by John Wilcox
This army meant business. Long lines of baggage supported the marching men. Simon learnt that Lockhart – the seasoned veteran of many campaigns in all seasons on the Frontier – had ordered that each man should be provided with a waterproof sheet, three blankets, a cardigan, a knitted ‘Balaclava’ helmet or nightcap, his home service blue serge trousers, mitts, a spare flannel shirt, socks and boots, all carried for him in the supply train. The soldiers themselves carried a rifle, 100 rounds of ammunition, a haversack containing the day’s rations and any personal items they could cram into it, their water bottle, mess tin and, strapped under the waistbelt, a rolled-up ‘Guthrie’ or khaki serge over-jacket. The general knew that the hot days of summer, demanding khaki cotton drill, sun helmets and puttees, would soon be behind them high up in the mountain passes that lay ahead.
On the third day, at 4 a.m., Brigadier Kempster’s 3rd Brigade marched out of the fort and began their long and demanding march to launch the main attack on the Dargai stronghold from the west. At Fonthill’s suggestion, Inderjit went with them as guide. Shortly afterwards, the larger column snaked out and took the partly widened road to the north, splitting into two as the track divided. Simon and Jenkins marched with the general’s party in the van, their destination the Chagru Kotal Pass.
Mountain batteries had been sent on ahead beyond the Pass to a north-south ridge called Samana Suk, protected by units that had marched in over the hills from Forts Gulistan and Lockhart to the east. Their task was to ‘soften up’ the Pathans on Dargai Heights. On arrival, though, it was clear that, at this extreme range, the little ‘screw guns’ brought up in dismantled form on the backs of mules, were largely ineffective against the rocks and sangar defences that bristled on top of the Heights, some 3,500 yards away. They barked away, but to little obvious effect.
Lockhart and his staff had joined the guns at Samana Suk but had bequeathed command of the frontal attack down below to Brigadier Westmacott whose 4th Brigade were under strict orders not to attack until Kempster had arrived to launch the main attack from the west.
It was clear that, as Fonthill had reported, Westmacott’s men, now poised on the spur below, would face a most formidable task in attempting to cross the open ground at the foot of the cliff and then climbing upwards along the narrow path that zigzagged diagonally along the cliff face.
‘Damn it,’ swore Lockhart, sweeping the top of the Heights with his field glasses, ‘where the hell is Kempster?’
The Pathans at the top of the cliff could clearly be seen firing tokenly on Westmacott’s men out of range below them and offering derisive gestures, inviting them to climb up the path. Fonthill, at Lockhart’s side, suddenly felt Jenkins dig him in the ribs.
‘Top of the bleedin’ cliff, bach sir,’ he whispered. ‘Standin’ on top of them rocks, look you.’
Simon shaded his eyes and peered across the divide. He could only see tiny figures atop the rocks, individually indistinct at that distance. He turned to one of the general’s ADCs. ‘May I borrow your binoculars for a moment?’
He focused along the ridge of the sangars. Nothing. Then he stiffened as into focus came a familiar figure: tall, turbaned and clad immaculately in long white robes. He caught a flash of white teeth in the dark face as the man hurled abuse down at the soldiers below. The Mullah Sayyid Akbar in person!
The general turned to his staff. ‘I’m not waiting any longer,’ he said. ‘We can’t be caught up here in the dark without the Heights being taken.’ He scribbled a note to a subaltern. ‘Take this down to Brigadier Westmacott. He must attack at once.’
Fonthill sucked in his breath. For Westmacott to advance across that open plateau at the foot of the cliff and then climb upwards in the face of the fire from above seemed suicide. Then he focused on the white-clad figure again. The man’s grin seemed to extend a personal invitation even at that distance.
He handed the glasses back and stepped forward to the general. ‘May I have your permission, sir,’ he said, ‘to join Brigadier Westmacott in his advance? I may be able to give him some assistance on the spot.’
‘Me too, General bach,’ echoed Jenkins.
‘What? Oh, very well. But take care, both of you. I don’t want to lose you.’
Fonthill seized a rifle from a startled trooper standing near, as did Jenkins to the man’s companion. ‘Lungers too, sonny,’ grinned the Welshman. ‘No time to give you a chit, but we’ll bring ’em back, see, I promise. Yes, the bayonets, as well. Two of ’em. General’s orders, look you.’
There had been no opportunity at the fort for Fonthill and Jenkins to be issued with European clothes or uniforms and they still wore the Pathan clothing in which they had travelled. So if it was unusual to see two bearded tribesmen standing in the general’s circle and conversing easily with him, it was even more startling for the two soldiers to have their rifles seized and be spoken to in the thickest of Welsh accents. Fonthill and Jenkins had been issued with armbands marked with the emblem of a Union Jack, to mark them as ‘friendly’ should they become involved in the battle, but they did little to reveal their European identity.
Grabbing the rifles and fixing the long bayonets at their muzzles, the two ran to the rear and began descending, in leaps and bounds, the steep slope that wound down to where Westmacott and his officers were standing on the spur. His brigade were strung out behind him to the little village of Mamu Khan, out of rifle shot from the Pathan defenders, although a section of the 2nd King’s Own Scottish Borderers were deployed where they could open volley fire at a distance of about 750 yards onto the cliff crest.
Panting, Fonthill and Jenkins joined the little group of officers just as Westmacott was reading the general’s orders.
‘Good day, Brigadier,’ said Simon. ‘Fonthill, sir. The two of us scouted this position for the general last week and we have his permission to join you on your advance. He thought that perhaps we may be able to help.’
The brigadier, a slim man sporting the conventional florid face and full moustache of an old India hand, looked up from the note and gazed in surprise at the articulate Pathan standing breathing heavily before him.
‘Brigadier Kempster’s brigade has not arrived from the west,’ continued Simon. ‘The general knows that a frontal attack will be difficult but he can’t afford to wait for Kempster any longer in case he is caught out here when night falls.’ He pointed ahead. ‘You can’t see from here, but when this track turns up ahead you will come out onto an open space, plateau-like, which will expose you to open fire from the defenders on the cliff top.’
The brigadier turned to the young subaltern who had delivered the order from the general and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘True, sir,’ said the young man. ‘Mr Fonthill is on the general’s staff and has been with him on the march.’
Westmacott nodded. ‘Very well, Fonthill. Glad to have your help. Yes, I’ve seen that damned open space from up above. Is there any other way around?’
‘No. Your men will have to double across. But once across, at the bottom of the cliff, the overhang will protect you from fire from the top. So you should be able to regroup there before starting the climb. But I’m afraid you will come under fire again about a third of the way up. Then, it will be a case of head up and go. The general will continue to direct fire from the screw guns at the top. We can lead, if you wish.’
‘What? Very well. At least you have reconnoitred this infernal place.’ The brigadier turned to his officers who had hung back a little to allow him to read the message.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Kempster has failed to arrive so we are ordered to launch a frontal attack on the Heights immediately. As planned, the first battalion of the 3rd Gurkhas will lead, followed by the 2nd Kings Own Scottish Borderers, with the Northamptons in reserve.’ He nodded to Fonthill and Jenkins. ‘These … ah … chaps are the general’s army scouts and they will show the way and lead up the hill.’
He turned to a young Gurkha lieutenant. ‘Benyon. There
is a section of the Northamptons back down the spur. Kindly instruct them to begin blazing away at those heathen on the top in …’ he checked his watch ‘… exactly four minutes. The mountain guns will also give us covering fire. Any questions? No? Very well. Join your men, gentlemen, and good luck.’
Within less than a minute, the little brown men of the Gurkhas, in their tightly buttoned lightweight jackets and pillbox hats, began moving forward along the spur. Their rifles remained slung behind their backs but they had all drawn the wickedly curved kukris, with which Fonthill had heard they could sever the head of a buffalo from its body with one stroke.
He and Jenkins shouldered their way to the front, where the Gurkha colonel was waiting with his second-in-command and the lead company commander. They were formed up on a ledge that marked the beginning of the open space but in dead ground from the crest.
‘I suggest, Colonel,’ said Simon, ‘that we charge across this space in companies, not all together, and form under that overhang at the cliff bottom. That will give impetus and unity to the attack.’
The colonel gave him a sharp glance. ‘Very well. Pass the word back, Major. We will go one minute after the covering fire begins.’
Fonthill slipped the bolt on his rifle to put a round up the breach. He could see the beginning of the path up the cliff and it looked a fearsome climb. He felt hot breath down his neck.
‘Excuse me, bach sir,’ said Jenkins. ‘But you know I can’t stand ’eights, like. I’m goin’ to be terrified up there. When we climb that bloody path, would you mind if I go on the inside, see? It would be better for me.’
‘Good idea. Stay with me.’
‘Mind you, I think these little buggers are goin’ to be sprintin’ up past us by the look of ’em. Bit younger than us, look you, an’ faster.’
Simon turned to Lieutenant Benyon, who had returned to command the lead company. ‘When we reach the top, old chap,’ he said, ‘I’ve been given instructions to capture the Mullah Sayyid Akbar – tall fellow, in white flowing robes – who is supposed to be leading the defence. If you get up before me, don’t let your men kill the bastard. I am supposed to be bringing him back alive.’
Benyon grinned. ‘I’ll do my best, old boy, but it might be a bit hectic …’ His words were cut short by a whistle blown from high above. Immediately, the mountain guns opened up, quickly joined by a succession of rifle volleys from the Northumberlands back along the ridge. Then a second whistle sounded, much nearer this time, and Fonthill shouted ‘Let’s go!’
In later years, looking back on that fearsome charge across the open ground, Simon’s abiding memory of it was the noise. The whistles alerted the Pathans in their fastness, just as they signalled the advance to the attackers, and so to the cacophony of the screw guns firing across the open divide and the volleys of the Northumberlands on the ridge were added the cracks of the tribesmen’s rifles firing down and the whine and ping of their bullets as they thudded around Simon and Jenkins and the lead Gurkhas. This spur, or saddle, was only some two hundred yards long and thirty yards wide so that it was impossible for the attackers to spread far to minimise the target. Even so, only one man fell as the company raced across the open ground to huddle with Fonthill and Jenkins at the foot of the cliff.
Simon waited until they all had regained their breath and then he yelled ‘Up now’, and the order was repeated in Gurkhali. The ascent was steep, narrow and dusty, but enough rocks showed through the surface dust to give the climbers grip. Despite the narrowness of the track, Fonthill was soon overtaken by a clutch of grinning Gurkhas, who seemed to be in competition to be first to the top. Then a panting Lieutenant Benyon, revolver in one hand, alpenstock in the other, also passed him, attempting to keep pace with his men.
Simon looked around and reached a hand out to Jenkins, who, ashen-faced, had flattened himself against the cliff wall as the little men bounced by. ‘Come on, 352,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t look down. Last one up is a sissy. Take my hand.’
His outstretched hand was grabbed by the Welshman and somehow the two climbed on up, now in the midst of the agile little Nepalese, whose kukris glistened in the sun as they swung on by. ‘Keep going, old chap,’ called Fonthill. ‘We’ve got to get there before that mullah gets away.’
Soon they were out again in full view of the riflemen behind the sangars at the top and the noise of their bullets as they bounced off the rocks and sped off into infinity was even more deafening than the crack of the rifles themselves. The mention of the mullah seemed to give Jenkins some kind of impetus, because his short, stout legs began to move with power and he now easily matched Simon as the two moved on up the cliff path.
It soon became obvious, however, that the fire from the Pathans had slackened considerably. Looking up, Simon could see now hardly any rifles protruding downwards from the line of the sangars as the first of the Gurkhas broke out onto the crest. He heard their yell of triumph. Had the defenders broken and run?
Soon, he and the sweating Jenkins crawled over the top and saw nothing but tribesmen in full retreat, dodging between the houses of the village and being sent on their way by a handful of kneeling Gurkhas firing at their retreating backs.
‘Can you see the mullah?’ yelled Simon at Jenkins.
‘Can ’ardly breathe, let alone see anybody. But it looks as if ’e’s well and truly ’opped it.’
Fonthill scrambled up to the top of a large boulder and directed his gaze at the retreating figures, most of them now well in the distance. There was no sign of anyone in white, flowing robes.
‘Damn,’ he swore. ‘If only we had cavalry.’
‘Look, bach sir.’ Jenkins, swaying perilously on top of a sangar, was pointing away to the west. ‘That’s why they’ve all ’opped it, look you.’
Simon swung round and shielded his eyes. Far away – perhaps a mile – he could just make out the flashes from the kukris of Kempster’s Gurkha scouts leading in his brigade. Despite their formidable defensive position, it was obvious that the Pathans had become unnerved by the bombardment from below, the sight of the Gurkhas bounding up the cliff path and, then, the prospect of being attacked from the west as well.
Fonthill caught the eye of Benyon. ‘Congratulations,’ he called. ‘I don’t suppose you saw any sign of my mullah when you reached the top, did you?’
The officer slid his revolver back into its holster. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I think I did, white robes ’n’ all. But couldn’t get near him. As soon as we came over the crest, he was off like a shot on his fine stallion, leading the retreat, of course. Sorry I couldn’t nab him for you.’
Simon gave a rueful smile. ‘Not your fault. I shall just have to stay on his tail – and I will. But you and your chaps did well.’
Benyon shook his head. ‘Not really. If these fellers up here had kept their discipline and continued firing down on us, we would never have made it. They were Orakzais, though, that’s why they left so sharply. They are not fighters, really. If they had been Afridis, we would have had a real scrap on our hands.’
The Gurkha colonel then appeared over the edge and shook hands with Benyon and Fonthill and then, after a brief hesitation, with Jenkins, whose turban was now completely unwound and hanging down his back. ‘Well done, all round,’ he said. ‘Phew. I wouldn’t want to have to do that climb again.’
‘What does the general plan now, sir?’ asked Benyon.
The colonel sat down on a rock and wiped his brow. ‘Well, now that these heights are taken, this means that he can advance over the Chagru Kotal to Karappa and establish both his divisions in the Khanki Valley before forcing the Sampagha and Arhanga Passes further north. Trouble is that his 1st Division is still marching up from Hangu in the east, so I suppose he will have to leave both brigades here to hold this place until it comes up before he can advance.’
The Gurkhas had now arrived in Dargai in force and soon Kempster rode in with his brigade, Inderjit sitting his horse in the van in some embarrassment.
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‘Not my fault we are late,’ he confided to Fonthill. ‘Road so bad that we had to return mountain battery and hospital carried on mules to fort at Shinawari, with escort. Column too bloody big in first place, bach sir. Should not have been sent out so bloody big, you know. Guides would have been here hours ago.’
The Sikh’s obvious disgust and unaccustomed use of bad language – and the adoption of Jenkins’s method of addressing him – forced a grin from Fonthill. He put an arm round Inderjit’s shoulder. ‘Not your fault, old chap,’ he said. ‘Your arrival seems to have frightened off the Orakzais, anyway.’
It was now well past noon and the Scottish Borderers and Northamptonshires too had now climbed the cliff face so that the Dargai Heights were completely occupied by the two brigades. It was, then, a complete surprise when a signal arrived from Lockhart ordering that the position was to be abandoned immediately, with both brigades descending as soon as possible.
Throughout that hot afternoon the retreat went on, delayed to some extent by the need for the wounded – seven of the attackers had been killed and thirty-five wounded – to be carried laboriously by dhoolies. Fonthill and Jenkins delayed their own descent for they were anxious to gain information about the mullah from the few Orakzais that had been detained.
With the help of Benyon, who spoke the native dialect fluently, they learnt that the priest had, indeed, fled quickly as soon as the defenders at the cliff top had broken. But to where? Few could be certain, except to offer the opinion that he had gone to rally support from the Afridis in the north, where he now lived. They were still questioning when shots were heard from that direction, where the ground sloped away through the village.
‘New attack coming,’ shouted an officer of Kempster’s staff. ‘You had better get down the cliff quickly.’