Time Commander (The First Admiral Series)

by Benning, William J.

  This was pre-battle, the Zulu way. Get the troops motivated to attack as a group. As individuals, they would probably run away at the first sound of gunfire and the falling of the first of their comrades. Something like a herd mentality would bind them together as a unit. Even the Universal Alliance Fleet used a variation of this technique; giving the soldiers a sense of comradeship, loyalty to one another, and loyalty to their unit. Billy Caudwell also knew that the Zulu medicine men would have been visiting the Impis with powders, snuffs, and red mushrooms to solidify their herd mindset with reality-altering drugs.

  The Zulu suicide warriors would be pawing at the ground, eager to get to grips with their enemies through the red mists and hazes of their chemically-induced perceptions. The Zulus would be hyping themselves up for the attack. But even the most powerful shaman’s potions could not stop a bullet or a bayonet blade.

  “What on earth are they doing, sir? Are they trying to frighten us?” a young officer asked

  To Billy Caudwell, it was an entirely logical question. Trying to intimidate your opponents before a battle was a good strategy; dent their morale and reduce their willingness to resist your attacks. Frighten and terrify your opponents, and they might even run away. The whole Zulu Empire was built on their military strength. From the days of King Shaka onwards, the Impis had terrorised and intimidated this part of Southern Africa at will. The Roman Empire and the British had done much the same thing in the past, and Billy Caudwell was convinced that future empires would also continue such practices.

  “No, Mr Cavaye, they’re trying to draw our attention,” Billy explained, “You’ll find that the two pincers are trying to move closer to us.”

  The warriors on the ridge were now responding to the chant leader with their own series of calls which culminated in the long drawn out royalist chant of “OO-SOO-TOO-OO”, before beginning the entire war dance process all over again.

  To their left, those with field glasses could see the tiny figures of the Zulu warriors moving down from the ridge behind the mountain to try to outflank the British square. Whilst, to their right, the field glasses were able to pick out more dark running figures pouring down from the ridge to try to outflank the British square along the donga that guarded their right flank. To Billy, this Zulu left flank was horribly exposed. Their right flank had the cover of the mountain, but, consequently, a greater distance to travel.

  The izinDuna wanted the Zulu attacks to hit home simultaneously, to sweep the invaders away in one huge surge of shields, clubs and spears. However, the right wing of the battle formation would take time to get around the mountain. So, the cunning izinDuna were trying to hold the attention of their enemy whilst they tried to bring their right wing to closer quarters. The short, scrubby grass of the area would only really cover them if they lay down in it, which would slow their advance on the British square to a crawl.

  The izinDuna must have been gambling that the “chest” of their formation and left wing could absorb any punishment the British could hand out, whilst their right wing could sweep in and deliver the killing stroke from behind the mountain. Billy Caudwell had seen through the attempted deception. The izinDuna might try to send their left wing down the donga, but risked having them shot to pieces as they climbed out of the high-sided dried-up stream bed. Whichever way the Zulus tried to slice up this battlefield, they were going to have to sustain heavy losses, and Billy hoped that the severity of these losses would convince the Zulu that they could not win this fight.

  Up on the ridgeline, the dancing and chanting warriors were reaching the next crescendo of their chant by banging the butt ends of their weapons against the inside of their shields.

  To the British; waiting anxiously in their square behind the make-shift barricade, it sounded like rolling thunder cascading down the ridge towards them. Officers and NCOs were already prowling up and down their company formations, calming and steadying their troops. Once again, the Zulu chant-leader called his challenge to the sky and the British invaders. And, once again the warriors responded with high kicks in the air and slamming their feet to the ground as they chanted their responses.

  “Right, then. Major Pulleine, let’s have some artillery take a pot shot at those old boys up there.” He indicated the outcrop where the izinDuna were standing.

  “Sir?”

  Trying to kill the enemy generals was still considered “bad form” by some of the more traditionally-minded officers in the army.

  “I said, order the guns to try to hit the Zulu Generals on that outcrop, Major, and have the rockets scour that ridgeline. Let’s break up their little shin-dig,” Billy ordered.

  “Yes, sir” Pulleine said.

  Pulleine dispatched runners to the two Artillery pieces positioned at either end of the north face of the makeshift barricade. Normally, the gunners would have liked to have earthworks to protect their artillery pieces, but there was no time for the niceties of the Artilleryman’s Regulations. The Zulus were not likely to have artillery, but they did possess firearms in pitifully small quantities with an unreliable source of ammunition.

  From his right, Billy saw the two seven-pounder artillery pieces blast a great plume of greyish-white powdery smoke from their barrels amidst a deafening roar that echoed and bounced from the ridge, and around the entire valley.

  “He’s short!” Pulleine described the obvious predicted shortfall of the two artillery rounds.

  The barrels of the two field artillery pieces were still cold, and would usually require two or more shots to fully heat up the barrel to make the shots more accurate. In the air, the two pencil- thin red lines of the arcing artillery shells showed that they would not reach the ridge line. However, the capricious goddess of battles and soldiers; Lady Luck, was on the side of the British at that moment. As it looked like the shells would fall well short of their intended targets, they both exploded in mid-air within moments of each other.

  The wily gunnery officer had selected air-burst shells. Red-hot shrapnel and casing fragments slashed down into the unprotected bodies of the elderly Zulu generals, sweeping them from their vantage point on the ridge line in bloody and dismembered ruin. After a moment of astonished silence, the entire British square let out an enormous cheer as they realised the enemy generals had been cut down with the first shots of the encounter. It was a good omen. They cheered and hoisted their rifles and helmets into the air in celebration.

  “Well, I’ll be blowed…” Major Pulleine lowered his field glasses in amazement amidst the cheering and celebrating of the redcoats around him.

  The British cheer was cut short a few moments later by the great WHOOSH of the first of the Rocket Battery’s salvoes being unleashed. The Congreve Rocket System; which had been introduced into the British Army at the turn of the nineteenth century, had been considered so unpredictable and imprecise in its targeting ability that many considered it more of a danger to the British Army than to any enemy. However, almost eighty years later, the British Rocket Troops were more experienced in using their inconsistent weapon. The three projectiles sped away from the metal troughs that had been planted firmly into the shallow scrapes in the ground. Despite one of the rockets overflying the ridge to explode out of sight of the British soldiers, Billy knew that it had most likely found targets amongst the Zulus approaching the battlefield.

  Along the ridgeline, the first two rockets were striking home. One moment, a group of Zulu warriors would be dancing and chanting, and would be suddenly replaced by a deep blood red inferno of explosion and red hot metal fragments tearing through everything, and everyone, in their paths. The loud bang took half a second to reach Billy Caudwell’s ears from the moment of the rocket shell’s explosive impact, giving the rocket’s strike an air of unreality. For the Zulu warriors caught in the maelstrom of the blast, flying metal and debris, this was all too real and deadly.

  “Compliments to both Major Smith and Russell, and tell them to keep up the good work,” Billy said.

  “Yes,
sir,” Major Pulleine acknowledged.

  However, within moments of the first of the rockets exploding, the Zulus began to launch their attacks. Whether it was on the command of one of the Impi commanders, or whether small groups of warriors had decided that standing around waiting to be blown to pieces by British guns or rockets was not a good idea, Billy Caudwell did not know. Small groups darted forward down the ridge slope and towards the British position. The small groups were quickly joined by others to make larger groups, and within a few seconds, the entire Zulu formation on the ridgeline was hurtling down the slope to attack the British position.

  “Well, sir, looks like we’re about to find out what they’re made of,” Major Pulleine said.

  As First Admiral, Billy had never been on the front line of any battle before. The genius, experience, and expertise of the now-dead Teg Skarral Portan, had meant that Billy had always directed matters from his War Table. There had always been a degree of distance between Billy Caudwell and the killings that had decided the outcome of his battles. Now, here he was, directly in the firing line, and for a moment, Billy felt horribly unsure of himself. It was a moment of uncertainty that the part of his mind that was Teg Skarral Portan dismissed immediately and ruthlessly. First Admiral Teg Portan had been in more than a few tighter situations than this one in his military career, and that knowledge, combined with Portan’s self-confidence, was what made Billy feel more secure and certain.

  If it came to a hand to hand fight, Portan’s experience and training would easily overcome Billy’s own personal inexperience. Billy just hoped that if it did come to a close quarter battle, that his body could react as quickly as Portan’s mind.

  “Right then, Major, when they reach one thousand yards, let the sharpshooters have a bit of fun with them.” Billy began to issue the battle orders that he had already instructed the Company commanders with.

  “At six hundred yards, start with the volleys. Three hundred yards, fix bayonets and keep up the volleys,” Billy continued, feeling more confident, “and if they reach the barricade, we’ll bring the Spear Companies in and do some sticking work.”

  Before Pulleine could reply, the two seven-pounder guns fired once again. Once more, the great BOOM of the two guns bounced and echoed from the slopes in front of the British position, and rolled down the valley like a great clap of thunder. Just like before, two great billows of dirty grey smoke blossomed from the mouths of the guns, and half a heartbeat later, the two explosions ripped into the heart of the attacking Zulus.

  The Zulus swarmed down the slope from the ridge like a great wave of black ants, devouring the distance between themselves and the British position. Looking through the field glasses again, Billy could begin to see the distinctive dress of each of the Zulu regiments. Some of them wore white ostrich feathers in their head-dress, whilst others wore leopard skin loin cloths. Each individual regiment had its own particular composition. Some regiments consisted of married men, and some of those who had yet to marry. Once again, it mattered very little to Billy Caudwell; each warrior had a spear or a club that could kill one of his own soldiers.

  Sweeping his field glasses to the right, Billy could see the left “Horn” or pincer, of the Zulu attack. As he had expected, the Zulu warriors were dashing to outflank his position before attempting to sweep in from behind to cut off his expected line of retreat. Except that Billy Caudwell had no intention of retreating. With a smile, Billy noted that the Zulus were still on the far side of the deep Donga that partly protected the British flank. To attack the British position, the Zulus would have to scramble into the dried river bed, and then scramble up the opposite bank. With luck, the rifled carbines of the Natal Native cavalry would be ready and able to shoot them down as they emerged.

  Switching his field glasses to the Zulus’ right, Billy could see that several thousand warriors were heading off behind the mountain of Isandlwana itself. This would be the contingent that would cross the border to attack Rorke’s Drift, and some of the border country farms. There was not a great deal that Billy Caudwell could do to help the farmers or the soldiers at Rorke’s Drift, but, it did mean that several thousand Zulus would not be attacking his barricade. To Billy, that was a situation to be grateful for.

  Once again, the rockets WHOOSH-ed clear of the metal troughs dug in front of the north face of the barricade. This time, all three projectiles landed neatly amongst the Zulu warriors, who were rapidly scrambling down the slope.

  Exploding about fifty metres apart, the heavy warheads sent a great column of dirt, debris and metal fragments slashing into the unprotected bodies of the advancing Zulus. The lightly armed Zulu warriors had no answer to this torrent of metal and destruction from the sky. Their only hope was to try to close the gap and get amongst the Rocket Troop to silence them. There was a long way for them to go, and by the time they reached the Rocket Battery, the troops would have hopped behind the barricade, bringing their troughs and weapons with them.

  Already, the Zulu centre had reached the foot of the ridge and were starting to negotiate the warren of dried stream beds; that fed the Dongas, and the rocky broken ground around them

  “That’ll slow them down for a while,” Billy said.

  The broken ground would slow the warriors down as they stumbled and lurched their way around rocks, boulders and vegetation. Carrying a large battle shield, various spears, clubs and other equipment was tricky over broken ground, as the weight of these items had an effect their balance.

  This would give the rockets and guns more time to hit their targets. It was also something that the British artillery officers were well aware of.

  The guns BOOM-ed once again from either end of the north face of the barricade, wreathing the gunners and weapons in dirty, grey smoke. The gunners serving the two artillery pieces already looked like spectres from the Underworld. Their hands and faces were blackened with the grime of the cannon smoke, and as they worked in the sun of the early afternoon, the sweat was starting to carve tracks through the grime to show their sun-reddened skin beneath. The whites of their eyes shone through the filth of their faces, as did their teeth. The gunners smiled in the muck sweat of serving the guns. This is what they had come to Zululand for. They had come to kill Zulus. Life in Natal had been one of garrison, parades, and firing boring salutes for all and sundry dignitaries. Now they were doing what they were paid to do.

  Once again, the artillery shells exploded amongst the first line of warriors, throwing dirt and shell case fragments at the advancing Zulus. Seven men with zebra-skin shields were struck down at the one time by one shell, but, looking towards the slope; down from the ridge, Billy could still see warriors streaming down to reach the valley below.

  “They’re thicker than the fleas on my old uncle’s dog’s back,” a soldier near Billy said to his comrades.

  “You got an uncle then, Jonesy?” One of his comrades tried to hide his own nervousness with an abundance of cheer in his voice.

  “Silence in the ranks!” A large red-coated sergeant called the two men to order. “You’re on a stand-to, not the Ladies Sewing Circle!”

  “They’re coming up to the one thousand yard markers on our front, sir,” Major Pulleine shouted.

  “Very well, Major, let the sharpshooters loose on them, and pull the Rocket Troops back into the position” Billy ordered.

  “Sir,” Pulleine said.

  As Major Pulleine passed the order on to the company commanders, the rockets WHOOSH-ed once more, sending out one final salvo towards the enemy. This time, one of the rockets veered wildly to the left and landed amongst a group of warriors in the Zulu right “Horn”.

  The other two rockets overshot and slammed into the slope of the ridge, where they killed and injured twenty more warriors. Still the horde of Zulu warriors kept coming forward.

  However, from the north face of the barricade, the first sound of ragged rifle shots began to sound as the Rocket Troop started passing their equipment and troughs back to the safety
of the defensive wall. Billy could see red-coated soldiers and a few of the Natal Infantry, standing two deep, all along the north face of the barricade and quarter of the east and west faces. A1lready, the small, pale-grey puffs of smoke were indicating that the marksmen were bringing rifle fire to the Zulus for the first time in the battle. With many of the British regulars in the 24th coming from the Warwickshire area and the Welsh Border, there would be more than a few country lads who had been holding, and using, firearms since they were old enough to stand up. And, given the Army’s reputation as a sanctuary for rogues and ne’er-do-wells, there would most likely be a poacher or two amongst them.

  Watching through his field glasses, Billy could already see individual Zulus starting to fall as the rifles fired all along the north face of the barricade.

  Not many, at first, Billy considered, but as the Zulus started to move closer to the British positions, he started to see more and more black shapes falling to the ground. Some of them, he saw, were still moving. There would be some horrendous injuries out there amongst the Zulu wounded. Well, perhaps, it was a good thing he considered, if enough Zulus saw their comrades horribly maimed, it might curb their enthusiasm to attack the British position.

  As Billy continued to watch, he noticed that the enthusiasm and determination of the Zulu warriors appeared to be wholly intact. To the west, on the Zulu right, the warriors were just reaching the foot of the ridge. The seven-pounder cannon on the British left was keeping up a steady rate of fire, and causing steady casualties amongst the Zulus. It would be another few minutes until these Zulus were within the one thousand yard perimeter, and the rifles could be unleashed upon them.

  On the British right, the other cannon was also keeping up a good rate of fire. With the support of the riflemen, the Zulu bodies were starting to accumulate along the line of their advance. The problem on the right wing, however, was the feature in the terrain called the Conical Kop. The small, almost perfectly hemispherical hillock was providing the advanced units of the Zulu left “Horn” with a degree of protection as they tried to outflank the British position. For Billy Caudwell, there was nothing he could do about the Kop, except to pray that some cunning Zulu regiment commander didn’t try to sneak some of his warriors across the donga behind the cover of the Kop.