The Regiment

by Christopher Nicole

‘Good fortune.’ He walked his horse off behind his retreating army.

  ‘Coffee, gentlemen?’ Reynolds was as ever on hand as the officers rubbed their unshaven chins and looked at each other. Reynolds as usual was immaculate.

  ‘I think now is the time for you to pull out as well, Harry,’ Murdoch said. ‘This could be quite sticky. We could easily be overrun.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss this for all the world,’ Harry declared.

  ‘Bit rough on Lee to lose both her husband and her brother on the same day,’ Murdoch pointed out.

  ‘I’ll surrender,’ Harry promised. ‘And write her a letter from Berlin.’

  By now there was sufficient light to see exactly what they had to do. The artillery had been positioned to the right of Le Cateau itself, about a mile back from the crossroads; they were emplaced behind a high, thick hedge, which left them totally concealed for the moment. The rest of the cavalry brigade, dismounted, was over to the left, covering several more batteries, and there could be no doubt that any force attempting to advance up the road was going to receive a very unpleasant surprise. But equally, there could be no doubt that the Germans were going to advance up the road.

  Murdoch and Walters dismounted two squadrons and placed their men in the hedges, to either side of the guns. The third squadron, Ramage’s, they held in reserve behind the next hillock, together with the horses.

  The guns had also been concealed as well as possible from above, by branches and nets filled with leaves and suspended from long poles. This was very necessary, as the moment it was daylight several German aircraft appeared, flying low over the burning town and the fields around it, to discover if the BEF had indeed retreated. Murdoch could only imagine what Sir John French was thinking about this newfangled aspect of warfare, and in fact it was most disconcerting, as it entirely altered the age-old concept of concealment behind high ground if the enemy could determine your whereabouts and numbers at will.

  The men obviously felt exposed too, and were with difficulty prevented from totally revealing their position by firing at the intruders, while they were all delighted when six French machines appeared to challenge the Germans. They watched in fascination as the biplanes wheeled and dived immediately above their heads, the observers firing at their enemies with rifles and revolvers, and there was a great cheer when one of the German machines was hit—or more probably, the pilot was—and it crashed into the ground with a huge whoompf, followed by a pillar of black smoke.

  ‘Talk about the shape of things to come,’ Harry Caspar commented. ‘One day they’ll think of mounting a machine gun in a plane, and then you’ll see something.’

  ‘Keep your head down,’ Murdoch advised. He had been watching the road through his binoculars.

  The enemy cavalry had been seen from time to time all morning, patrols appearing here and there, waiting to see if they would be fired upon. Now the patrols were probing further forward, into the burning town itself, and now too the heads of the German columns, massed as usual, were appearing over the furthest visible rise and marching upon Le Cateau.

  ‘Won’t be long now,’ he muttered.

  Colonel Anstruther was also studying the position through his glasses. ‘I’m going to let them into the town, Walters,’ he said. ‘Can your chaps take care of any who come out the other side?’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ Walters agreed.

  Murdoch knelt between Ramage and Yeald to watch the German columns come on. He knew that within a few minutes he was going to witness carnage on a scale he would not have imagined possible a few weeks before—but he also knew, deep in his belly, that those men simply were not going to be stopped. His throat felt quite dry as he wondered how he would feel if commanded to walk into almost certain death.

  The head of the column disappeared into the town, while the first of the Uhlans appeared on the southern side of the houses, slowly walking their horses up the hill, wondering what had happened to the British. Being human, Murdoch did not doubt they were praying that their enemies had fled in a rout, which was the only way this entire area would have become so deserted. And now the first of the marching soldiers appeared amidst the last of the houses.

  ‘Fire,’ Colonel Anstruther shouted. ‘Rapid fire.’

  The British artillery opened fire, those on the left of the road as well, pouring shells into the crossroads and immediately north of them at what, for the field guns, was point-blank range. The shells exploded, and the grey-clad men were tossed to and fro like chaff in a harvested wheat-field. The column dissolved, the men diving for shelter behind the nibbled buildings or into the ditches to either side of the road; while the dragoons and the lancers opened rifle and machine-gun fire on those who had already passed the houses, sending men and horses crashing to the ground, again driving the survivors to seek shelter in the fields. The noise was deafening, the rattle of the rifles and the machine guns comparing even with the heavier booms of the field guns, while smoke swirled and men screamed, and died.

  ‘Holy Jesus Christ,’ Harry commented, scribbling in his notebook as fast as he could. ‘They’ll never believe this back home. Never! Those guys must have a death wish. Can they possibly push you fellows away?’

  ‘They can, and they will,’ Murdoch told him. ‘As long as they don’t care how many of them get killed, they must drive us back eventually.’ He went off to check the casualties, but these remained light, for the moment.

  But the German guns had now identified the position of the British batteries, and while their infantry recovered and regrouped, they delivered a return barrage. It happened just as Murdoch had ordered breakfast, and made a mess of the meal. He could only thank God that the horses were over the hill and somewhat removed from serious trouble, for the batteries themselves were saturated with fire, and it was a case of lying flat and hoping that none of the flying shrapnel would find a target. Which it did, with unfailing regularity, as men cried and groaned, and it was necessary to direct the stretcher-bearers, themselves liable to death every moment, while aware of the deadly steel fragments flying in every direction.

  Dai Llewellyn was a tower of strength, although within half an hour he was bleeding from three wounds. When Walters wanted to send him off with the wounded, he refused to go. ‘Just nicks,’ he said. ‘I’ve suffered worse on Cardiff Arms Park.’

  When the barrage finally ceased, Murdoch was able to despatch the more seriously wounded to the rear and the field ambulances, with orders to keep on going back to Paris.

  Brigadier Gough rode over to talk to Walters. ‘Can your men take much more of this, Martin?’ he asked.

  ‘I would think so, sir,’ Walters said.

  ‘I’d like to hold until dusk, if possible,’ Gough said. ‘That’s perhaps another nine hours. But that’s our best hope of getting the guns out.’

  ‘Nine hours,’ Walters agreed.

  ‘Just so long as the ammo holds out,’ Anstruther put in.

  ‘Here they come again,’ Harry Caspar cried, as the German infantry moved forward once more.

  The gunners hurried back to their positions and poured more rapid fire into the advancing masses, to check them yet again, but now they were close enough to use their own rifles and, going to ground, kept up a continuous fire on the hedgerows behind which the British sheltered. The dragoons and the lancers replied with everything they had, but the casualties mounted as every so often a man dropped his rifle and collapsed on the ground.

  ‘Hot work, for nine hours,’ Walters said, wiping his face with his handkerchief.

  ‘Begging your pardon, gentlemen,’ said Corporal Reynolds, who was as usual dispensing hot coffee laced with brandy, with a total disregard for enemy fire. ‘What are those people over there?’

  Heads turned, and they looked to the right of the artillery emplacement where, about a mile away, a body of horsemen could be seen. Binoculars immediately came up. ‘Uhlans!’ everyone said together.

  At that moment Gough himself galloped up. ‘The French units on o
ur right have pulled out,’ he shouted. ‘We will have to go too, without waiting for dark.’

  ‘Could be a bit late,’ Colonel Anstruther said. ‘If those chaps get behind us.’

  Gough peered through his glasses. ‘God damn it,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to wheel some guns.’

  ‘That won’t stop them,’ Anstruther said. ‘Not now.’

  ‘With permission, sir,’ Murdoch said. ‘We have a squadron in reserve. It may be possible to disperse them long enough to get the guns through.’

  Gough snapped his fingers. ‘Do that, Murdoch. Colonel Anstruther, send a rider to Colonel Bretherton and request him to limber up his guns and move out as quickly as possible, and to Colonel Harris and request him to send two squadrons of the lancers to support the dragoons in advancing upon those cavalry. Then you limber up as well, and get down that road hell for leather.’ He looked at Walters. ‘Martin, the fate of the guns is in your hands.’

  Murdoch was already running back over the hill to where Ramage was walking up and down, cutting at poppies with his sword in irritation, while his men sat on the ground and smoked. ‘Action, Peter!’ he shouted. ‘Mount up. We have work to do.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ Ramage shouted back, and leapt into the saddle. Reynolds had run back with Murdoch, and now led Buccaneer forward. Murdoch would have preferred to take Trajan, but Buccaneer looked totally fit and rested and eager to go. He mounted, and found Reynolds as usual at his shoulder, along with RSM Yeald and Bugler Summerton.

  ‘Now, George,’ he protested.

  ‘Could be the last time, sir,’ Reynolds argued. ‘If all the experts are right.’

  Before Murdoch could remonstrate further, Martin Walters rode up. ‘I’ve put Prendergast in temporary command,’ he said. ‘I’d not miss this for the world.’ If he was certainly nervous, he was determined to overcome it, Murdoch could tell. ‘Gentlemen?’ He drew his sword.

  He had forgotten the prayer, and Murdoch didn’t think there was time to remind him. He drew his own sword, and the squadron moved out, harnesses jingling. As they emerged from round the hillock the artillerymen gave them a great cheer, as did their own comrades.

  The Uhlans saw them at the same instant, and checked, for the moment uncertain how many men were advancing on them. But they certainly numbered a full regiment, Murdoch estimated, not less than five hundred men. Yet the squadron was already at the canter, while from behind them he heard the bugle call of the lancers, who were racing to their support.

  ‘Bugler,’ Colonel Walters shouted, pointing his sword. ‘Sound the charge.’

  The notes scattered across the morning, and the dragoons closed up into the two ranks they always employed. Swords were out and thrust forward, and the men roared and the horses neighed as they raced at their enemies. The Uhlans hesitated, their brilliant helmets glinting in the sun, then responded to the challenge, lowering their lances as they moved forward.

  ‘Mind those pig-stickers,’ Walters bellowed, galloping ahead of his men. Murdoch moved up almost alongside him, carefully keeping a stride behind, as etiquette demanded, conscious of Reynolds and Yeald at his shoulder, with Summerton just behind. The Germans had no time to develop a gallop themselves. Their officers waved their swords as they got their men into a rough line, then the dragoons were upon them.

  The first lance went over Murdoch’s shoulder as he crouched over Buccaneer’s head, and the man in front of them went down with a crash as the old horse performed his favourite shoulder charge. The jar nearly unseated Murdoch, but he recovered in time to cut at the next man to appear before him, thrust at the one after that, and then found himself on his feet as Buccaneer gave a huge gasp and collapsed. He hadn’t been speared or shot, Murdoch was sure, but had suffered a massive heart attack and was already dead.

  There was no time to grieve for the horse. Murdoch was surrounded by men and horses, jostling and yelling, neighing and prancing, while the dust swirled and made it difficult to tell friend from foe. Reynolds rode over to give him a hand up, but was then dismounted himself as a horse cannoned into him and sent him tumbling to the ground. Murdoch grasped his arm to set him on his feet again, and saw Colonel Walters go down, a lance through his chest. He made to go to the colonel’s aid, and heard his name called: ‘Mackinder!’

  He turned, and saw Paul von Reger bearing down on him, sabre extended to the full length of his arm. Murdoch leapt one way, and Reynolds the other, rolling over. Reynolds immediately drew the revolver he always carried and brought down the Uhlan colonel’s horse with a single bullet.

  Reger landed on his hands and knees, then regained his feet, still grasping his sabre, face twisted in anger. ‘You’d fight like a coward,’ he shouted, glaring at the revolver.

  Murdoch hesitated. But war could still surely be fought by gentlemen, he thought.

  ‘Hold it, George,’ he said, and stepped forward.

  Reger grinned at him. ‘I asked to fight against the British,’ he said. ‘I knew you would be there, old friend. Now I shall kill you.’

  He lunged forward behind his blade, and Murdoch parried as best he could, and then again, as Reger kept on coming. Certainly the German was the better swordsman. But to fight a duel in such circumstances was impossible. As he turned to face his oldest adversary again, the lancers arrived to complete the defeat of the Uhlans. The new horses smashed into the heaving mob of men and animals and sent them every which way. A falling body struck Reger on the shoulder, and he fell to his hands and knees again, but still retained his grasp on his sabre.

  ‘Now, sir,’ Reynolds called. ‘You have him now.’

  Murdoch hesitated. His instincts were to fight the duel to a finish. But this was, after all, war, not a private quarrel. He stepped up to Reger, his point presented at his exposed back. ‘You are my prisoner, colonel,’ he said.

  ‘Major Mackinder! Major Makinder!’ It was Peter Ramage, hatless and breathless, but still mounted, pulling his horse to a halt. ‘Colonel Walters...’

  Murdoch turned and saw Martin Walters lying on the ground, blood streaming from his chest. In that moment he forgot about Reger, who was still turning to face him, and who had not yet agreed to surrender. Now he caught only the glimpse of the flying steel, heard the crack of Reynolds’ revolver, and was then struck a savage blow on the shoulder.

  He found himself lying on the ground, gazing up at Reynolds and the revolver; the batman’s face was like a savage’s in the paroxysm of anger which had swept across him. ‘I got the bastard, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t kill him, George,’ Murdoch gasped. ‘Don’t kill him.’ Then he fainted.

  *

  Field Marshal Sir John French spared a moment to visit Murdoch in the base hospital in Paris. ‘I think we’ll have to get you a bar to that DSO,’ he said. ‘That charge certainly saved the guns.’

  ‘Colonel Walters led that charge,’ Murdoch reminded him.

  ‘Oh, he’ll get one too, poor fellow. Now you must rest up. You’ll be home in a couple of days.’

  ‘Home?’ Murdoch demanded, trying to ignore the pain rippling through his shoulder. ‘But, the regiment...’

  ‘Ramage can command it until you’re fit enough to return. He’s a good man, trained by you, of course.’

  ‘The army...

  ‘We’ll hold. Somewhere. We’ll hold. By God, they keep coming, but we keep knocking them down. They’ll have to call a halt somewhere.’

  ‘I can stay, surely,’ Murdoch begged, looking at the doctor.

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive, major,’ the doctor told him. ‘If that sword-cut had been an inch or two to the left you’d be short of a head. As it is, you have a clean fracture of the collar-bone. A few weeks, and you should be fit for duty again. But right now, you’re no use to anyone, and we have other wounded to attend to.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Harry Caspar said.

  ‘Tell me about the regiment,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘You took some casualties. But you sure put those Uhlans to flight. Took
some prisoners too, including their colonel. Shot through the arm, he was, by your batman. Say, is it true he’s the guy who got you?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Murdoch said. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘Now, I guess. It was all Peter Ramage could do to stop your men from lynching him.’

  ‘Is Reynolds all right, Yeald?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Bugler Summerton bought it. And there’s not too much hope for your colonel. But that charge! Maybe it was the last one ever. I sure mean to write it up. Give my love to Lee.’

  ‘You mean you’re not coming home with me?’

  Harry grinned. ‘I’m going to have that dinner in Maxim’s, Jerries or no Jerries. What, miss this? Not on your life.’

  *

  Dr Abrahams had Murdoch’s stretcher placed next to Martin Walters on the train to Le Havre. ‘He asked to speak to you,’ he explained.

  ‘Murdoch,’ Walters said. As he spoke blood bubbled from his mouth; the lance-head had penetrated his lung. ‘Murdoch...Judith...’

  ‘I’ll see her, Martin,’ Murdoch promised.

  ‘Had to go,’ Walters explained. ‘Had to go. You thought I was afraid, didn’t you.’

  ‘Good God no,’ Murdoch lied.

  ‘Had to go,’ Walters said again. ‘But Judith...she won’t understand. She didn’t ever understand...about death. Or about pigs,’ he added after a moment. Then stirred again. ‘Murdoch, Amy Hobbs...I never did write to her. Murdoch...’

  Murdoch held his hand.

  *

  ‘You oaf,’ Lee said. ‘Oh, you great oaf. Rushing off and getting yourself wounded again.’ Her eyes were filled with tears. ‘All to be a hero.’ She kissed him for the third time, while Sister Anderson stood by to make sure she didn’t touch the broken shoulder. ‘To be a Mackinder!’

  ‘That’s the name of the game,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, sure. As long as you stay alive. Your photograph is in every newspaper. Charging Mackinder, they call you.’

  ‘Martin Walters led the charge,’ Murdoch reminded her.

  ‘Oh, sure, and got himself killed.’

  ‘While I get the credit. Have you seen Judith?’