The Half Pint
A day to himself in the foreign place, he’d already got used to the almost permanent nerves which accompanied him just before active duty, his stints with the swan songs. Harry had written his letters; one to his parents, his gran, his older sister and one to Em as was his custom before potential death approached him.
He was gasping for a drink.
The rules expressly forbade it, but refusing dying men 'bread and ale' as they called it seemed heartless in the extreme. He was decided, flout the rules and go to the local house of ill repute for a small beer.
When he arrived, he found the place much as it always was, the air heavy with the scent of stale beer and sweet bathtub spirits mixed with cheap perfume and the scent of unwashed bodies. Ordinarily far from pleasant, the aroma, such as it was, had taken on properties of a whiff of home, and Harry was sure that smell would invoke feelings of comfort for the rest of his life.
When he ordered his ale he heard a scuffle behind him, nonchalantly glancing behind, he saw a tall soldier pinned to the wall by a muscly pimp holding the point of a flick knife to the blonde man’s throat, with his other hand he was violently gesticulating.
“You no paid, you pay for Girl NOW!”
What attracted Harry’s attention wasn’t the altercation, they were common enough, the pimps knew there was no competition nearby, so bullied the lads as a simple matter of routine. It was the determined defiance and apparent coolness in the face of the man with the knife. Harry watched as he replied in the man’s own language:
“What your girl does out of your Jurisdiction, be it flower arranging, close harmony singing or planning executive picnics is none of your concern or mine, so I’m not paying your imaginary bill. Slice my throat before I break your hand.”
Harry rose leaving is beer behind to provide some aid for the intriguing fellow just in case the pimp actually decided to take him up on his offer. The pimp sensing a presence nearby put his blade away.
“You won’t do it again.” Accompanied a slap of the back.
Peril over.
“You alright? I think after that you need a drink, join me, I’ll stand you one.” A grin.
“Aye a half, My Name’s Tom.”
Harry told the other man his own name, not missing a beat he said:
“I suppose he was trying to charge you for your language lessons. We need your skills, you’re joining the swansongs.”