Forever the Colours by Richard Thomas

and if I am asleep right now, I might wake up without doing it. And you know how hard it is to get back into a dream once you’ve woken up.’ Tommy said this while unpacking the uniform he had found in the chest at the bottom of his bed, pith helmet included.
    Maurice swung his legs out and moved to the end of his bed, unpacked his own uniform and started to remove his bed clothes.
    â€˜What are you doing?’
    â€˜You said, Thomas, that you are from the future. Yet you didn’t tell me when in the future.’
    Tommy stopped what he was doing, ‘OK, Maurice, I’m from the twenty-first, well, no, actually I’m from the twentieth-century. I was born in 1989, but it’s the twenty-first right now.’ He gave Maurice a resigned look. ‘Now you know, mate. I’m bonkers!’
    â€˜Well, my twenty-first century friend, if you’re going to go for a stroll out there, you will need a nineteenth-century chaperone. We don’t want you getting into any unfortunate predicaments, do we? Besides, I am famished. What say we go and procure a bite to eat.’
    â€˜Thanks, Maurice,’ said Tommy with forced gratitude. Although he didn’t say it, he wasn’t looking forward to it really. He checked the uniform and found it was quite basic: matching trousers and tunic, with buttons up the front and a waistband that came up nearly to his armpits. The boots looked as if they were ready to fall apart, and the dirty grey, bandage-type gaiters were, well, they looked like gaiters. My God , he thought. He was starting to sweat and he hadn’t put half of it on yet. He looked over at Maurice, who was humming as he dressed himself.
    â€˜Maurice, will you give me a hand with this, mate?’
    â€˜Certainly, old chap.’
    Twenty minutes later, they were dressed. Tommy was starting to feel the heat already.
    â€˜How the hell can you march and fight in this get up? It’s crap, there’s no movement in it and it’s itchy as hell.’
    â€˜Thomas, my dear chap, how could you possibly go into battle not looking the part, eh? It’s what separates the British Army from all those other savages out there in their delicate and cool cotton garb. We are the Red Coats – well, khaki at the moment – scourge of all those with poor dress sense.’
    Tommy tried on the helmet and found it was a perfect fit. He took it off again and checked the inside, and found a name scrawled in the lining . T Evans .
    â€˜What the fuck!’ he exclaimed and, dropping the helmet as though it had given him an electric shock, he stepped backwards a few paces.
    â€˜Thomas, whatever is the matter?’
    Tommy couldn’t breathe. How can that be my name? he thought. He was trembling from shock; he tried to speak but it came out in a squeak.
    Maurice took two quick steps and took hold of Tommy by the shoulders, who had started to sway, and guided him to the stool by his bed. He sat with a thud.
    â€˜Thomas,’ he said. ‘Thomas.’
    Tommy looked up at him, the shock evident in his eyes.
    â€˜How can my name be in that helmet, Maurice?’ He paused for a moment. Then he said, angrier, ‘How the fuck did my name get in that helmet? Did you put it in there? Preston? That twat, when I was on that cart? Come on, Maurice, you can tell me now. I had a terrific time but the game’s over.’
    â€˜Over!’
    Maurice took an involuntary step back and looked aghast at Tommy.
    â€˜Thomas, I can assure you, as a friend, no one put your name in the helmet. It was already there when you were brought in. I swear to you, no one has tampered with your belongings since you arrived.’
    He was breathing heavy now, his eyes bulging with anger and fear.
    â€˜Was it that arsehole Watson? It had to be.’ Tommy was confused for a moment. ‘But I don’t remember telling him my name or anything.’
    Just then Arun entered carrying a jug of