‘We should have known, had we studied sufficiently the American Civil War or even more the Franco-Prussian War, that in these days of long-range rifle-power and machine guns the concept of advancing en masse to the attack is suicidal. Even more suicidal are cavalry charges. I am not suggesting you discard your swords; it may still be possible to use cavalry in the old-fashioned sense against a totally broken enemy. But in the main it is movement which matters. Positions which cannot easily be surprised and overrun must be turned. You must teach your men to move suddenly and if necessary over vast distances, in order to get the better of their enemies. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Murdoch said enthusiastically. Those were Roberts’ precepts.
‘The second lesson we have to learn from the Boers is that of concealment, of camouflage, as some people are calling it. Wearing khaki uniforms as opposed to red or sky-blue tunics is obviously a step in the right direction. It is my hope that khaki will be adopted universally, even for service in Europe, instead of just for colonial wars. But merely wearing khaki is not enough. We need to learn to use the ground the way the Boers did. How many times did you go into action without the slightest idea of where your enemies were? Good camouflage can double the size and hitting power of a defensive force, but it can also be used effectively in an advancing army.
‘The third lesson, and perhaps the most important, is proper use of fire-power. The old concept of firing by volley and word of command was all very well when the enemy was doing the same thing, arrayed in line opposite us, and when the range of our muskets was perhaps two hundred yards. Now that our enemies are likely to be concealed and able to kill us at a distance of nearly a mile, such an idea is absurd. You must train your men, once the order to open fire has been given, to fire at will—and at targets they can see rather than at lumps of rocks which may or may not conceal a man. There again, one man who knows how to use his rifle is worth ten men who perform their actions by rote and have no accuracy. These are things which you, as a squadron commander, can attend to. There are other deficiencies in our armed services, heaven knows. But those are governmental concerns. I wish you fortune.’
‘Thank you, sir. But...do you expect Great Britain ever to become involved in a European war? After a hundred years?’
French leaned back in his chair. ‘When we were embroiled in South Africa, Mackinder, we discovered just who were our friends in this world. They appeared to amount to precisely none, outside our own empire. This is again something that is up to the Government to remedy, but should they neglect to do so, or should they fail in their attempts to do so, why, yes, I would expect Great Britain to take part in a European war within our lifetimes. I would very much like to think that we will be capable of winning that war, and we cannot rely on the Navy alone. There is a great deal to be done, Captain Mackinder.’
*
It was an almost eerie feeling to return to Bath, to pass through those gates again, in such very different circumstances. It was less his promotion or his decoration than that he had never known the regiment other than on a war footing. Technically, of course, it was still on a war footing, but no one doubted that the Boer commandos were seeking peace at last, as they were increasingly hounded and their families were dying in great numbers in the concentration camps.
The war had meant a heavy and continuing drain on the depot. Apart from Major Bowen, who because of a badly broken leg, sustained in a fall from his horse several years ago, was unfit for active service, and a handful of NCOs who acted as drill masters, there was not a familiar face to be seen; even Morag the mascot had died and been replaced by another pony; Brigitte, who was decidedly more skittish. Bowen himself was delighted to have Murdoch back, and introduced him to the newly promoted squadron sergeant-major, Hanley, whom Murdoch remembered as a newly promoted sergeant two years before. Both men were clearly overawed by the crimson ribbon on the young captain’s breast, and equally neither of them had the faintest idea as to exactly why he had been pronounced unfit for further service in South Africa—for which Murdoch was profoundly thankful.
He had also to make the acquaintance of a new horse, a black gelding named Hengist, a magnificent beast which seemed to take to him immediately. As he cantered across the training field and took a couple of low jumps, Murdoch found himself thinking of poor old Edward IV, and then Lucifer. But surely he and Hengist, in time of peace, would survive longer as a pair.
Then there was the squadron, one hundred and eighty-five of the rawest recruits Murdoch had ever seen. There was only one sergeant available, and no corporals; they would have to come from the ranks of the recruits themselves, once he had got to know them. Nor were there any troop lieutenants when he first arrived, but they came along a few days later, straight from Sandhurst—Peter Ramage and Tom Knox. It was incredible, Murdoch thought as he shook hands and gazed at their brand new sky-blue tunics, that they were only two years younger than himself— indeed, that only two years before he had been equally raw. But they were good horsemen, which was more than could be said for the majority of the recruits, and like everyone else, they were prepared to worship a man who had won the Victoria Cross. That he preferred not to talk about South Africa seemed quite reasonable—everyone knew it must have been grim.
The Treaty of Vereeniging was signed in May, and then everyone looked forward to the regiment coming home. Except perhaps for Murdoch himself. He had to consider the matter of coming to terms with his fellow officers. But here again, possession of that crimson ribbon was an admirable prop to his confidence, while he was determined that the reserve squadron should be fully capable of matching any of the veterans who would be returning with such grim stories of their experiences. He worked them twelve hours a day, and having got them looking like soldiers and riding like them too, began to devote a great deal of time to rifle drill and camouflage; he could do nothing about their uniforms, which remained the traditional blue, but he could put into practice French’s other two precepts. Sergeant-Major Hanley looked somewhat askance at these new-fangled ideas, but he remained willing to cooperate—even when Murdoch abandoned the traditional volley firing by numbers, and instead made his men pick out specific targets and then fire at will as rapidly as possible, until the object was hit ‘Is that how they did it in South Africa, sir?’ he asked his captain.
“That is how the Boers did it, sergeant-major,’ Murdoch told him. ‘And how we should have done it. If we had, there’d have been less good fellows lost.’
Of social life he allowed himself practically none. He had, of course, to take part in the festivities surrounding Rosemary’s marriage. In his sky-blue tunic and dark blue breeches, with his sunburnt complexion and that precious ribbon, he was as much the centre of attraction as the bride herself. Invitations followed in great numbers from all the matriarchs of Somerset, Gloucestershire and Wiltshire, who perceived in the handsome young captain a possible future husband of one of their daughters. But he declined them all, through pressure of work. The thought of waltzing with a girl in his arms, when Margriet Voorlandt’s face was ineradicably in his mind, was not something he could contemplate. Soon the invitations stopped coming.
*
The regiment disembarked in Plymouth and marched up to Bath behind the band. Captain Mackinder’s squadron provided the guard of honour, naturally, his men sitting their horses rigidly to attention, burnished helmets with the drooping plumes gleaming in the late spring sunshine, while the sky-blue tunics filed through the gate in column of twos. A sadly depleted regiment, even with the constant flow of replacements—the total establishment returning was only three hundred and forty-seven men. With Shortland also invalided home with a shattered leg, the three squadrons had been amalgamated into two, under Rodgers and Morton, with a clutch of still raw young lieutenants below them.
Murdoch had a lump in his throat as Colonel Edmonds gave the command, ‘Eyes right!’ to pass the reviewing stand, where Sir John French had himself come down to take the salute, and he look
ed at the faces of Bishop and Yeald, and several others he recognised—but not Corporal Compton, who had been killed in a skirmish with a laager. The number of his original troop had shrunk to twenty-eight. But the lump almost became tears when those twenty-eight, headed by Bishop and YeaId, came round to shake his hand the moment the parade was dismissed, and to tell him how much they had missed him, and how happy they were that he was obviously fully recovered. And how proud they were of him, too.
*
There were also handshakes all round and drinks in the mess as soon as the visiting bigwigs had left.
‘All well?’ Johnnie Morton asked, taking Murdoch aside, and gazing into his eyes. Morton had perhaps been the most upset of anyone when he had to place Murdoch under arrest.
‘All well,’ Murdoch lied. He knew he could never involve any of his fellow officers in his nightmares, or anyone else. They had to be private to himself alone, and his only course was to go along with the charade that he had indeed been suffering from heat stroke. But he could not stop himself from asking, ‘I don’t suppose there is any news of her?’
‘As a matter of fact, there is,’ Morton said. ‘She was returned to her family the moment the camps were opened following the surrender.’
‘You mean she survived?’
‘Oh, very much so.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘But you’ll not do anything stupid,’ Morton begged. ‘In any event, I understand that she was to marry one of the commandos, a German named Reger...my God, Reger! Not that fellow who used to hang about the camp outside Cape Town?’
‘The same,’ Murdoch said.
‘What a small world it is. I always said he was a bad ‘un.’ Morton frowned at him. ‘That upset you?’
‘I’m just relieved that she came out of it all right,’ Murdoch said. Married to Reger, after all. To be beaten whenever he felt like it. And what else would she have to suffer, after the way she had betrayed him for an English lover? But whatever had happened, she was beyond his reach, now. Surely be could forget about her—and as she was another man’s wife, should forget about her.
Edmonds, obviously also concerned about his frame of mind, invited him into the office the next morning. ‘By Jove, but it is good to be back,’ he remarked. ‘And yet, damned strange. The whole country seems strange. One expects to see Boers lurking behind every tree.’
‘That’s exactly how I felt for the first month or so,’ Murdoch agreed.
‘You look very fit.’
‘I am.’
‘And been working hard, I gather from Major Bowen. That looked a fine body of men you have turned out.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We were delighted to hear of your promotion, of course. Twenty is a very young age to become a captain. I’m afraid you can hardly expect to rise quite that fast in the immediate future. Unless we have to fight another war, perhaps.’
‘I appreciate that, sir.’
‘But Sir John French has the highest regard for you. And I may say that he is in possession of your entire record.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Well, he had guessed that.
‘All he needs is to be convinced that you are fully recovered.’ Edmonds paused, to peer at him.
‘Yes, sir. I believe I am.’
‘Good, good. I shall be interested to hear some of these new ideas the general tells me he is trying to get adopted by the whole army, but by the cavalry in particular, and which I believe you have already begun to put into practice.’
‘Yes, sir. I should be pleased to show them to you.’
Edmonds nodded. ‘We shall have to have a field day as soon as we are settled in.’ He held out his hand. ‘Welcome back, Murdoch. I don’t believe you ever truly went away, but I would like to know that there is no ill feeling between us.’
Murdoch took the proffered fingers, noting as he did so how thin and weak they were, as he had already noted the pallor beneath the colonel’s sunburnt cheeks, the hollowness of the eyes, the thinness of the always spare figure.
‘I am grateful to you for your forbearance, sir,’ he said. There was nothing more he could say; they were all damned with the same crime—and the colonel seemed to have come out of it with an even heavier burden.
*
Morton was less happy with the changes Murdoch had instituted. ‘Hiding behind bushes, or in bushes, firing at will—things like that have got to be bad for discipline,’ he complained. ‘I mean, it was all very well for the Boers, but they didn’t have any discipline anyway. The whole tradition of the British Army is that we fight, advance or retreat shoulder to shoulder. What about the charge of the Light Brigade, or the thin red line? Neither would have worked had they been little red clumps scattered about the place.’
‘Not a man of the Light Brigade, or of that thin red line, would have survived against accurate magazine rifle fire, much less a machine gun,’ Murdoch pointed out.
‘We beat the Boers, didn’t we?’ Morton demanded.
‘It cost us something like ten to one. What do you suppose would have happened if we had had to fight the Prussians?’
‘Who on earth wants to fight the Prussians, except the French?’
Actually, Morton respected the advances in techniques, even if he didn’t really care for them, just as he respected Murdoch all the more for his South African ‘escapade’, which had proved that he was as dab a hand with the ladies as with a horse or a sword or a pistol. That was what made a man, in his opinion; his only criticism now was that Murdoch neither smoked nor would grow a moustache like any proper cavalryman should.
But Morton, like everyone else, was for the moment more concerned about the changes which were taking place in the regiment itself. Colonel Edmonds was indeed not a fit man, his wounds having caused a general debilitation of his health, and by the end of the year he was retired. Major Craufurd also retired, another long-term victim of a Boer bullet.
This naturally aroused much speculation amongst the officers, and it seemed that Rodgers was an obvious heir to the lieutenant-colonelcy. But it was not to be. Gordon Rodgers was regarded as just a little young—he was only thirty and had been the junior captain when the regiment had left for South Africa—to be made lieutenant-colonel. This was explained to him by General French, who as colonel-in-chief continued to make the Westerns his own special interest; his disappointment was somewhat mitigated by the confirmation of his rank as major, and he became adjutant, while a new colonel was introduced to them.
Colonel Martin Walters had been with the lancers and had served in South Africa with distinction, just like his new command. He had also shared the burden of the guerrilla struggle against the commandos. A small, slight man with a fair moustache, he looked over his three captains—Chapman had been promoted to take over Rodgers’ squadron—and shook hands with each of them in turn, and with Hobbs, who had also been confirmed in his rank.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘The Royal Westerns have always been one of my favourite regiments, and I am proud indeed to be wearing this uniform. I am sure you all have a lot to teach me about dragoon tactics, and I look forward to learning. Captain Mackinder, this is the first time I have had a VC under my command. I hope you will not find peacetime soldiering a bore.’
‘I find any soldiering fascinating, sir,’ Murdoch said. But his heart sank; there could be no doubt that Colonel Walters had read the full report.
*
In fact, Walters turned out to be an able officer, quite lacking in prejudices, and as proud as anyone else to have a VC serving with his regiment. The tiresome daily routine consisted of kit inspection, drill, punishment and hospital parades, veterinary conferences, and what were called father-and-son chats, when the squadron commander, assisted by the relevant troop lieutenant and, in extreme cases, by the padre, had to listen to the domestic problems of the men under his command and endeavour to solve them.
However, peacetime soldiering proved to be utterly fascinating, over the next few years,
for General French’s prediction that the whole military establishment would have to be shaken up proved to be correct. Also, as he had predicted, the main impetus for reform had to come from the Government, and Mr Haldane was appointed Minister of War in 1904. Under the encouragement of his progressive mind, all the ideas and lessons learned in South Africa became part of the regular army procedure, much to the disgust of the traditionalists, who argued that if there should be a European war, it would be fought in the traditional style between traditional armies. They pointed to the examples of the Franco-Prussian and Austro-Prussian wars of a generation before, when early machine guns had been in use, as well as breech-loading rifles, and nobody had worried about camouflage—to them, the Boer War had been an aberration. The change from scarlet to khaki was the worst of all the innovations in their eyes, even if it was only as the service dress of each regiment. Flat caps instead of helmets, puttees wrapped around the trouser legs, cloth webbing and cartridge pouches, all represented the last word in ugly anonymity.
‘Quite disgusting,’ Morton remarked, after a day of manoeuvres with several other cavalry regiments on Salisbury Plain. ‘Couldn’t tell my own men, half the time—found myself riding at the head of a bunch of bloody hussars.’
There were other changes as well which seemed to be entirely dismantling the accepted structure of warfare and replacing it with something even more hideous. Each squadron now had to have a field telephone instead of a heliograph section, the men being specially trained to lay the lines and use the newfangled machines; observation balloons, which had first been used in South Africa, became commonplace; new grenades were issued to the infantry, who also sprouted an entirely new variety of machine gun—the old water-cooled Maxim, so prone to jamming, being replaced by a French invention, the gas-cooled Hotchkiss.
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