The Command

by Christopher Nicole

  The Command

  Christopher Nicole

  Copyright © Christopher Nicole 1989

  The right of Christopher Nicole to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1989 by Century Hutchinson Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: May 1984

  Part One: The Colonel

  Chapter One: England, 1914

  Chapter Two: France, 1915

  Chapter Three: Mesopotamia, 1916

  Chapter Four: Mesopotamia 1916-17

  Chapter Five: France, 1917-18

  Part Two: The General

  Chapter Six: England 1918-23

  Chapter Seven: Germany, 1924

  Chapter Eight: India, 1924

  Chapter Nine: The North West Frontier, 1925-29

  Chapter Ten: The North West Frontier, 1929

  Part Three: The Veteran

  Chapter Eleven: England, 1929-33

  Chapter Twelve: England 1933-38

  Chapter Thirteen: Holland 1939-40

  Chapter Fourteen: Holland 1940

  Chapter Fifteen: Dunkirk 1940

  Prologue: May 1984

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ greeted the doorman at the Savoy Hotel, London, holding the door of the taxi to allow the young man to step down. ‘Regimental dinner, is it?’ He regarded the sky-blue shell jacket, the burnished helmet carried under the arm, the dark blue breeches with the yellow stripe, the highly polished black boots, lacking spurs, and the cavalry sword hanging at the new arrival’s side. If the guest appeared as a relic from a long-forgotten imperial past, he was not the first such to enter the hotel this evening.

  One of the under-managers was waiting for him. ‘It’s down the stairs and on the left, sir,’ he explained confidentially.

  ‘Thank you.’ The Second-Lieutenant crossed the floor, heels clicking, trying to ignore the curious stares of the people in the lobby, and descended the stairs, breathing a sigh of relief as he saw the Sergeant-Major, also wearing full dress uniform, standing before the door to one of the banqueting rooms. ‘Lieutenant Manly-Smith,’ he murmured diffidently.

  The Sergeant-Major came to attention. ‘Lieutenant Manly-Smith, sir,’ he repeated, as if he did not already know the newcomer by sight. ‘The Colonel hasn’t arrived yet, sir. You’re in good time.’ He knew how nervous the boy was. ‘Why don’t you go in, sir?’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ Lieutenant Manly-Smith stepped through the doorway, pausing again as he did so. The large room was festooned with bunting, dominated by the huge light blue regimental flag, but surrounded by others, ensigns and standards representing the battle honours won by the Royal Western Dragoon Guards during their remarkable history. Sedgmoor — the regiment had been raised by Sir William Lord of Taunton in 1683 just to oppose Monmouth’s Rebellion — and Blenheim, Minden and Busaco, Salamanca and Vittoria, Waterloo and Chillianwallah, Kabul and the Modder River, Le Cateau and Amiens, Dunkirk and El Alamein, the list seemed endless. Beneath the flags the long tables sagged under the weight of the regimental silver; there were four tables, a top and three arms stretching away from it, with the centre arm slightly longer than the others. Along the near wall had been placed another long table, on which the helmets of those diners who had already arrived were arranged.

  The room was filled with officers, past and present, from youthful second-lieutenants only just senior to Manly-Smith himself to active captains and retired majors, all wearing the unique sky-blue jacket — a reminder of the Peninsular War, when, the original red tunics having worn out and no replacements being available, the then lieutenant-colonel had obtained permission from the Duke of Wellington to clothe his men out of his own pocket. Sky-blue had been the only colour of material available in sufficient quantity. Already known as ‘Lord’s Own’, from the name of their founder, the nickname had promptly been changed to ‘Heaven’s Own’ by the rest of the army, and had been worn with distinction and pride ever since.

  ‘Manly-Smith! Bright and early.’

  ‘Wilson! Thank God!’ Manly-Smith greeted his fellow junior, just a year his elder.

  ‘Scared, are we?’ Wilson grinned.

  ‘Weren’t you, last year?’

  ‘It pays to be keyed up. Now, you have it all memorized, I hope?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You’d better, boy, or it’ll be civvy street for you tomorrow. Come along.’ He murmured apologies to senior officers as he escorted Manly-Smith through their ranks to stand behind the centre of the top table. Most of them, recognizing that one of the pair had to be the junior lieutenant and was therefore about to undergo the greatest ordeal of his life, gave way readily enough.

  ‘Now,’ Wilson said, indicating the huge framed painting hanging on the wall. ‘Tell me all about that picture. The Mackinders will expect you to do that for them.’

  Manly-Smith licked his lips. He was looking at the most famous episode in the entire history of the Royal Western Dragoons. The painting depicted an enormous number of turbaned warriors, some on horseback, most on foot, milling about a sun-baked Pakistani plain beneath a brilliantly blue sky, and being charged by about four hundred horsemen armed with swords and wearing sky-blue jackets, weapons pointed in front of them as they followed their commander into what seemed certain death.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Wilson said. ‘They’ll be here any moment now.’

  Manly-Smith licked his lips again. ‘That was April 1843,’ he said. ‘Just after the battle of Hyderabad, when Sir George Napier was completing the conquest of Sind. Two squadrons of the Royal Westerns were detailed to carry out a reconnaissance towards the Baluchi position. Their commanding officer was Major Ian Mackinder, a Scot who had only recently been seconded to the regiment, but was in acting command owing to the illness of the lieutenant-colonel. The regiment was led into a trap by its guides, and found itself surrounded by fifteen thousand Baluchis, who summoned Major Mackinder to surrender.’

  ‘And did he?’ Wilson asked. And grinned. ‘If he had, we wouldn’t be here tonight.’

  ‘Major Mackinder refused to surrender,’ Manly-Smith said. ‘Instead, he led his men in prayer, and then drew his sword and gave the order to charge. The Baluchis broke and fled, and Major Mackinder led his men to safety, with the loss of but thirty lives.’

  ‘And you know that prayer off by heart, do you?’ Wilson asked.

  Manly-Smith drew a long breath. ‘May the great...’

  ‘Save it,’ Wilson said. ‘Just remember it, when the time comes. They’re here.’

  The two young officers hurried to the end of the table and stood to attention, as did everyone else in the room. The Sergeant-Major had opened the doors wide, and several men were framed there as they entered. Easily recognizable was the current commanding officer of the regiment, Lieutenant-Colonel Ian Mackinder the Third, a tall, powerfully built man with clipped features and piercing blue eyes. With him were two other men wearing sky-blue mess kit, and remarkably like him in appearance, save that these were much older. One was his uncle who, like him, had in his day commanded the regiment and was now in his seventies.

  But like everyone else in the room, Manly-Smith had eyes only for the third man. Because if the Major Ian Mackinder of so long ago had been the founder of a legend, this man, his great-grandson, was the most famous soldier ever to wear the sky-blue jacket of the regiment. It was not merely his exalted rank, Lieutenant-General (retired) Sir Murdoch Mackinder, VC, KCMG, DSO and Bar, Légion d’honneur, followed by a host of other honours and decorations which were all tonight displayed upon his breast, which made him memorable, or even the fac
t that he was still alive, at the age of one hundred and three — and still stood erect, and moved firmly, if slowly, smiling a greeting here, nodding another there, clearly remembering many of the faces — which made him seem an immortal. That was based on the legend of his life, and the manner in which he had gained all of those decorations. And now, having handed over his helmet to a waiting orderly to be placed beside the others on the table along the wall, he was coming closer. Manly-Smith tightened his shoulders, both to keep himself from shaking with apprehension and to give himself the courage to speak.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Ian Mackinder beamed at him. ‘May I present Second-Lieutenant Manly-Smith, sir. Just joined.’

  Manly-Smith gazed at a tall, very spare man, clean-shaven and not, at the moment anyway, wearing glasses — nor was it easy to suppose that the cool blue eyes ever needed them. His features had the somewhat clipped regularity of his family, which tended again to create an impression of coolness, perhaps even aloofness, but they were smiling as he extended his hand. ‘Manly-Smith,’ he remarked. ‘I knew your father.’

  ‘My grandfather, sir.’

  Ian Mackinder frowned at the contradiction, but the General smiled with his mouth as well, now. ‘Why, yes, of course. He would have had to be.’

  ‘You recommended him for his Victoria Cross, sir,’ Manly-Smith said eagerly.

  ‘So I did,’ Murdoch Mackinder agreed. ‘No man ever deserved one more. This is your big night, Manly-Smith. Are you nervous?’

  ‘I...yes, sir.’

  The general nodded. ‘We were all nervous the first time we had to utter the prayer.’ The smile broadened. ‘Even the first Ian Mackinder, who composed it, I would suppose.’

  ‘Were you nervous, sir?’ Manly-Smith was incredulous.

  ‘My dear boy, I was shivering like a kitten. No nerves, no performance.’ He turned to his grandson. ‘Well, Colonel Mackinder, shall we begin? Late nights are bad for me nowadays, I’m told.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Take your place, Manly-Smith,’ Colonel Mackinder said, and escorted his uncle and grandfather to their seats at the head of the table, where the old gentleman was seated exactly beneath the picture of the first Ian Mackinder’s charge. The other officers took their places, and the Sergeant-Major stood to attention beside Manly-Smith at the foot of the longer centre arm, facing both Murdoch Mackinder and the picture, and carrying the regimental standard in his right hand, haft resting on the floor, flag itself furled against his shoulder.

  ‘Gentlemen, the regimental prayer.’

  Every officer stood to attention, and then, with a single movement, drew his sword and pointed it at the ceiling. There were some seventy men present, and it was possible to suppose, looking at the upheld swords, that this was what the Baluchis had seen on that hot and dusty plain, a hundred and forty-one years before, when Ian Mackinder and his men had accepted the simple choice: victory or death.

  ‘Mr Manly-Smith, sir.’ The Sergeant-Major’s voice was quiet, as the room was now absolutely still.

  Manly-Smith hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a strong, clear voice. ‘May the great God of battle, who has guided the fate of this famous regiment on many a hard-fought field, and never failed to lead it to distinction, grant that on this Clay, faced as we are with a host of enemies of our Queen and our Country, every man will do his duty, so that should we fail in our ordained task, it will yet be said of us, they were the Royal Western Dragoon Guards, who fought and died according to the ancient valour of their regiment and their blood.’

  He paused for a moment, and then added, ‘Gentlemen, there is your enemy.’

  There was a burst of applause as the swords were sheathed with a scintillating rasp, and the orderlies moved forward to relieve the diners and stack the weapons against the wall. The assembly then sat down, but Murdoch Mackinder remained standing.

  ‘That was well said, Mr Manly-Smith. Well said. The regiment is proud of you.’

  There was another ripple of applause while the old gentleman took his seat, and the waiters immediately began serving the soup.

  ‘Carries me back,’ muttered Major-General Fergus Mackinder. ‘Every year. Carries me back.’

  ‘Yes,’ his father the great Murdoch agreed. Back, back, back. To Bath and the night he himself had spoken the prayer. To South Africa, where he had won the Victoria Cross and been all but cashiered for falling in love with a Boer girl. To the Modder River, where he had first understood the horror of modern war. To Somaliland, and the Mad Mullah. To the tragedy of the Curragh Mutiny.

  And then France, and Le Cateau.

  And Ralph Manly-Smith. And Chand Bibi. God, would he ever forget her?

  ‘Where did they hold the dinner the year young Manly-Smith’s grandfather said the prayer, Grandad?’ asked Ian Mackinder.

  Murdoch Mackinder’s smile was grim. ‘There was no regimental dinner the year Ralph Manly-Smith joined us, Ian. It was 1914. We were too busy killing. And being killed.’

  Part One: The Colonel

  Chapter One: England, 1914

  When the rumble awoke Murdoch Mackinder he threw back the covers to stand at the window and look out at the flashes in the sky.

  ‘Only thunder,’ Lee said. And when her husband didn’t immediately turn, she asked, ‘Is it so like gunfire?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it is.’ He returned to the bed and sat beside her. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  She put her arms round him, holding him close. ‘I was awake anyway. I guess I’m counting the hours.’

  ‘So am I, dearest. So am I.’

  ‘Because you want to get back. And I’d like you to stay.’

  He kissed her. ‘I have to get back.’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ She held herself away and smiled at him. ‘Not yet thirty-four, and colonel of the regiment. There’s something.’

  ‘Too much, for poor Martin Walters.’

  ‘So it’ll be too much for you, too, when you get yourself shot again. Oh, Murdoch...’ She allowed her fingertips to trace down his back, feeling the scar tissue. There was more scar tissue on his leg. His body, hard and tough and lean, had been scoured by a dozen wounds. He was a real-life, genuine hero, and he had the medals to prove it. She had known all of that when she had set her cap at him almost ten years ago — but had not really been aware of what would be involved.

  Murdoch Mackinder VC had been a hero to her before she even met him. It started because her brother Harry had been sent from New York to cover the Boer War, and had there elected to build his stories around the exploits of a young lieutenant who had the knack of attracting trouble and surviving it. When she had first seen her future husband in hospital in 1905, Murdoch had been recovering, not from a war wound, but from being rolled on by his horse during an army manoeuvre gone wrong. He had been badly hurt, with several bones broken, but was already on the mend. And surely that would be the last injury. For Europe was at peace, and that meant the world was at peace. Indeed the pundits proclaimed that war between two civilized nations was now impossible. To an American that had to seem true, on every count.

  But there was no such thing as peace for a British army officer, and even before they married, Murdoch had been wounded again. His dragoon regiment had been sent to Somaliland to combat a religious leader known quaintly as the Mad Mullah. There Murdoch won more fame, and once again had been wounded almost to death. To what purpose? The Mad Mullah was still at large, causing havoc.

  But even that turmoil paled into insignificance last summer, when all of Europe had gone mad. The Royal Western Dragoons was one of the first regiments to land in France, had earned distinction by covering the retreat from Mons and Le Cateau, and in doing so had lost both their colonel and their adjutant. Colonel Walters had died from his wounds. Major Mackinder had survived and been promoted. He was even to be awarded another medal. But, once that was done, the regiment, and the war, wanted him back — to tear at again. And one day the tear would prove fatal.

  One day soon, because now he was
fully recovered. The doctor had said so, yesterday.

  Murdoch kissed her again. ‘Just about dawn. May as well get dressed.’

  She watched him go to his dressing room, then she lay down again. Marylee Mackinder, she thought. She was fond of repeating that to herself. Indeed she was a much envied woman: she was young, she was pretty, she was healthy; she possessed by right of marriage this magnificent house set in the rolling Somerset countryside. She had dogs and horses, and in-laws with whom she was close friends. She had three healthy children — and a famous husband. Could she ask more?

  She touched her flat stomach. The family was soon to grow. She knew it, even if she had only missed one period. Murdoch might have been badly wounded, but he remained a strong and vigorous man, and he had recovered splendidly. But she had not told him yet. That was nothing to tell a man who was about to go to war. It could wait till he came back the next time.

  If he came back the next time.

  *

  ‘Glad to be up and doing, I’ll bet, sir.’ Corporal Reynolds fussed over his master, removing an imagined speck of dust from the sleeve of the dark brown tunic, frowning at the silver insignia of crown and star on his shoulder straps to make sure they were as bright as they should be, peering down at the khaki breeches to check that the crease was a knife-edge, at the brown boots in which he could see his face reflected.

  ‘Yes,’ Murdoch said. He gazed at himself in the shaving mirror. It was a lean, handsome face. No doubt he was fortunate in that, for all the scars his body carried, none had occurred above the shoulder. It was also a youthful face, and the hair above was still black. Only the eyes were old. Far older than thirty-three years. He remembered how, when he had returned from South Africa and gone down to the Isle of Wight to visit his father’s friend Lord Roberts, the great old man had told him that one could always identify a soldier used to combat by his eyes.