Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  The general paused in his speech before continuing.

  ‘You disobeyed my orders, regarding the other prisoners, you say? You made it possible for some of them to escape?’

  ‘I hope so, sir. And I know what you’re about to say, but I wish to offer a defence. Though I am merely a sergeant here, I am a commander in the field. Therefore the decisions, and the responsibility, are wholly mine. I liken myself to a captain on a ship. I have to use my initiative, sir. I have to gauge the situation at the moment.’

  ‘You liken yourself to a ship’s captain, do you?’

  ‘Or the commander-in-chief leading his forces in battle.’

  The general’s expression was disapproving, as if Crossman had just likened himself to the Pope.

  Crossman sought to explain himself.

  ‘I hope that does not sound too audacious, sir, but I must tell you what I mean. On the battlefield, a commander has to make decisions, as events unfold themselves. It is no use a politician in London telling him what he can or cannot do in the heat of the moment, while the battle rages on the Crimean peninsula. That politician is not around to assess the situation first hand. So the commander does what he feels is right, and expects to take responsibility for his actions later.’

  The general shifted in his chair. ‘And I am the politician in this particular case?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was there. I had to weigh the situation. I did so and could see no reason not to help the other prisoners. It did not jeopardise our mission in any way.’

  General Buller stared at the table top for a long time before raising his head once more.

  ‘It seems,’ he said, ‘that times are changing and I must attempt to change with them. A sergeant used to be simply another man in the line; a private soldier with stripes. Now men like you act on your own initiative, your own resources. You become the commander in the field, as you say, for there is no one else. I accept what you are telling me, but I am an old man, change comes hard to me, sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The general snapped back, ‘Don’t be so quick to agree with me, when I call myself old.’

  ‘No – no, of course not, sir.’

  ‘That is all.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Before Crossman left the room, the general pointed out, ‘Sergeant, there is blood seeping through your coat – are you all right?’

  Crossman did feel a little woozy, but he wanted to get this interview out of the way.

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  The general paused, then added, ‘You’ve done well, sergeant, as always. Very well. Some recognition is called for and I shall certainly recommend you and your men, the Turk especially, for medals. We can do that, since this was not spying or sabotage, but a straightforward rescue. Perhaps it will prove something to Lord Raglan, who believes the Turks to be untrustworthy in battle. He thinks them unreliable and cowardly, after they abandoned the redoubts during Balaclava.’

  ‘A few Turkish gunners against the whole Russian Army? They only retreated after holding the guns for several hours. What did our commander-in-chief expect of them?’

  ‘I know, I know,’ sighed Buller, clearly uncomfortable with criticising a general while speaking with a sergeant. ‘But that’s Lord Raglan for you. He has other merits. Still, your chap Ali seems to be made of fine mettle.’

  ‘The very best,’ said Crossman, fiercely. ‘He is a superb fighter, a fearless man who would give his life without hesitation to save any one of us. I can think of no praise too high for him.’

  ‘Good, well, let’s hope his Pasha thinks so.’

  ‘Much appreciated, sir. I’m not too concerned about medals myself, sir, but my men might enjoy them.’

  ‘One day I hope to reward you properly for all this undercover work, but while Lord Raglan is commander-in-chief that’s not possible. You know what he thinks of spies and saboteurs.’ The general paused again, checking any further criticism of Lord Raglan, before continuing. ‘I understand you lost two of your men recently.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Private Clancy was drowned and Corporal Devlin was killed on the Inkerman Heights. They were good men and will be sorely missed by those who remain in the peloton.’

  ‘I’m sure we can ill afford to lose such boys. I’ll make sure they are rewarded posthumously, for all their services to the Queen. We have also lost Lieutenant Dalton-James of course. I know he and you did not always see eye-to-eye.’

  ‘He was my superior officer, sir. If there were any differences, they were of no consequence. I did as he ordered me to do. I am as sorry for his death as everyone else.’

  ‘These feelings do you credit. Regarding the two dead men. Have you any replacements in mind?’

  ‘I may have, sir. Can I speak with you later?’

  ‘By all means. By the way, you say you took an American correspondent on this fox hunt. That won’t do, you know. I only want Rangers out there. If you lose a civilian on one of these missions, we’ll really be in the soup. You know that, don’t you, sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I couldn’t stop him. He’s one of these rough-and-ready Americans from the Wild West, full of vinegar. He wants to be where the action is.’

  ‘Tell him to join the army then, but he’s not to accompany you again.’

  ‘I understand, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Crossman saluted and left, relieved to get away with just a mild reprimand for taking Jarrard with him. He went first to the hospital, where he was delighted to find the prognosis for Major Lovelace was good. The major was badly injured and it would take time to mend him, but he would not be put on one of the so-called hospital ships and sent to Scutari.

  ‘You will not, I’m afraid, be able to pay court to the admirable Miss Nightingale, sir,’ said Crossman, ‘nor indulge in the delights of Scutari Barracks.’

  Sergeant Crossman then went from the hospital to his quarters in the Kadikoi hovel for a well-earned rest.

  36

  The storm had wreaked havoc on the Army of the East at Balaclava and indeed all along the front. In all, over twenty British ships had been sunk, many of them thrown against each other in the harbour and smashed to pieces. One large ship, the Prince, had gone down with warm clothing in the hold. Quantities of medical supplies and ammunition had also been lost. A total of fifteen cargo ships laden with stores had foundered, as well as warships and smaller vessels. It was a disaster for the men at the front, who were awaiting clothes to replace their rags before the winter really set in, with icy tooth and claw.

  For a day or two after the storm, the skies were clear and bright and of an unusually soft colour. Crossman was able to appreciate these. He heard no more from Major Paynte, but did receive a visit from Colonel Davenport, the officer he had helped escape from the Russians outside Kerch. The colonel expressed his thanks, saying that at least thirty captives had escaped and more were coming back in ones and twos by the day.

  ‘I’m sure we lost some of the men,’ said the colonel, regretfully, ‘but theirs was the choice and many desired to take it. You made that possible, sergeant. Are you sure you would not like me to put you in for a commendation?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, then, we must leave it there. But I shall not forget, believe me, sergeant. There will come a time when I shall be able to repay you, and indeed I shall take that opportunity with pleasure.’

  With this, the colonel left Crossman sitting in his quarters pondering on all that had passed around the battle of the soldiers in the mist, reflecting on his feelings over lost comrades and considering the future of his peloton. He needed two good replacements for his little band. One would have to be Johnson, of course, if he ever made it back from Kerch. That big man had earned his place in the team.

  And the other? Well, he had heard of a soldier out of sorts with the rest of his regiment. A disaffected man from the Australian colonies, good with a knife so it was said, with soft feet and keen eyes. Crossman would have to investigate furthe
r, but he sounded the right sort of replacement for Clancy.

  This man would have to be knocked into shape of course, but Crossman was becoming used to recruiting wild men and channelling their aggression into more productive areas.

  ‘Private Dan Kelly, is it?’ Crossman murmured, reading the missive from General Buller again. ‘Well, Mr Kelly, we shall see if you are as tough as you believe to be.’

  A shape suddenly appeared in the doorway of the hovel, darkening it, and Crossman looked up to see a lieutenant standing there, the sneer of cold command on his lips.

  ‘Sergeant Crossman,’ said the junior officer crisply, ‘I am your new immediate superior, Lieutenant Pirce-Smith.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Crossman, audibly, ‘don’t they ever come with just a single surname?’

  ‘What was that, sergeant?’ snapped the officer. ‘It sounded remarkably like insolence to me. I was warned of you by your last superior officer when he was alive. Lieutenant Dalton-James was a particular friend of mine. You can be assured I am not of the same forgiving nature as he.’

  ‘Oh, and he looked fine, in a coat of claret wine,’ sang a gruff voice, softly, from deep in the recesses of the room, in the country accent of Lance-Corporal Wynter, ‘as he marched to the band, with his baton in his hand.’

  A higher yet quieter voice, which Crossman recognised as that of Lance-Corporal Peterson, added to this refrain.

  ‘A general he would be, if he could leave his mother’s knee . . .’

  The lieutenant peered into the darkness, coming to the conclusion that deference, so far as he knew it, was not present in this lowly dwelling, nor in anyone residing there.