Saturday's Battle

by W.E. Turner

Part I—The Soldiers

Wind swept across the high desert plateau. Sand spiraled in small whirlwinds where rocks or other obstructions broke the wind's straight line of flight. When the eddying currents subsided, the heavier sand grains separated from the dust particles in the air and fell to the ground. As another gust of wind blew with renewed fury, the sand grains lifted in flight once more until the next obstruction was met.

Alfred was one of the obstructions impeding the sand's movement. In retaliation for this affront, some sand grains found their way under his hauberk. Most of these intruders were stopped by his mail shirt and the leather jerkin under it, but a few found passage all the way to the skin. There, this sand conspired with the sweat, dirt and a louse or two that already resided on that area of Alfred's skin to form an irritating, odoriferous film over the young man's stripling peasant body.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably under his cloak. Like the other seven men huddled around the campfire, he peered into its flames and wished for a chance to sleep. He blinked to fight off slumber and to sooth his dust-irritated eyes, then looked from one to another of his companions.

The grizzled, gray-haired veteran next to Alfred glanced over at the young man in return, then looked up into the night sky. Finally, wearily, the old soldier stared back into the fire. “Dawn soon,” the old man said. “And battle.”

“How can you tell?” Alfred asked in curiosity and eagerness, his voice rising in excitement upon hearing the prospect of imminent battle.

The old soldier sat silently for a few moments, turned slowly to look at his companion, then faced the fire once more. “You're new here, aren't you,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, I am,” the young soldier answered. “Just arrived...” He paused for an instant, momentarily confused. “...when?” he asked in a puzzled voice. “Yesterday? Yes, yesterday I suppose.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Name's Alfred.” The announcement of his name was directed toward the group as a whole. It met with little or no acknowledgment. “What's your name?” he asked the old soldier.

The older man said nothing. He only continued staring into the fire. After a few monents he spat into the flames.

“How can you tell?” Alfred asked again, returning to his original question.

The old soldier sat silently, then cleared his throat. He spat into the flames again and listened to the spittle hiss and pop on the coals. “My name,” he said at last, “is Tom. Tom Poole. Thomas of Poole...” His voice trailed off.

From across the fire came the sound of chuckling. Alfred looked over and saw a round, jolly face beneath a rusty soldier's circlet. “Thomas of Gloom, you mean,” the laughing soldier said. “Gloomy Tom.” the round-faced man subsided into chuckles again.

“Shut up, Half-Wit,” Tom said to the laughing soldier. “At least I can remember my name.”

Tom turned back to Alfred. “How can I tell what?” he asked the young soldier. “That it will soon be dawn or there will soon be battle?”

“Both,” Alfred said.

Tom looked back into the fire. “Because there always is.” he said.

“There always is... what?” Alfred asked. The gloominess of his companion was beginning to have an effect on the young soldier. A hollowness of fear began to form deep in the pit of his stomach. He looked at Tom, trying to find a calming word or action to sooth his rising fright. “Always what?” he persisted.

“Both,” Tom said. More laughter from across the fire. “Always dawn and always battle.” He sighed. “And always... soon.”

The laughter from across the fire reached new heights. The round-faced, laughing soldier lifted a tankard of mead to his lips and drained the last few dregs of liquid. He tossed the tankard at Tom through the flames.

The stony-faced old man batted the cup away with a sudden, quick movement of one arm, then resumed his rock-like, gloomy pose. “Shut up, Half-Wit,” he said. But his voice had no intensity. No feeling. It was as though he said the words so many time they lost their meaning.

“Oh, Tom, Tom...,” the round-faced soldier laughed. “...you'll be the death of me yet.”

“That I will, if you don't shut up,” Tom said. “I'll come across this fire and put a sword right through your fat, laughing belly.”

“No you won't, Tom,” the laughing soldier said. He added in a mocking tone, “It's against the rules. You can't.”

“Shut up, Half-Wit,” Tom said, stonily.

“Don't mind old Tom, Alfie me boy,” the laughing soldier said to Alfred. “He's always like that before a battle these days. That's why we started callin' 'im 'Gloomy'.” He paused and looked around him at the dusty night sky, now becoming perceptibly lighter. “And as for how he knows.... Well, when you've been here as long as us, you can tell when dawn's comin' by the way the wind blows. And as for the other.... Why, if you'd looked across the plain last night before the wind came up, you'd have seen campfires. That'd be Saracens. Now we're here. Saracens there. Wind droppin'. Dawn comin'. Battle. It figures.” He laughed again.

“Aye,” Tom said. “It figures. Just like it figures you'd laugh about it. That's why we call you Half-Wit. Only idiots laugh at times like these.”

“Well, you'd be better off, Tom, if you'd learn to laugh like me,” the fat, jolly soldier said. “Hell, man, you get took 'most every time 'cause you're so gloomy. I laugh and I don't care and I ain't been took in... Oh, I don't know... Not more than five, six times in the last fifty years. So laugh, Tom, like me. Or next thing you know, you'll run amok. Move out of turn or somethin'. And then you'll really be took. You'll be took away. Like as what happened to old One-Eye.” He took a drink from another tankard of mead that appeared in his hand.

Alfred looked inquisitively at Tom. He was confused. He shook his head as though trying to clear it. He looked at Tom again, suddenly concerned at he air of sadness and dejection in the old soldier's bearing. “What does he mean, 'took'?” he asked.

“Killed,” Tom answered.

The laughing soldier gave a loud guffaw. “No, no, “ he laughed. “I mean 'took'. Taken. Captured. Lord, didn't anybody explain The Rules to you?”

“What rules?” Alfred asked. “The rules of... of warfare?” he guessed.

“The Rules.” Half-Wit intoned the words with finality, as though The Rules were the utmost power in the universe; that from which there was no escape—no appeal.

“Took,” the fat soldier repeated. “Maybe for some it means 'killed', but not for me. It's 'took'. Hell, when the Riders or the 'Siegers or the Jihads show up, it's down with sword and shield for me and up with the hands. No sense fightin' it out to the end. We ain't got enough power. Not that I ain't took a few of them in my time.... But no, I don't wait 'til they stick me. I let 'em take me and go sit the rest of it out.” he paused. He seemed suddenly tired, as if exhausted from the effort of speaking. He took another drink from his tankard. “It's the rules and I use 'em to advantage when I can. No sense doin' anything else.” He ended his tirade in a quiet, barely audible voice.

Alfred sat open-mouthed, glancing at each soldier's face in turn, searching for some clue or signal that would help him understand. Only blank, stony faces stared back at him.

At that moment a trumpet sounded in the distance. Alfred looked up and saw pages striking the Royal tents. Knights donning their armor were beginning to form ranks aboard their big warhorses.

“Well, call to arms,” one of the soldiers said. “Guess we better form up.”

The soldiers stood and began picking up swords and shields, shaking the dust from their cloaks and forming into ranks.

“Ah, Alfie,” Half-Wit said with an amused lilt to his voice. “I see you've got Queen's Champions. You'll be right in the thick of it. I've got the Bishop's boys—Knights of the Temple. They fight well for bein' such a holy lot. Well, good luck. I've got to get to my place. Don't forget the rules, now. And don't get took.”

As he watched the fat, jolly soldier walk over to his place in line, Alfred was still not entirely certain what was going on. He hefted his sword and shield and looked around him. He saw Tom standing in line to his right. “What did he mean, Tom.” he asked the old soldier. “About The Rules? And about being took?”

Tom looked sadly over at the young man at his side. “He meant The Rules of the Game,” the old man told Alfred in a voice filled with weariness and hopelessness. As he talked, Tom reached inside his hauberk and rubbed his chest through the mail shirt—as if massaging an old wound. “And being took is being killed, no matter what that Half-Wit says. I ought to know. It's happened to me enough times in all the years I've been here.”

Many questions popped into Alfred's mind—it all seemed so confusing. But he only managed to make one inquiry of the old soldier.

“How long have you been here? In the King's army, I mean?”

Tom gazed sadly at the youth. Though he saw before him a young soldier in an ill-fitting suit of mail and a too-large circlet, it was almost as if he was seeing himself many years ago. Alabaster tears began to form in the old man's eyes. “Eight hundred years,” he said.



Part II—The King

The King looked out across the high desert plain at the opposing army. The Saracen troops were dressed in dark, flowing robes decorated with heathen designs.

As he gazed with his trained eye at the enemy battle lines, a grin flashed across his normally stony visage. He saw that the Sultan had again organized the heathen army in the manner of an English or a French commander.

Well, what do you expect, he asked himself. It seems as though we have been fighting each other for a thousand years. It's only natural that he pick up a few of my tricks, just as I have picked up some of his.

From his vantage point aboard his white armored horse, the King could see the Sultan's two movable siege towers. These towers held slingers and archers and were much the same in design and function as the two siege towers placed on opposite ends of the King's battle line. Some observers might question the usefulness of siege towers here on the desert plateau where there was nothing to besiege, but (the King reasoned) if the Sultan was going to continue building siege towers and bringing then to the battle plain, the King would do the same. Besides, the tower often proved quite useful in the many battles the two fought over the years on that same field.

The King had never had, nor ever really desired, a sword-to-sword confrontation with the Sultan during any of the battles to two had fought. In fact, he dreaded the thought of such an occurrence. In that event, surely one of the two protagonists would be killed; which would require the victor to revert back to an all-out war against the vanquished commander's army and homeland. “No,” the King said to himself, “that would be too.... Too savage. Too brutal. Too warlike. Too uncivilized. And maybe the Sultan isn't christian, but he is civilized.” It was much better, in the King's opinion, to simply go on as they had done for so many years, fighting from time to time and waiting until this idiotic holy war was abandoned as a hopeless enterprise.

It was time to begin the battle. “Tell the commander of the peasant infantry to advance from the center,” the King shouted to messenger at his side. The messenger galloped off as the King watched, the early morning sun giving the commander's face the translucence of pure marble.

In every battle the King and Sultan fought over the years, the two maneuvered and counter-maneuvered until one of the commanders was placed in a position from which he could not extricate himself. The unlucky general was then allowed to concede defeat and to retire from the field to raise another army. Later, the vanquished returned to the same plain and another battle was fought.

“Perhaps that's an unrealistic was to wage war,” the King thought, “but mine is a small, insignificant kingdom just as the Sultan's is a small province. By fighting this way, the Sultan protects his home from being ravaged and I get some grand sport out of it. These damned religious wars never settle a thing, anyway, no matter how noble the cause. I am content. I'm willing to go on fighting this noble heathen like this until eternity if need be.”

Soon the King was too busy for reflection because the battle began in earnest.


Two hours later, the King sat aboard his warhorse in a deeply agitated state of mind. The battle was going splendidly but something else had occurred that was quite disturbing. Some of the peasant troops had revolted again.

That made two battles in succession such a thing had happened. And it was not some of the new recruits who had mutinied, but again a veteran company—one of the first levies of infantry that accompanied the King on the Crusade.

The King shook his head. “It's too bad,” he said to no one in particular. “But I have to maintain discipline. I didn't want to execute the poor fools, but they gave me no choice. Not that their hearts weren't in the right place—yet they tried to kill the Sultan. Advanced when they weren't supposed to and tried to assault the siege tower. That's why I ordered the Queen's champions to ride them down—ordered them to kill our own men.... We can't have that. Discipline. Discipline and rules. That's what an army needs.” Again the King shook his head. Finally, with effort, he dismissed thoughts of mutinous peasants from his mind.

The King raised himself in his saddle as best he could, encumbered as he was by his armor, and surveyed the battlefield. “Yes,” he thought, “the battle is going splendidly.” He chuckled in his beard. “This is splendid. Simply splendid.”

The King had not been forced to move his horse from the spot where he first ordered his infantry forward and, except for the dust, he could still see quite clearly what was going on.

The peasant troops were fairly well decimated, he saw, with more than three-quarters killed or captured. And, of course, there had been a few sticky moments. Such as the time when the time when the Sultan's Harem Guards burst through the line of serfs and completely annihilated a group of knights from a dukedom within the King's land.

The King was sorry for the loss of the knights but, he reasoned, there were plenty more young lads eager for knighthood to take their place. For that matter, there were plenty more peasants, too.

After his quick survey, the King decided there was nothing of a pressing manner on the field that his subordinates could not handle so he turned his attention back to the scene of the most dramatic confrontation.

The Queen's Champions, after disposing of the errant peasant infantry, had just finished hacking their way through a cohort of some type if fanatical religious soldiers--“Jihads” as the King's men called them—-and were now attacking the siege tower into which the Sultan had climbed to better view the battlefield. The Champions could be destroyed quite easily, of course, but they would so deplete the personnel in the Sultan's tower that the men in one of the King's siege towers were in position to capture or kill the Sultan. There was no way for the Sultan to get away.

As the King watched, he saw the enemy's flag lowered from atop the black siege tower as a sign of concession. The battle was over.

The King threw back his head and laughed.


Part III—Aftermath

“Honey,” Carol called out in a puzzled voice, “come down here and look at this.”

“OK. Be there in a minute,” Abe said as he pulled on his pants. But he knew what he would find on the den table when he got there. There had been a battle. He remembered being awakened by the sounds of the conflict just about dawn that morning. He recalled the sounds of distant trumpets, the thundering hooves, the shouting voices and cries of pain and despair. Even though Abe heard the sounds of battle distinctly in the distance, he also knew it would do no good to awaken Carol. She would have heard nothing except the morning breeze. So Abe had lain there, letting her sleep, smoking a cigarette he did not especially want, longing to go down to the den to see what was going on. But he also knew from previous experience that all would have been silence and stillness in the den as soon as he touched the doorknob. Abe shook his head in puzzlement and wonder as he buttoned his shirt while descending the stairs.

Abe stopped in the den's doorway. Carol was standing beside the game table holding the body of one of the white pawns in one hand and its marble head in the other.

“How did this get broken?” she asked.

Abe shook his head. “I don't know,” he said. “It was broken last time I put the chess set out.” He walked over to the table. Yes, he said to himself as he looked at the board, there it is. Checkmate. The white queen was directly confronting the castled black king and a white rook was backing her up. The black king had no place to go and a quick glance at the rest of the board showed there was no way for black to capture white's queen except with the king. Checkmate.

“But how did it happen,then?” Carol asked, breaking in on Abe's thoughts as he observed the board. “You keep the damned thing locked up most of the time.” She shook her head and put the broken pieces of the pawn back on the game table. “And now it's broken and you don't even know how?”

Abe nodded as he reached out for the broken pieces. “Yeah. Well,” he said, knowing he had to find some sort of explanation Carol would find believable. “As near as I can figure, after Dave and I played last time we just left the set out here on the table and the dog bumped against it during the night. That knocked some of the pieces over and cracked the head off this one-eyed...” He stopped when he noticed the face on the broken pawn's head. It wasn't the one-eyed soldier, it was the pawn with the furrowed, grizzled old man's face. But he was certain it had been the one-eyed pawn that was broken last time. He blinked a couple of times. “...off this one I have here,” he concluded lamely. He cleared his throat, then embellished his explanation. “The pieces are so old.... Maybe they're getting brittle. I've heard that air pollution does that to old marble like these things are made from. It's even making the Coliseum in Rome deteriorate.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Carol was sarcastic again, She stood looing at the chessmen with a furrowed brow and a rather disgusted look on her face. Then the look changed to one of puzzlement. “Wait a minute,” she said. “When we went to bed last night you had these all set up like they are when you start a game. Now look at them. Those little white ones and that one on the horse and that black one that looks like a Mullah or whatever it is that Moslems call their holy men.... They're all knocked over. And that white one is over there among the black.... It looks like somebody's been playing a game.”

“I woke up about dawn and couldn't get back to sleep,” Abe told her, quickly coming up with another reasonable explanation. He knew he wouldn't tell her the truth—or what he believed was the truth. “And I came down here to work out a chess problem Dave and I were discussing at the party. That's why I put the set out in the first place.”

“No,” Carol said, shaking her head. “I remember you being awake, but you didn't get up. You just sat there in bed and smoked a cigarette.”

“Yes,” Abe said, lying more convincingly now. “And after I sat there a while I came down here to work out the problem. You went back to sleep.” He walked over to the table and began rearranging the pieces. “It's a mate in three moves with the queen here and the...” He stopped and looked up with what he hoped was a foolish, self-deprecating half grin on his face. “And,” he shrugged, “I admit I got a little frustrated because I couldn't get it and I... I guess I kinda knocked over the pieces in frustration.” He shrugged again and tried his best to put on a foolish little boy expression on his face.

Carol went back to her usual sarcasm. “That was real smart. Now we know how it got broken, don't we? A thousand-dollar chess set and you act like a spoiled child with it.”

Abe shrugged again and began setting the chessmen back in their proper places. “I told you it was already broken,” he said rather peevishly. “Besides, it's my chess set and if I want to smash it into little bitty pieces, I will. I don't care how much it costs.”

Carol gave him her best “go-to-hell” stare for a few seconds, then walked out of the den. She continued the conversation from the next room. “Well, be my guest. I don't know why you bought that thing in the first place. You know I can't play.”

“I told you. It's an antique. And it's my memento from the Holy Land. Besides, I just told you what the Arab who sold it to me said. I didn't say I believed him.”

As Abe continued setting the pieces back in their places he looked closely at the white pawns. The one-eyed man was gone. In his place was a young foot soldier dressed in a too-large chain mail shirt and hauberk.

“But you still paid a thousand dollars for it,” Carol said from the other room.

“Yeah,” Abe called over his shoulder. “But have you seen this workmanship? Every face is different; each with his own personality. Distinct. There's the fat, jolly pawn with the cup in his hand—obviously the drunkard every infantry company has. And this young soldier—the kid that's in every outfit. And the old man—the veteran.”

“That's the one that's broken, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Abe said. He regretted his earlier choice of words in describing the soldier with the cup as “Jolly.” He was holding that pawn in his hand right at the moment. The fat soldier looked sad.

“Yes,” Carol said, still sarcastic. “The workmanship. Oh, I'll admit it's a lovely chess set, but that's also how I know it isn't from the middle ages. Art was pretty primitive back then. Medieval. They couldn't carve like that. And besides, if it really is from the thirteenth century or whenever... You couldn't have gotten it for any thousand bucks.”

“The Arab said it had a curse on it. Supposed to drive its owner crazy.”

“Oh, bull. I bet if you look hard enough you'll find out it was made in Japan by laser carving techniques or something like that. And made just last year.”

“Maybe,” Abe said. He had all the pieces back in place now except for the broken pawn and the two kings. He sat the broken pawn's head back in place atop its marble shoulders just as he'd done previously with the head of the one-eyed pawn. The head stayed in place.

“Besides,” Carol said from the door of the study. “It's too late to drive you crazy. Anyone who'd pay that much for a few pieces of rock already has a screw loose. Well, I'm ready. We better hurry if we're going to meet Dave and Irene for brunch.”

“OK,” Abe replied as he sat the broken pawn down in its place on the board. “You wait out in the car. I'll go get my jacket.” Abe walked out of the room. He didn't notice the face of the broken pawn change from that of an old man to that of a youth.


As he stood on the desert plateau, trying to blink the dust and tears of pain from his eyes, Alfred rubbed his side through the mail shirt. He remembered the Saracen knight riding down on him and the terrible feeling as the lance pierced his body. He looked around, dazed. He saw several familiar faces among the infantrymen, but he didn't see Tom. Instead he saw an unfamiliar young soldier. At his side was Half-Wit, still holding his tankard. The smile was gone from the fat soldier's lips.

“'Lo, Alfie,” Half-Wit said. “You get took?”

“I think so,” Alfred said. “I really don't know what's going on. The Saracen.... He struck me with his lance. But....” The young soldier shook his head and looked around. “Where's Tom?” he asked.

Half-Wit shook his head. “He's gone,” he said slowly. “I saw it. He run amok. Moved as how he shouldn't. And them...,” he nodded at the Knights of the Queen's Champions sitting aboard their warhorses. “They come along and chopped off his head. Kilt him. Gone. Same thing as happened to old One-eye.” The fat soldier leaned tiredly on his shield, stuck point-first into the hard ground of the desert plateau. “Gone,” he repeated, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “And him... Him and One-Eye... They was the last of the original ones. Lasted a long time, he did. As long as that one.” He nodded toward the King, off to one side, away from the battle line. “Him and his bloody game.” He smiled ruefully but with no mirth at his joke. “His bloody game. Our blood.”

The fat soldier suddenly stiffened into a rock-like pose. 'Hush, now,” he whispered. “He's back.”

Abe entered the den and walked over to the game table. He picked up the two kings, one in each hand, and looked at them. The black one was dressed in flowing robes and wore a turban. There was a grimace of dismay on his face. The white king wore armor and a beard and his head was thrown back in a silent guffaw.

Abe reached up with the thumbs of each hand and tried to mold the faces into different shapes. It did no good; the two chessmen were made of stone.

“Now you two boys be good, “ he said as he set the two kings back in place, As each chessman touched the board their faces changed. They both now wore looks of grim determination. Abe shook his head. The transformation had ceased to frighten him. He wondered, though, if he shouldn't put the chess set away somewhere and not leave it out on the table. He walked over to the door leading out of the den, then paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked back toward the table. “And may the best man win,” he said softly as he shut the door.


The trumpet sounded in the still air of the high desert plateau. Half-Wit sighed and picked up his shield. “Well,” he said. “Call to arms again.” He turned to Alfred and drained the ever-present tankard in his hand, then hung the cup on his belt. “Take care, Alfie,” he said. “And don't get took.”

Alfred looked across the plain at the Saracens. He was beginning to understand. Fear gripped him. He could still feel the pain of the Saracen's lance from the last battle. He wondered how long it would be before he, too, ran amok. He looked back over his shoulder at the King on his white horse. Maybe Tom had the right idea, Alfred thought. Only maybe Tom went after the wrong King.

Soon a messenger arrived from the King and ordered Alfred's company to advance.


In the den of Abe's house, on the table that held the old stone chess set, the white king's pawn, unaided by any visible hand, moved forward two spaces.


The Sultan looked out over the high desert plateau at the infidel army. The sun made their armor shine like polished marble. A smile curled the Sultan's lips like a flash of sunlight on a block of obsidian.

“I'm disappointed in you, Your Highness,” the Sultan said. “Such a standard opening move.”