Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

  ‘Where the fucking hell have they come from?’ muttered Maurice.

  Tommy was more shocked to hear his friend swear than what was in front of him, and he started to laugh.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you laughing at, Thomas, you mad fool?’ He didn’t get an answer, though, as the call went out all along the 66th line to make ready. Officers were shouting, NCOs giving the same instruction with a bit more colourful language.

  ‘Check those cartridges, lads.’

  ‘Keep those breeches clear, boys. You don’t want any jamming with that lot coming at us.’

  ‘Set sights for 400, and remember to aim low.’

  ‘Dina worry boot them bastards, lads, they’re all wearing dresses anyhoo.’

  ‘Fix bayonets.’

  Tommy looked up and down the 66th ranks and was humbled at the bravery of these men, who were standing in front of that mass of madmen out there with nothing but an antique rifle and some coarse language. He saw Captain Garratt at the front of his company, sword in one hand and pistol in the other, leading from the front.

  ‘Come, Thomas,’ said Maurice, and he walked off towards the Colour party. Tommy followed. On arriving he heard Galbraith talking to Oliver. ‘Well, it will not do, Charles. If those native boys break, our flank will be wide open and that will be the end of that. It will not matter if my regiment are holding, they cannot hold front and rear.’

  ‘I understand, sir, but the General has ordered the Grenadiers and the Jacob’s Rifles to hold their positions. There is nothing for it but to hold as best you can.’

  ‘Where is Burrows now, Charles?’

  ‘He’s over with Mainwaring and Anderson, trying to shore up the gaps in the Bombay Infantry. How, though, I don’t know.’

  ‘All right, then, we will continue to hold here.’ As he said this, the 66th opened up on the Ghazis now attacking their front, and the officers turned in unison to watch the proceedings.

  ‘This will get worse, Charles, you’ve seen the size of the enemy host. They can do this all day. We, on the other hand, cannot; we are already running short on ammunition and water, but that will not matter at all when they throw themselves at us completely, and they will, to be sure. I am starting to believe that we will be lucky to live through this day.’ He paused and looked at his feet for a moment. ‘I have just been talking with the Sar’nt Major and he is of the same mind, that we should retire to the village with the baggage to make our defence. I always listen to my senior NCOs, Charles. So would you be so kind as to make my request to Burrows that we withdraw while we still have the chance?’

  Oliver nodded his head. ‘I will, sir, right away.’ With that, he mounted his horse and made off through the smoke towards the Grenadiers.

  Good old Cuppage, thought Tommy. He got through to him. He turned to Maurice, who was watching the Ghazis attack the 66th lines. Tommy watched as well, and saw Captain McMath holding his sword aloft, then slashing it downwards. His company fired a volley on that manoeuvre alone. He tapped Maurice on the shoulder to tell him about Cuppage when he heard Lieutenant Honywood exclaim, ‘My God, sir, the guns!’

  Chapter 10

  Battle - The End

  Tommy turned to look where the Lieutenant indicated and saw the gun teams of the Royal Horse Artillery frantically pulling the cannon out of the fray.

  ‘What in blazes are they doing?’ said the Lieutenant. Tommy heard Maurice call Olivey. ‘Bloody cowards.’

  ‘Mr Rayner, would you please go and enquire as to why we have lost the Horse Artillery,’ shouted Galbraith above the noise.

  Maurice stepped forward with a look of incredulity on his face. He turned to Tommy.

  ‘With me,’ he said, and started running toward the gun teams.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Maurice, hang on,’ panted Tommy. Damn, this heat is sapping my strength. He caught up with Maurice as an enormous volley from the ranks of the Grenadiers crashed out; he looked for the Bombay Infantry and saw that they were now hand to hand with hundreds of Ghazis and regular Afghan Infantry. Tommy stopped to watch, momentarily fascinated by the brutality of the way the Grenadiers were fighting: stabbing, hacking, bludgeoning with their rifle butts. But still the ordered volleys were sending death and destruction to their front. The officers, what was left of them, were still shouting commands, the NCOs still pushing their men forward. What a sight! he thought. He tore his eyes away and looked for Maurice, and found him talking to an NCO of the Artillery, so he ran over.

  ‘Blackwood’s down,’ the Sergeant shouted to Maurice. ‘We’ve lost two guns. Maclaine was overrun, so Captain Slade ordered us to pull back, replenish and reposition.’

  Maurice was nodding and ducking every now and then as some shot flew over their heads. ‘What state are the Jacob’s Rifles in, do you know?’

  ‘They are going to break, sir, very soon, I should think.’

  Tommy looked to where the Rifles were positioned to the left of the Grenadiers, and to the right of where the guns had been. Shit! They’re going to go any fucking minute, he thought. Loads of them were looking backwards towards the cannon, looking for a way out.

  ‘Maurice,’ he shouted, ‘we have to move, mate. That lot are gonna bolt shortly and I don’t fancy getting caught out here on our own.’

  Maurice looked at the situation for a moment. ‘You speak very wise, Thomas,’ he said, turning to the NCO. ‘Good luck Sar’nt Mullane.’ He tapped Tommy on the arm and indicated for him to follow, back to the Colour party.

  ‘Well, Thomas,’ shouted Maurice breathlessly above the noise of battle, ‘seems you were right on the mark with your predictions of disaster. I think perhaps you should load that rifle, what.’

  Thomas pulled a round out of his pouch, pulled open the cocking lever and pushed it into the breach of his Martini-Henry. Then he removed his bayonet and connected it to the rifle barrel. Strange, he thought to himself, but he felt a whole lot better with the extra foot or so of steel. He watched Maurice remove his service revolver and check to see if it was loaded, and the two friends made their way back to Galbraith’s party, just in time to see a commotion from the very right of the line, and hear the sound of cannon fire. Tommy took in the unfolding scene. The 66th were heavily engaged with the enemy to their front, but were keeping up an intense fire on them; the Grenadiers were fighting hand to hand with Afghan regulars and Ghazis, as were the Jacob’s Rifles, who were being slowly pushed back. The Artillery had withdrawn to resupply, but had lost a couple of guns and a whole load of horses. Well, he thought, what a total fuck up!

  As this thought entered his head, a very young officer came trotting up on a horse from the right of the line. Tommy didn’t recognise him, though Maurice called out a greeting.

  ‘Barr, old man, how goes the day with you?’

  ‘Could be better, I suppose, Rayner. The Afghans have moved some cannon up towards that nullah back there, about two hundred yards to our front, but luckily Roberts’s boys have sorted them out a few times and they seem to be keeping their heads down some. I say, what the devil is happening over there?’ He was pointing to the left flank.

  ‘Good god, the Jacob’s Rifles have broken,’ exclaimed Maurice, and indeed, as Tommy watched, the steady stream of Indian Jawans turned into a stampede as the soldiers looked for somewhere safer than where they were. They began to roll down and into the rear of the heavily engaged Grenadiers, who were struggling anyway without the Infantry now packing into their ranks. The void they opened to the left of the guns was rapidly filling with screaming Ghazis, stabbing spears and slashing Khyber knives at any unfortunate soldier left behind.

  Any wounded soldiers on the ground were horrifically slaughtered by these religious fanatics; in a frenzy, they cut, hacked and stabbed at anything in their path. Tommy moved over to the rear of the Grenadiers to observe this route. Well, he thought, you don’t get to see something like this very often. He watched with a sense of morbid curiosity as a Grenadier was dragged out of the front by these madm
en, his turban was ripped from his head and his scream cut off as a broad curved sword chopped and hacked through his wind pipe, muscle and cartilage until, finally separated from his neck, his head was held up like a trophy.

  Tommy was horrified, and he felt slightly sick at this spectacle; his only consolation was that, as the Ghazi was about to throw the soldier’s severed head back into the British ranks, a huge Grenadier sprang forward, slammed his rifle butt into the face of a Ghazi on his right, fired the rifle from the hip into the groin of another on his left, and finally stabbed the rifle bayonet in a great upwards swing at the Ghazi head hunter, taking him under the jaw. Tommy watched in awe as the bayonet ripped through the back of his head, toppling his turban. The mighty Grenadier was back in his own line before the man hit the ground, still holding the unfortunate soldier’s head. Wow! You only get to see that in the movies. And then he recognised the big Grenadier as he turned, shouting encouragement at those around him. Well, well, thought Tommy. Singh! He was still sporting the swollen nose that Tommy had given him.

  ‘Thomas, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be with me, remember? Good God!’

  Tommy was listening to Maurice, but was also looking toward the oncoming enemy. He raised the rifle Maurice had given him, aimed and blasted a screaming Ghazi straight in the face at no more than twenty feet away; the lead bullet took half his face off. The recoil and power of the rifle surprised Tommy.

  ‘I must remember to pull that in tighter to me shoulder, mate, that really kicked.’ He said this while rubbing at it.

  ‘My goodness, that was a hell of a shot.’

  Tommy reloaded. ‘Yeah, well, it’s not over yet, mate. Take a look at that load of mad bastards.’

  Maurice watched the deadly melee taking place. ‘I don’t think our brave Grenadiers are going to hold them too long, Thomas, and I do believe the smooth bore have just been overrun. Bloody hell, I must report to Galbraith, come on.’ He turned without waiting for an answer, and Tommy followed, all the time watching the struggling Grenadiers. He was a few paces behind and very nearly got tumbled by the rush of Jawans running for the supposed safety of the 66th rear.

  ‘Arseholes,’ Tommy shouted at them as they passed. He reached the Colour party as Galbraith was issuing commands.

  ‘I want the rear ranks of F and H Companies wheeled and brought to bear on those enemies who have broken through. Mr Barr, could you relay my instructions to Beresford-Pierse, if you please, with haste.’ He turned to Maurice. ‘Rayner, have you seen the General, or Nuttall?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Colonel. Do you require me to locate them, sir?’

  Galbraith became still for a moment, looking towards the now-turning rear ranks of F and H Companies. ‘Mr Rayner, locate Burrows and tell him that I believe it is time to retire to the safety of the baggage and Mundabad village. Tell him I cannot hold my line now that the Bombay Infantry have broken.’ Tommy watched him give Maurice a sad look. ‘Be quick now, Mr Rayner, and be sure to take your batman with you.’ With that he turned away, shouting for Cuppage.

  Before Maurice could speak, Tommy shouted, ‘Come, Maurice,’ smiled and ran off towards the rear.

  After a few minutes of searching, they located Burrows and other senior officers trying in vain to shore up the break in the lines. Burrows was furious. He ordered Nuttall and his Cavalry to charge and break up the oncoming Afghans, and the Horse Artillery to engage as soon as they were replenished.

  Nuttall addressed Burrows: ‘General, the Artillery has taken a beating.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a fig what state the Artillery are in, damn you. Get them back into action before all is lost. And where is that bloody Cavalry?’

  Maurice skidded to a halt in front of Burrows. ‘Beg to report, General. Colonel Galbraith sends his compliments and must inform you that he cannot hold the line much longer. He respectfully requests that the retire be sounded and he can withdraw the 66th to Mundabad village and the baggage. He will make a defence there, sir.’

  ‘Does he, by God.’ The General lifted his head at that moment to watch the Cavalry grouping to make a charge at the Afghans. ‘Come on Nuttall,’ he shouted, ‘give it to them, and spare ye not the horses, damn you.’

  ‘General, do you have a reply for Colonel Galbraith, sir?’

  ‘Hold your tongue, Mr Rayner. Let us see if this charge breaks that heathen horde.’

  What a posh twat, Tommy thought, sitting on his fat arse while men are dying out there. He, along with Maurice, watched two columns of Cavalry break into a gallop aimed at the nearest Afghans, who were attacking the fleeing Bombay Infantry. The noise was fantastic, he thought, the rumbling under foot incredible.

  ‘They’re attempting to form square,’ Maurice shouted, indicating the Grenadiers and the Jacob’s Rifles on the left flank, but Tommy had no idea what he meant, so he just watched. And after a moment or two, he shouted back to Maurice, ‘They don’t look very square to me, mate.’

  ‘The idiots are attempting regimental instead of by the company. It won’t work. They’re too fractured.’

  ‘Well, that sounds impressive and all that, but they still look like shit. The Cavalry look decent though, I must admit.’ Tommy watched the two lines charge at the Afghans, but at the last minute the right-hand column veered off to the right without engaging.

  ‘Damn them to hell,’ shouted Burrows.

  After a few moments of dodging galloping horses, Tommy watched Nuttall return to the General.

  ‘Why have you not charged, sir?’ he demanded. ‘Reform and charge again, damn you.’

  ‘I cannot get the men to obey, General. They will not listen to orders.’

  ‘Will not listen!’ thundered Burrows. ‘You were leading that charge, sir.’

  ‘That may be, but I will retire the Cavalry to the guns and reform there.’

  As Burrows, Tommy and Maurice watched Nuttall trot away to the rear, Major Oliver rode up hard and came to a skidding stop, his horse nearly colliding with Tommy.

  ‘Dickhead.’

  Oliver stared at Tommy for a few seconds and then looked at Burrows, ‘Well, I think it’s fair to assume, sir, that we cannot hold, and I believe we should withdraw.’

  As Burrows made to reply, the noise level from where the now-collapsing Grenadiers were still fighting tooth and nail suddenly increased as the very last of the Jacob’s Rifles folded under the pressure and began running fully down the lines of the 66th.

  ‘God damn it all, Oliver, sound the retire.’

  The Major spun his horse around shouting for a bugler, and Maurice turned to Tommy.

  ‘Well, Thomas, I am returning to my regiment. I give you leave to do what you will.’

  ‘Fuck off, you twat, I’m coming with you.’

  They both laughed and made a run for the 66th Colours, dodging running Indian Infantry on the way. They got there just in time to see F and H Companies open fire from both front and rear as the ring of Afghans was tightening. But the mass of fleeing Indian Infantry was making it impossible for the 66th to properly engage. Before Maurice had time to shout to Galbraith, a bugle was heard sounding the retreat, and Galbraith ordered his regiments bugler to do the same. He started issuing orders to the officers for an ordered withdrawal to the village by the ravine. The 66th bugler sounded off, and Tommy could hear the order being shouted all down the line by the NCOs.

  Maurice tugged Tommy’s sleeve. ‘You may want to stay with me now, Thomas, I should think this is going to be a little challenging.’ He pulled out his service revolver and started to laugh. ‘Well, at least I’m armed. I have my flatulence, what.’

  Tommy smiled, but not for long, as the Grenadiers started pushing through the ranks of the 66th. The confusion and terror was electrifying; the once-solid ranks of the 66th were now becoming fragmented as they fell back. Tommy stayed with the Colours as the regiment started to fall back across the plain towards the rightmost village opposite the baggage. Maurice was there, as were the Lieutenants charged wi
th the Colours, Olivey and Honywood; all were firing at the enemy with their revolvers.

  He could hear the NCOs shouting for ordered volleys by the company, but Tommy could see what the Bombay Infantry had done to the regiment. Why the fuck didn’t they just run to the rear? Why did they have to run in to the 66th? Terror makes you do strange things, Tommy thought, and these young Indian soldiers had been experiencing it all day. No water, no food and hardly any sleep had turned these disciplined soldiers into frightened children, and they were looking to the 66th for protection as you would look to a big brother. But on this occasion, he thought, even big brother’s gonna get a proper kicking.

  Tommy looked to where they were headed and just managed to see Cullen’s company, now struggling with the fleeing soldiers. He looked for McMath but could not see him. He looked for Garratt and found him limping along, his NCO holding him up, and he was still firing his pistol into the ranks of Ghazis. Tommy could now see ranks of Afghan Infantry and Cavalry, all bunched together for the kill. He saw Cuppage. My God, he still looks immaculate, even in this shower of shit. He watched dumbstruck as the big Sergeant Major reached forward and pulled back a young soldier who was being dragged into the mad throng of Ghazis. One of them jumped at him, but the Sergeant slapped him, a bloody slap! And he fell unconscious to the ground, to be trampled by his brethren.

  After what seemed like hours of trekking over the plain under constant fire from the Afghans – though it was actually less than half an hour – the Colour party came to a stop, surrounded by men of the 66th who were firing constantly at their attackers. He realised that the Ghazis were unwilling to get too close to the men of the 66th, the rifle fire being what it was, and they seemed to be attacking the Bombay Infantry more, who, to be fair were offering their backs a lot more freely. Tommy knelt for a moment and took careful aim at a particularly big, ugly bearded Ghazi. He braced the rifle into his shoulder and fired at the man’s torso, and was pleased to see him fold up and disappear into the crowd.