The Regiment

by Christopher Nicole

  This was a very heavy mitrailleuse, but capable of firing an enormous number of bullets every minute, once it was erected. A Hotchkiss gun was provided for each squadron of the dragoons, and the men had to apply themselves to this new art, as did Murdoch. Machine guns upset even him, for they were so strictly defensive, and yet, because of their awesome power, brutally offensive as well. They were also complicated. The gun was carried in dismantled sections as part of the horse furniture, and the squad in charge of it, under a corporal, had to become adept at leaping from their mounts after a simulated retreat, assembling their weapon and taking up their position as rapidly as possible while the squadron formed around them, and then dissembling the gun again in seconds when the word to advance was given. As Morton put it, ‘What are we become? Cavalrymen, or bloody mechanics?’

  But there were those enthusiastic about this latest and most proficient means of killing. ‘By heaven, Captain Mackinder,’ remarked Sergeant Yeald, who had, to his undisguised pleasure, been reassigned to Murdoch’s command, during the reconstitution of the regiment, in which Murdoch’s recruits were divided up amongst the veterans to restore the full establishment of three squadrons, ‘if we’d had these in South Africa, eh, instead of those old Maxims?’

  ‘I doubt it would have made all that much difference, sergeant,’ Murdoch told him, ‘since we were always doing the attacking. Even a Hotchkiss gun has to be aimed at something the gunner can see.’

  ‘We’d have blown off a few more heads, though,’ Yeald said stubbornly.

  There was no means of knowing how much the rank and file were aware of what had happened out there on the veldt, or in Edmonds’ office afterwards. Murdoch had been arrested by Morton and Hobbs, and having accepted the inevitable, had merely been escorted to his quarters. That one of the pair had remained with him until the ship had sailed for England could have been friendship rather than duty. Obviously, even if Reynolds had been totally loyal, there must have been rumours, if only spread by Hobbs’ office staff, who would have seen Margriet and were bound to have gathered some idea of what was going on. But once again, the crimson ribbon wiped away all of that, and even more important to the survivors of the old B Troop, they had no doubt at all that he had sacrificed himself to the Boers to enable them to withdraw in comparative safety. He was the regiment’s own private hero, and whatever he might have done, or considered doing, was irrelevant.

  But even Yeald was aghast when, at the next manoeuvres, an officer in an infantry regiment commandeered an open touring motor car, mounted one of the Hotchkiss guns in the back seat and drove up and down and through the outraged cavalry, claiming to have destroyed them all. Whatever will they think of next?’ he asked.

  It was indeed time to look to the future, a future in which the possibilities of that European war they had all half feared and yet, as professional soldiers, half wanted, seemed to be coming nearer and nearer. That there had been no European war, in a general sense, since the Battle of Waterloo, had been entirely because of Great Britain’s refusal to involve herself in any continental squabble, or to ally herself with any other power; splendid isolation, the newspapers called it.

  But the Boer War had taught some harsh lessons there too, as General French had told Murdoch in 1902. Britain had become the pariah of the world for hounding the hapless farmers. The Kaiser, Wilhelm II, long regarded as the traditional friend of England, had gone so far as to send a telegram of congratulations to President Kruger after the catastrophic ‘black week’ of October 1899. If the Boers had also been at least tacitly supported by most other European nations, that single incident had most incensed the British. The result had been perhaps the greatest upheaval in European politics since Catholic France had allied herself with Protestant Sweden to defeat Catholic Austria in the Thirty Years War: Great Britain had concluded an ‘entente’ with France, her oldest and most implacable enemy. The word ‘alliance’ was carefully avoided for public consumption, but no soldier could doubt that the new arrangement meant they would one day be fighting side by side with the poilus.

  Britain had already allied herself with Japan, causing an earlier diplomatic furore—the idea of the Brigade of Guards and a Japanese regiment advancing into battle shoulder to shoulder was disconcerting even to British soldiers. But Japan was clearly the emergent power in Asia, with a fleet and an army trained and equipped in the best European style, a sure bulwark, it was felt, as Britain’s ally, against foreign encroachment on India, and a safeguard for Australia and New Zealand as well. However, the treaty was defensive in character, and although it required support by one power for the other should either of them be attacked by two adversaries, no one could imagine how the Japanese would be able to lend any military support to a British campaign in Europe, at least in time to affect the outcome. Thus it had become a toss-up between Germany and France, and the fact of that famous telegram rankled. There were other, more sensible reasons for choosing France, of course; Germany was seeking an overseas empire of her own, and was openly attempting to match Britain in building warships to protect it. This was unacceptable to the British Government, who regarded themselves as custodians of the seas, not to be challenged. The accession of the strong French fleet to the British side meant that the Mediterranean could be left in French hands, and the entire British naval might could be concentrated on the North Sea, Germany’s only exit to the oceans.

  But it was none the less a remarkable sensation to have to carry out manoeuvres watched by officers in blue tunics and red breeches and wearing kepis, and discuss with them not only new and secret weapons, but the manner in which the next war, to which the French—presuming it was to be with Germany—were eagerly looking forward, should be fought.

  From the start, apart from the language difficulties, there was a total difference of opinion on the probable character of the coming struggle. The Boer War had taught the British generals the value of the defensive, and of manoeuvre on a grand scale; but then Wellington had always been a defensive general, preferring to let the French armies, even when commanded by Napoleon himself, dash themselves to pieces against his carefully chosen positions. Obviously it would have been tactless to remind their new allies of this, nor would it have done any good. The French regarded a defensive strategy with contempt, and had deduced that their defeat by Germany in the war of 1870 had been entirely caused by their being forced too often to fight on the defensive, due to bad staff work. The offensive, the arme blanche, was the only form of tactical manoeuvre they would consider; they dreamed of, and had no doubt of the success of, endless lines of blue-coated and red-trousered poilus marching behind bayoneted rifles, sweeping the fearsome Boche to left and right. Machine guns did not frighten them; they had invented the mitrailleuse, and were not about to be taught its value by any British general who had never fought a continental war.

  Nor were they impressed by anything else the British had to offer. In numbers, of course, there could be no comparison between the two armies. The British, depending entirely upon voluntary service, talked in terms of a few divisions; the French, with their conscripted recruits, spoke of scores of divisions. As regards skill, the British again were wholly devoted to accurate rifle fire, a defensive concept; they doubted they would, under modern conditions, ever get close enough to an enemy to use their bayonets—they had seldom succeeded in doing so with the Boers. The French were wholly committed to cold steel. As for the British cavalry, the French regarded them as a joke, and seemed unable to decide what the dragoons actually were. Nor could Murdoch altogether blame them, as their only impressions of what the British might be like in a war were gathered from watching the annual manoeuvres, which even he found an appalling muddle of uncertain and often countermanded orders, obscure objectives and confused thinking, exacerbated by the mental division which existed in the British Army between the traditionalists and the modernists, and even more between those, like himself, who regarded soldiering as an important and indeed vitally serious profession, and t
hose, like Johnnie Morton, who persisted in seeing it as a great game, in which flourish and style mattered more than determination and vigour.

  The catastrophe which had been waiting to happen for some time finally overtook them during manoeuvres on the White Horse downs in Berkshire in the spring of 1906.

  As was the custom, the final action of the ‘battle’ was to take place in front of the assembled generals and military attaches of foreign countries who had been invited to look at Britain’s growing military might, together with several members of royal houses, including the British. This great accumulation of brass hats was situated on Weathercock Hill, beneath a purple observation balloon, which seemed to typify the seriousness of the occasion.

  The ‘battle’ had from start to finish been a shambles of misdirected orders and lost opportunities, culminating when the dragoons, with the hussars with whom they had been brigaded for the occasion, were commanded to charge the retreating ‘enemy’. This they had done with great panache, led by Gordon Rodgers, who was temporarily in command as Lieutenant-Colonel Walters was one of the judges. However, there then arose a wrangle as to whether they had sent the opposing infantry flying in rout, or whether they would have been cut to pieces by the machine guns brought to bear on them. While this argument was being resolved, the brigade was stood down.

  They gathered in a hollow just below the natural grand-stand, out of sight of the rest of army, and the men were dismounted to have a stand-easy and a smoke; the hollow became a huge khaki-clad ants’ nest. Murdoch, who heartily agreed with the infantry point of view that their machine guns would have carried the day, was very aware that, as the ‘battle’ was not yet officially over, they were behaving in a most unsoldier-like fashion—a single shell from one of the Boer heavy Creusots would have just about destroyed the entire brigade.

  No further orders had been received when they heard the drumming of a very large number of hooves from the other side of the hill, together with a ripple of cheering and applause from the spectators, and the blast of bugle calls. Murdoch and Morton remounted their horses and rode up to the crest to see what was going on, and gazed at a mass of cavalry galloping towards them, past the dignitaries on Weathercock Hill; the newcomers were wearing, not khaki, but the blue service dress of the Household Cavalry. Their appearance was absurd, not only because their uniforms were distinguishable at a distance of well over a mile, but also because they were advancing in parade order, in vast ranks, which could equally have been cut to pieces by a well-placed machine gun. But from the bugle calls and flying ensigns they were decidedly pleased with themselves.

  ‘By Jove,’ Morton said. ‘Aren’t those fellows on the other side?’

  ‘They were,’ Murdoch agreed.

  ‘Well, we haven’t been given the all-clear yet. And with us hidden down here, those blighters seem to think they’ve won the bloody war. I think we should do something about them.’ He trotted back down to where Rodgers was chatting with the major commanding the hussars, and explained the situation.

  ‘You’re right,’ Rodgers agreed; his instinct for the offensive was as pronounced as that of any Frenchman. ‘If we could take them in the flank, we’d win no matter how they looked at it.’

  ‘I rather feel they think the battle is over, and are parading,’ Murdoch suggested.

  ‘As if they had won the bloody thing,’ Morton declared. ‘Can’t have that. Must make a show, old man.’

  As Rodgers was of the same mind, there was nothing for it; Murdoch was the junior captain. Orders were given, the men were mounted, and the whole mass of khaki-clad horsemen cantered up to the top of the rise—to find that the blues were much closer than they had expected, and indeed were almost upon them. Nor were they now capable of stopping, as they charged along behind their blaring bugles, while the applause of the watchers slowly turned to gasps of horror as they realised what was about to happen.

  ‘Wheel left,’ Murdoch bellowed at his men, but it was too late. A mass of blue-clad riders smashed into his squadron, which could only twist this way and that in an attempt to avoid disaster. Without success. Horses and riders tumbled in every direction, khaki and blue inextricably mixed. High-ranking officers left their places and hurried down to the chaos of neighing and shouting, ambulances were sent for, foreign observers scratched their heads and attempted not to smile while making polite remarks about British sang froid and Murdoch lay beneath his horse. When they found him he was unconscious.

  7 – The Transvaal, 1906

  Returning consciousness was accompanied by pain, far more severe than any he recalled in South Africa when he had been shot; but by then the shock had worn off, physically. He did not suppose he would ever forget the awful feeling of impotence as that wall of cavalry had come at him.

  Mother and Philippa spent much time with him, and Rosemary wrote from Caterham to wish him a speedy recovery—as did Lord Roberts from the Isle of Wight and Sir John French from Aldershot. He was visited regularly by the padre and by his fellow officers, who had been more fortunate than he. In fact, he was the most seriously injured of any of those knocked down in the ‘clash of titans’, as the newspapers called it. Colonel Walters came too, endeavouring to discover who had been responsible for the disaster. It appeared some heads had to roll—it was a miracle no one had actually been killed—and poor Rodgers’ was one of them. Major Bowen having retired, Rodgers was appointed permanent head of the depot outside Bath, with all thoughts of further promotion dashed.

  But the fault had lain equally with the commanders of the blues, who had not taken evading action in time. ‘If it leads to a general tightening-up of the system it can be no bad thing,’ Walters said. ‘Morton has told me that you opposed leading your men over the ridge.’

  Murdoch said nothing; he had no wish to play the good boy at the expense of his fellow officers.

  ‘And all you have got out of it is...what exactly have you got?’ He surveyed the array of bandages, the suspended leg and arm.

  ‘One broken leg, one broken collar-bone and seven broken ribs,’ Murdoch told him. ‘Together with various minor fractures.’

  ‘My God! I’m afraid we have had to have Hengist put down; he broke both his forelegs.’

  Murdoch couldn’t nod; it was too painful. ‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid I have a bad record with horses; I have now lost three.’

  ‘None of which could have been considered your fault,’ the colonel pointed out. ‘What you have to do now is get well, just as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Murdoch agreed. But getting well was a slow progress. Dr Williams told him he was very lucky to be alive, and not even permanently crippled.

  The main trouble with lying on his back, hardly able to move for day after day—and night after night—was that it gave a man too much time to think. He had cut down on his thinking since his return from South Africa by burying himself in his work and endeavouring to make sure that he collapsed into bed every night utterly exhausted—as his men were no doubt doing too. But now thought was inescapable. He thought a good deal about his profession, and his part in it, which had little to do with the military manuals he had consumed since boyhood, or the biographies of Wellington’s generals and Napoleon’s marshals he had always preferred to penny dreadfuls.

  He had never contemplated any other career than that of a soldier; he had never been allowed to do so. But then, he had never been allowed to think of the British Army as anything less than the finest fighting force on earth, officered by men who were always gentlemen and, even when they were not brilliant, were always decisive, determined and inevitably victorious. Nor would anyone argue with that appraisal he knew, even after the Boer War.

  On the ground and at the time, it had been too easy to see the warts and appreciate the way the Army seemed to stumble from blunder to blunder in its quest for victory. Presumably other armies made the same mistakes. Even the Boer generals had made mistakes. They had fought, after their initial assaults, too much on the defensive, had
enjoyed defeating the British forces dashed against their impregnable kopjes, but had at the same time allowed an enormous army to be concentrated against them, where a systematic destruction of the railway line would have made that impossible. And they had been slow to react to the altered situation.

  But would he make any less mistakes than anyone else? As an independent commander, on a very small scale, to be sure, he had led his men into a trap, entirely through over-confidence. That he had sent them back in time might have made them the more proud of him; it did not exonerate the original error.

  And one day in the future he would have to face the responsibilities of higher rank; Colonel Walters had all but told him that day might not be all that distant. Here again, as a boy, he had never doubted that he would make his way steadily up the ladder, supposing he stayed alive, and would become at least a major-general, as had Grandfather Murdoch—and as no one doubted Father would have achieved had he lived. Then he would have to play with hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives. He would have to direct a troop of horse to ride in front of the enemy to ascertain their strength. He would have to order infantry brigades to assault enemy positions, see them pinned down, and then have to decide whether to admit defeat and withdraw them, before a small army of foreign correspondents, or leave them to slog it out in the hopes that sheer guts and determination might win the day—and risk the disintegration of a magnificent body of men like the Highland Brigade. If he felt he might have been prepared to carry out a more thorough reconnaissance before sending his men into action, he did not envy Lord Methuen his problems before Magersfontein. Nor, supposing, as would have been the case, that his reconnaissance had proved Magersfontein to be impregnable, did he have any idea how he would have coped with them, save that he might have tried to turn the position earlier. But without the resources Roberts had been given, that might have been a disaster which could have cost his entire force.