nodded. "Music's great. I love havin' a go with my drums." He smiled. "We'll have to start a band. You wait, we'll be more famous than the Spice Girls in a couple of years!"
"In your dreams!"
After stopping for a quick pint, they arrived home flushed and happy. Charlie rented a room from Jane's father, a rather odd arrangement that nonetheless worked very well.
Indeed, Edward Bennet was waiting for them when they arrived.
"Oh, Charlie, I've got some news for you. Lieutenant Darcy rang. Seems your mob's being sent to Bosnia. You're meant to be back at barracks tomorrow morning."
His face fell. "Drat! That means I can't take Jane to that dance next week. And I'll miss the Cup tie on Wednesday as well!"
His girlfriend shrugged. "It don't really matter about the dance. It's only a bunch of idiots from work. And we're only playing Wimbledon on Wednesday. If we lose that one there's something wrong!"
Charlie sighed. "S'pose you're right. And I was lookin' forward to my first trip overseas."
Jane threw a pillow at him. "See? There you go. I'll even help you with your kit, if you like."
"OK. You can mend my socks. They're always getting' holes in 'em."
He caught the pillow and threw it back. She ducked, and it hit her hapless father. After a moment of silence, all three dissolved into helpless laughter.
William
Lieutenant William Darcy stretched out on his bed. He'd still been at barracks when the message came through, and so organising his gear hadn't been much of a problem. Nor had been saying farewell.
A courtesy call to Great-Aunt Aggie, a shouting match with his landlord Bob Reynolds, and a hasty message left on his casual girlfriend Anna's answering machine...William Darcy was a man of few acquaintances, and even fewer friends.
He'd been a career soldier for a long time, and he felt more at home in the military than anywhere else. Solitary by nature, the army gave him the companionship his ordinary life lacked, and its order gave him security.
An introspective man, William wondered about the lives his phone calls had so suddenly interrupted. Husbands leaving wives, parents leaving children, friends saying goodbye. The army was like that. Yet the troops kept going, believing they were acting for the greater good, somehow making a difference.
Judging by the footage he'd seen of the situation in the former Yugoslavia, this time they'd need to.
Part Two: The Journey Posted on Monday, 18 December 2000
The Commanding Officer
Colonel Brandon addressed a rather uninspired group of troops at the base next morning. Few were pleased at having their leave cut short so abruptly, and many were tired after long, hurried journeys back to barracks. Moreover, the current situation in the Balkans made Bosnia a less than an ideal tourist destination.
Brandon was aware of this, but there was little he could do. A consummate professional, Christopher Brandon had been in the army for over thirty years. He had a reputation as being difficult to deal with. That was not an inaccurate assessment, but he could, on the other hand, be generous and extremely understanding of the problems of others, when compassion or kindness was required. Completely apolitical, men enjoyed serving under him, secure in the knowledge that his orders would make a difference. On the face of things, Bosnia would challenge that.
"Right, folks, now that you've torn yourselves away from boyfriends, girlfriends, cats, dogs, chimpanzees and football teams, we've got something of a job to do."
Bingley snickered.
"The UN, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to do something about the situation in Bosnia. Unfortunately, the Secretary-General has got a prior engagement, so we're going in instead."
Knightley rolled his eyes. Brandon's attempts at humour were rather grating.
Suddenly serious, the Colonel went on. "Right. Troops from the British Army - you - are going in to be part of a peacekeeping force. Peacekeeping. We're not going to shoot the place up, and we won't be fighting pitched battles with the Serbs and Croats. Our job is to get there and keep a lid on the situation. Understood?"
There was a low murmur of assent.
"Right. We've been appointed a UN Liaison Officer, who'll give us more details when we arrive. There'll be a further briefing on the specifics of our mandate at a later date. Any questions?"
William Darcy stood. "Sir, have you any idea when we're due to depart?"
"I've been told there's transport arranged for later this afternoon. We're flying in. But there's a lot of equipment going too, so troops might not leave until quite late. I'll leave it to you and Lt. Fitzwilliam to organise the details."
The lieutenants saluted. "Yes Sir!"
"Anything else?"
Silence.
"Dismissed."
The Departure
'Quite late' turned out to be 'very late', and it wasn't until just shy of midnight that Darcy and Fitzwilliam were able to collapse into the final transport plane. Their men looked similarly weary.
Charlie Bingley grimaced as he tried to make himself comfortable for the flight. "It's not the bloody QEII, is it?"
Fred Wentworth winced as a carton dug into his back. "The QEII? Who do you think you're kidding, Private? At the moment, I'd happily settle for a third-class seat on the Trans-Siberian Railway!"
Edward Ferrars yawned. "Bunch of sissies, you city types. You try sleepin' under a haystack in the middle of the flippin' winter. Then you'll know what uncomfortable means!" He rolled over, and promptly went to sleep.
Bingley looked at him in open envy. "You know what they say about them Northerners. Muscles all right, but not many spare brain bits. No decent footballers, neither."
George Knightley raised an eyebrow and responded in mock pompous tones. "Perhaps it might behoove you to remember, Private, that both our honoured lieutenants also hail from the North. And incidentally, that the current England captain is from Newcastle."*
Charlie blushed.
Richard Fitzwilliam took pity on the young man, and swatted the lounging Sergeant Knightley with his hat.
"Don't mind him, Bingley, he's just jealous." He spoke in a stage whisper. "Your sergeant's a 'Spurs fan."**
The young private burst out laughing.
William Darcy raised his head from his kitbag.
"Isn't anyone round here a rugby fan?"
There was a general chorus.
"No!"
He sighed. It was going to be a long flight.
The Men
Long was an understatement. It was long, very cold, and very unpleasant.
The earlier jollity had long worn off, and the atmosphere in the plane had grown edgy.
Bingley spoke first. "Sarge, what d'ye know about where we're headin'?"
Wentworth interjected languidly. "They held the Winter Olympics in Sarajevo in 1984. Torvill and Dean did pretty well, then, too."
Knightley muttered a response from where he lay. "Thank you, Corporal, but I doubt the UN's expecting us to skate. Or ski."
Fred stretched, and tried to find a better position. "Oh, I dunno, Sarge. A triple-toe loop or a good aerial somersault might just confuse the enemy long enough for us to run away!"
"Corporal!"
Corporal Wentworth decided discretion was the better part of valour, and shut up. "Sir!"
Bingley persisted. "Sarge?"
Sergeant Knightley reluctantly sat up. "Bosnia's in Central Europe. It's cold, wet, and the people are fighting each other. That do?"
The young man nodded. Then he frowned. "But why the 'ell are they fightin' each other. They're all the same, ain't they?"
Edward Ferrars chuckled tiredly. "Charlie, take it from me, it'll be much easier if ye don't try and sort out what's goin' on. Ours is not to reason why."
The ever-helpful Fred Wentworth butted in again. "Well, Bosnia used to be part of Yugoslavia. But when that split up, no one knew what on earth they were supposed to do. The Bosnians are all different religions, and they can't decide whom they're going to be friends with. So they're killing each other instead."
Bingley looked puzzled. "And we're s'pposed to stop 'em?"
Wentworth laughed bitterly. "Yes Sir! These troops of the British army are going to single-handedly put an end to over a thousand years of racial hatred and..."
Lieutenant Darcy cut in icily. "Are you being interviewed for 'News of the World', Wentworth?"
"No, Sir."
"Are you studying for exams in International Relations?"
"No, Sir."
"Are you practising for Mastermind?"
"No I'm not, Sir."
Darcy grunted. "Well, keep your opinions to yourself then Corporal. This is not the debating society."
Even if he may have a point.
"Yes Sir!"
The Officers
On the other side of the plane, the two lieutenants had been deep in conversation.
"Well, here we go again, William."
William Darcy looked oddly at his companion. "Regrets, Richard? That's not like you."
Richard Fitzwilliam sighed. "Not regrets, exactly. I thought perhaps...I don't know. Maybe I'm getting too old for this."
"Really?"
"Probably not. It's just that...two days ago I was sitting happily at home with Georgie. Now she's stuck without me, and we'll have to postpone the wedding, because I'm off to do whatever the hell it is we're going to do. She wasn't too happy. Neither am I, come to that."
His friend nodded. "I do understand, but Georgie has to as well. You're a soldier. She knew that from the start."
Richard chuckled. "True, since I was in uniform when we met."
"There you go, then. It's tough, but that's life."
Fitzwilliam was silent for a moment. "I suppose you're right. Still..." Abruptly, he changed the subject. "How's things in your neck of the woods? Did you say goodbye to Anna?"
Darcy grunted. "If you can call a message on her answering machine a goodbye. I might as well knock this one on the head. It's not going anywhere, and it's probably cruel to keep dragging things out."
His companion frowned. "What went wrong?"
"None of your business." He wriggled uneasily.
"William?" The two of them had been friends for a long time, although the self-contained William Darcy had never been one for pouring his soul out to a mate. Yet he obviously needed to talk to someone. "Will?"
His words came out in a rush. "She wants someone with a nine-to-five job, someone who's home in the evenings, someone who's got a house with a bloody picket fence...someone who worries about petrol prices rather than the meaning of life."
Richard waited.
"Someone who wasn't me, really. She loved the uniform, but the man..."
Richard laid a compassionate hand on William's shoulder, but the other man turned roughly and ignored the gesture, preferring to brood in solitude.
The rest of the trip passed largely in silence.
The Arrival
The plane eventually landed as the sun's first rays were beginning to colour the dark sky. Richard and William and their men were pointed in the direction of a nearby truck, and they set off with their gear for their billets.
The company was stationed in a school in a town some distance away. As the truck struggled along the pitted roads, the growing light gradually uncovered the terrible destruction that the night had kept hidden. Roads had been destroyed by relentless shellfire. Ruined houses, broken bridges, frozen fields and rusting machinery marred the once pleasant countryside.
Sometimes people were about. Ordinary men, women and children, trying to lead ordinary lives in impossible situations. Occasionally there were groups of refugees, whose dull eyes showed a glimmer of life at the sight of the United Nations truck. Then there were the graves, marked with simple headstones or not at all, which lined the road.
"Welcome to Hell", someone muttered.***
No-one argued.
*'Football' in this case means soccer. The England captain at this time played for Newcastle.
**'Spurs = Tottenham Hotspurs, a team from London, who havn't had much recent success, while Charlie's London team, Arsenal, have. (We'll ignore today's unfortunate draw - anyway, the story's set in 1996.)
*** 'Welcome to Hell' was, I believe, a banner in Sarajevo. This story is not set there, but in a small town. However, the sentiments are the same.