The Command

by Christopher Nicole

  Sir John French himself came over to inspect the survivors; he was their Colonel-in-Chief. ‘Brave lads,’ he said. ‘Always in the thick of it, eh? I am proud of you. Proud of you all.’ He returned to the farmhouse with Murdoch. ‘And you...you kept your men in hand. As always.’

  ‘I have good men, sir,’ Murdoch reminded him.

  ‘I wish we could all say that. What a frightful business. I mean, gas! It’s not civilized.’

  ‘Neither is war, Sir John. I hope we’re going to produce some gas of our own.’

  ‘It’s on its way. With some kind of mask as well. But really, Murdoch, it simply isn’t civilized.’ He gazed at Harry. ‘I hope you’re going to give this good coverage in your American newspapers, Caspar.’

  The two men had met in South Africa. Harry nodded. ‘You bet your life, General. You bet your life.’

  *

  The bitter fighting lasted a week, although the dragoons had been pulled out of the line after the first day, and at last the enemy were checked. Actually the defeat was less calamitous than it might have been, because the Germans had apparently underestimated the effect the gas was going to have, and had not moved up sufficient reserves to exploit their breakthrough. Thus the line was soon re-established. Yet the consequences were serious enough. The French colonials would need a complete regrouping and, even more important, the Allied offensive had been forestalled. It still went ahead, but with less impetus as officers and men feared an encounter with the deadly gas, and lasted little more than a month. Blunted from the beginning, it never had a chance and accomplished little more than to regain the lost salient. By the end of May the front was quiet again, although by now the British and French were also equipped with gas canisters, and every man went into the line with a breathing apparatus on his hip. These would separate the gas fumes from clear air and ensure survival, but they also made every movement twice as tiring.

  The cavalry could recover, as there was nothing for them to do. The casualties were replaced by fresh drafts. Murdoch could watch his three companies being brought back to strength, until he commanded nearly his full six hundred effectives. Manly-Smith returned with a scar but otherwise as fit as before. The regiment was awarded six Military Medals and a Military Cross for its part in stemming the German breakthrough. Murdoch gave the cross to Peter Ramage, one of the medals to RSM Yeald, and another to Trooper Morton. Morton protested that he had done no more than his duty.

  ‘Duty is what it’s all about, Johnnie,’ Murdoch reminded him, and was then embarrassed to be summoned to headquarters to receive the Légion d’honneur from the hands of Marshal Joffre himself.

  ‘I think the frogs are a little embarrassed by what happened,’ Sir John French explained. ‘But it’s all good for the entente, eh?’

  There was even time, that summer, for leave to England. Murdoch rotated his men carefully, but did not feel he could go himself, with so many replacements to be trained. Because once again an offensive was in the air, as the hundreds of thousands of recruits raised by Kitchener’s determination were flooding into France, and as shell production was at last stepped up. Marshal Joffre was still determined to throw the Germans out of France by frontal assault, and before Christmas 1915. And, as usual, the cavalry were required to hold themselves in readiness to charge through whatever gap was created and complete the victory.

  Murdoch’s decision was a bitter blow to Lee, who had to tell him by letter that she was expecting a baby. ‘It would be so nice to have you home,’ she wrote. ‘At least for the birth.’

  But the delivery was not due until August, and by then all leave had been cancelled as the huge armies were preparing to attack.

  The battle did not begin until 25 September, and by then Murdoch had learned that he was the father of another son, whom Lee proposed to call Harry after her brother. Harry Caspar drove over to celebrate the event, and to complain that he was not being allowed to accompany the assault force when it went over the top.

  ‘I never knew a man so damned determined to get himself killed,’ Murdoch remarked. ‘Why don’t you go home and join your own army?’

  ‘I would, if there was anyone except Mexican bandits to fight,’ Harry agreed.

  ‘We could use a few of your people over here.’

  ‘No chance of that. If not even the Lusitania business could bring us in, nothing else is likely to. So, when you guys get turned loose, do I get to ride along?’

  ‘If we get turned loose,’ Murdoch reminded him.

  *

  The cavalry were not turned loose. The British offensive, like the French, ground to a halt in the mud and the autumnal rain with only a few yards to show for the usual horrific casualty list. The attack was called off on 14 October, and the armies went into winter quarters; even Marshal Joffre had learned from the previous year’s experiences that attempting to advance in snow and ice was not practical.

  It was a month later that Sir John French visited the regiment. It was already bitterly cold, and Murdoch escorted the Field Marshal into the farm’s kitchen, where there was a blazing fire.

  ‘You’ll pardon us, madame,’ Murdoch said to Madame Bosnet. Sir John had already indicated that he wanted a private chat.

  Madame smiled happily and hurried off. She understood no English; and it was unlikely that Sir John would converse in French, of which he had learned very little.

  ‘Soon be Christmas,’ French observed. ‘A second bloody Christmas. Who’d have thought it possible? Do you know that we have suffered damn near half a million casualties, Murdoch, since August 1914? Do you know the strength of the BEF which I brought over then?’

  ‘A hundred and fifty thousand, approximately,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘So we have lost three times our original strength. That has got to be unique in military history. The Frogs and the Jerries have lost a lot more. That doesn’t make all that much difference to our situation. And there’s no end in sight. If the Dardanelles had worked...’ he sighed.

  Murdoch was inclined to sigh too. Not only because of the wastage in men and ships which that abortive campaign had cost, but because it had also forced the resignation of, in his opinion, the most military-minded member of the entire Cabinet — Winston Churchill, whose brainchild the Dardanelles offensive had been. With Churchill gone from the Admiralty, Murdoch wondered if Ernest Swinton’s so important experiments were still being funded.

  ‘Lord Kitchener believes the only decision can be reached here on the western front,’ he remarked.

  ‘And so do I. But the more we can distract the enemy the more chance we have of breaking through. Now...God knows.’

  ‘Perhaps someone will come up with an idea,’ Murdoch suggested, wishing he could mention the tanks.

  ‘Oh, they’re always suggesting newfangled ideas,’ French observed. ‘But at the end of the day it’s leadership that counts. I have failed as a leader.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sir John,’ Murdoch protested. ‘Your men would follow you to hell and back.’

  ‘And that’s just about where I’ve led them. Anyway, I was not expressing a personal opinion, Murdoch. I’m to be relieved.’

  Murdoch stared at him in consternation.

  ‘This is strictly confidential,’ French said. ‘It won’t be announced for another month. But the decision has been taken.’

  ‘But who...?’

  ‘Douglas Haig. He’s a good officer. A cavalryman, like us.’

  Murdoch knew Haig, of course; they had served together in South Africa. He knew him to be a man of great determination, as well as considerable panache — he was known as the best-dressed officer in the army. But he, and Haig, had fought under French for so long, first as part of the cavalry division against the Boers, then when he had been Chief of the Imperial General Staff, and then these last eighteen months in France, that it seemed impossible the Field Marshal would not be there forever.

  ‘I’m to take command of the Home Forces,’ French said with a bitter smile. ‘Ah, wel
l, it’ll give me something to do.’

  ‘I imagine the decision was Kitchener’s,’ Murdoch said no less bitterly.

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly. Although you know he’s been relieved as CIGS by Robertson? But he’s still Minister of War. Something you want to remember, young man. But I’ve got something going for you, too.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well, you can have a brigade if you wish.’

  ‘A brigade!’ Murdoch frowned. ‘I’d hate to leave the lads.’

  ‘You will have to, eventually, Murdoch. However, as I thought that might be your attitude, I have to inform you that the regiment is being taken out of France. On my recommendation.’

  ‘Sir?’ Murdoch was horrified.

  ‘We need you elsewhere, Murdoch. Townshend has got himself into a mess in Mesopotamia. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘Not a lot. The idea was to take Baghdad, was it not?’

  ‘The idea. The whole operation was a botched one. Oh, Townshend is a fine fighting soldier. He’s proved that in India. But he was taking orders from both the War Office and the India Office at the same time, and neither of them seem to have been in close touch with the other. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he advanced up the Tigris all right, won a couple of victories, was told to press on to Baghdad, and has run right out of steam. So he’s managed to lose a battle, and has retired to a place called Kut, awaiting reinforcements. Naturally the Turks have closed in on him. So what was supposed to be a brief campaign is likely to turn into another Dardanelles if we’re not careful. Anyway, Stanley Maude has been given overall command, with orders to relieve Townshend and resume the advance as soon as possible. Do you know Stanley?’

  ‘Of course.’ General Sir Stanley Maude was another South African veteran.

  ‘Well, he wants cavalry. Cavalry with experience of desert and mountain fighting. Your chaps are veterans of both the North West Frontier and Somaliland. So he’s getting the regiment. So, a brigade, or a spot of sunburn, Murdoch. Take your choice.’

  ‘I think a spot of sunburn, sir,’ Murdoch said.

  French grinned. ‘There’ll be home leave first, of course. But Maude is in a hurry.’

  Chapter Three: Mesopotamia, 1916

  ‘He looks just like you,’ Lee said.

  Murdoch cradled the baby in his arms. ‘Poor fellow. But he has your eyes.’

  ‘Do you really think so? They’ll have changed by the time you see him again.’

  ‘Um.’ Murdoch handed Harry to the waiting nurse, and went down the stairs holding Lee’s hand. ‘Shouldn’t take us all that long to beat the Turks.’

  ‘Everyone said that about the Germans, last year. And the Turks...’ She gave a little shiver. ‘Are they as barbaric as people say?’

  ‘Well, they don’t have a Christian point of view, I suppose simply because they’re not Christians. A beaten man is a beaten man, not suddenly a friend with whom you share a cigarette.’ He squeezed her fingers. ‘But I’ve fought barbarians before. And not been beat.’

  ‘The Somalis. You had an awful wound.’

  ‘And recovered. And married you.’ He kissed her on the nose. ‘So all turns out well in the end. What do you think of my latest accumulation?’

  She peered at the crimson ribbon of the Légion d’honneur. ‘It rather rounds things off, doesn’t it?’

  Murdoch peered at himself in the hall mirror. ‘Why, I suppose it does.’ The row of ribbons stretched in a kaleidoscope of colour from the crimson of the Victoria Cross, through the Distinguished Service Order, with the silver rosette of the second award, the South African Medal, King Edward VII’s Coronation Medal, King George V’s Coronation Medal, the 1914 Star, and was neatly completed by the crimson of the Légion d’honneur. ‘I shall have to make sure I don’t get any more.’

  ‘I hope you don’t get any more,’ she said. Not if every time means you’re trying to get yourself killed. Oh, Murdoch...when is it going to end?’

  ‘If I knew that, my dearest, I’d be commander-in-chief. Or Prime Minister. But it will end. With us on top.’

  ‘Because the British always win in the end. Do you reckon that’s an eternal law?’

  ‘It’s my business to see that it is,’ he told her. ‘And the business of millions of others like me.’

  She was pensive. ‘Will there be brothels in Mesopotamia?’

  ‘There are brothels everywhere. Especially where there are a lot of soldiers.’

  ‘Will you have to regulate them again, as you did in St Omer?’

  Because it had, after all, got into the newspapers.

  ‘If I have to, yes.’

  ‘Murdoch...do you ever go to brothels?’

  ‘Would you like me to tell you if I did?’

  ‘No. Please. It’s just that...if you did...feel that you had to, I would understand. I mean, you have my permission.’

  ‘Let me tell you a little secret,’ he said. ‘Commanding officers don’t go to brothels. It simply isn’t done.’ He kissed her again. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  *

  Much as he loved Lee, and Broad Acre, and the children, much as he had enjoyed Christmas with the family, the utter civilization of being so far removed from the war, he was still glad to rejoin the regiment for embarkation at Plymouth. If there was a war to be fought, he wanted to think of nothing else. Awareness of wife and family was a weakening factor. He could only be grateful that thanks to the careful investments of his father and grandfather, Lee would be a wealthy widow, as well as a beautiful one, should he fall foul of some Turk. He wondered, would she marry again? But that also was not a thought to be taking off to war several thousand miles from England.

  The regiment was in high spirits as they set sail, even if they had the threat of a submarine attack to think of. They had all been reunited with their families for a brief week —but it had been Christmas week — they had shed the muddy horror that was northern France, and now they were shedding the snowbound misery of England for sunny climes; they had not been told where they were going, but the fact that they had been issued with tropical kit told them that.

  They were also travelling in some luxury, as an entire erstwhile liner had been requisitioned as their carrier; the size was necessary as in addition to the seven-hundred-odd men there were around nine hundred horses. ‘Takes you back,’ Peter Ramage remarked. ‘Like setting off for Somaliland.’

  ‘Or South Africa,’ Murdoch agreed. ‘Tell you what, though, Peter...we’re heading for cavalry country, at last.’ He looked down at the well deck and spotted Johnnie Morton, also staring back at the mist-shrouded Devon hills. Murdoch wondered where, and how, Morton had spent his Christmas. What a sad travesty of a career which should by now have had him at least a brigadier-general. And now he was being returned to the climes in which he had earned his disgrace. No doubt he had a lot to think about.

  The voyage was incident free. There was bad weather off the Portuguese coast, and then the usual delightful run across the Mediterranean. Here again there were supposed to be enemy submarines, but they never saw one. As the weather hotted up there were the usual ailments amongst both men and horses, and after they had passed through the Suez Canal and were making their way down the Red Sea the animals began to die. Although Murdoch had made this journey before and had known what to expect, he still found it sadly depressing as the carcasses were flung over the side, and reflected thankfully that they had only a short way to go.

  The trouble with a long sea voyage was that it gave a man too much time to remember. Murdoch found himself thinking about Reger, who had indeed been exchanged, and was no doubt again commanding a German regiment — or was perhaps even on the staff. And thoughts of Reger reminded him about Margriet, and young Paul. Young Paul hadn’t seemed particularly important before; as he had been born in 1901 he was still only fourteen. But the war was showing no sign of ending. If it didn’t, soon, he might find himself fighting his own son. His eldest son.

  But was Paul his son? How that t
hought haunted him. The boy had been born in one of Lord Kitchener’s ‘concentration camps’, where the Boer women and children had been herded after their farms had been burned in an effort to make the commandos come to terms. It had eventually succeeded, but it had been a ghastly way to make war, as barbaric as anything practised by the Mad Mullah, as malnutrition and disease had swept through the ranks of the miserable captives.

  Margriet had been imprisoned there after she had helped him to escape from her own people — and after they had become lovers. Unknown to him, she had been pregnant. But there might have been another man: that would indeed explain her decision to aid him and flee her people — a decision which had turned out to be a disaster, for she had been sent back to them.

  Lee knew of her, and Paul, of course. As neither Lee nor Murdoch had been a virgin, they had confessed their peccadilloes on their honeymoon. Lee’s erstwhile lover had already been dead. She had been utterly sympathetic towards both Margriet and the boy, had wanted to befriend them. He had with difficulty persuaded her that it might not work. And Lee did not know that they had met again, and again disastrously, in Ireland in 1914. Presumably she would have condoned that as well, in view of her remarks about the brothel. Dear, dear Lee. She was far too good for him.

  But how he wished this damnable voyage would end and they could get back to some action, to concentrate his mind on his job.