Sergeant Ormond was their guide. Hume and the adjutant were hard on his heels and there was no time for anything more than a rapid ‘Good to have you back, sir,’ and a firm handshake before Ormond ushered the august pair into the Mess dugout.
‘Hello, Morgan, Sergeant Keenan.’ Hume had that happy knack that so many officers lacked of being able to remember the men’s names instantly. Not only that, his unruffled, frank manner and the way he looked you directly in the eye, made everyone feel that he knew them intimately and had the greatest trust in them.
Keenan responded with a vast grin, ‘Hello, your honours, grand to see you, I was just catching up on things with the captain, but I’ll leave you all to it, now.’
‘No, don’t go, Keenan. You know the Russian forward positions in front of The Quarries, better than anyone, don’t you? We’ll need your help.’ Hume had done it again. Without really trying he’d made the freshly-promoted Sergeant Keenan feel as if he were the most important man in the world, upon whose sole advice his plan would rest.
The job was simple enough. The British were responsible for operations against the heavily defended earthwork known as the Great Redan. It bristled with guns slightly forward of Sevastopol, part of a chain of smaller and larger forts that could all cover the approaches that an assaulting party would have to take with carefully calculated and murderous fire. But the Russians were masters of the defence. Between the Redan and the Malakoff—the main target of the French—lay some old diggings, the eponymous Quarries. Their steep sides made them difficult to reach with artillery, so the Russians massed infantry and light mortars there in order to break up any attacks that the British might make on the Redan. Indeed, this morning’s bombardment had come from a particularly well-served mortar battery deeply ensconced there.
The Quarries’ garrison also pushed out snipers—many by night, fewer, more skilful ones by day—into shallow pits, who would give warning of any attack that was forming up.
At the same time, their sniping made life extremely dangerous and uncomfortable for the British opposite. Now, Major Hume had been warned that the Allies’ attack on Sevastopol was imminent, and it was obvious that The Quarries and a series of other works across the British and French fronts would have to be cleared before any effective attack could be mounted. So, it came as no surprise when Brigade ordered him to clear the rifle pits in front and then hold them. Any prisoners who could be taken would, the Staff were sure, yield vital intelligence.
When the major had outlined the plan, the group—on Keenan’s advice—crept up to a corner of one of the forward saps where it was sometimes possible to catch a glimpse of the enemy worming about.
‘Just have a care here, your honours.’ Despite clear daylight and the frequent thump of guns, Keenan lowered his voice as the three officers carefully mounted the fire-step, slowly extending their telescopes as they did so.
‘We can see Russ from here, but he knows it an’ he’ll be a-waiting for us to show ourselves. This is where Parker got it the other day.’ Sergeant Keenan pointed to a rosary and crucifix that were nailed to one of the revetments, crossing himself.
His caution had the desired effect. All three of them moved with Job-like patience, showing as little of themselves as possible. When it came to Morgan’s turn, he swept the dun, chalk-streaked landscape with his glass, saw a few rocky outcrops that must have been The Quarries, but was really none the wiser.
‘How many pits d’you reckon Russ has got out there, Sergeant Keenan?’ Hume sat on the fire-step, a Sapper’s chart spread out between himself and the adjutant, compass in his hand.
‘Best guess would be a dozen or so, sir, but it’s hard to tell.’ Morgan knew that Keenan had no accurate idea. He’d not yet had time to go on patrol himself, but every report about the enemy’s activity was vague in the extreme. The only thing that was certain was that Russ was there and that any interference really upset him.
‘So, Morgan, if we get Brigade to light things up with star-shells, I reckon you could roll the enemy up from over yonder...’ Hume pointed over the parapet to the right with a pencil, ‘...take some of the bigger pits, hold them and then dig a sap back here so that you can link them to the main position. Will you be ready by tomorrow night? It’ll all have to be very carefully timed and co-ordinated with the guns.’
‘I will, sir,’ Morgan wasn’t at all sure that he would, but wasn’t going to say so.
‘Fine, you plan it, then tie it up with the adjutant. I should think twenty men and your best sergeant...’ Hume looked meaningfully at Keenan, ‘...led by a subaltern would do it; but you must decide the details, Morgan.’
‘Thank you, sir: I’ll lead it myself.’
***
Ensign Parkinson was disappointed. The rumour, or ‘shave’ as the men called it, that a raid was going to take place had been circulating for days and as the only officer present, Parkinson had assumed that he wouldn’t just lead it, he would lead it to glory.
‘There’ll be plenty of other opportunities for you to get yourself killed, young Parkinson, and don’t think I don’t appreciate your pluck...’ Had Morgan really heard himself calling another officer ‘young’? ‘...but I need to get the feel of the enemy’s positions myself before we get involved in anything bigger. But, you’ve been out with the men longer than McGucken and me...’ unconsciously, he was picking up some of Major Hume’s tricks, ‘...and I’d like your advice on which ones to take.’
The boy brightened as he sat in the dugout with his company commander and colour-sergeant. The fact that Sergeant Keenan would be second-in-command of the operation was already assumed and now they had to draw up the rest of the list. Under Parkinson’s direction they picked reliable private soldiers and the non-commissioned officers who could be spared from other essential tasks and who weren’t too tired.
‘And you ought to take Corporal Pegg,’ Parkinson concluded, ‘he’s damn good in a tight corner and handles the men well.’
Morgan looked at McGucken who said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow, ‘Well, if you recommend him, Parkinson, that’s fine by me.’ Morgan scribbled his name down, ‘I’ve told the men to wear their sea-smocks, sir—I’ll get one for you,’ said McGucken.
The coarse, canvas smocks that were issued to the men when afloat to protect their uniforms from tar, had been dyed brown and were increasingly de rigueur for trench duty. Most other regiments wore them routinely, but in the formal 95th, it had been decreed that they would only be worn for special tasks.
‘An’ Sergeant Keenan’s getting some clubs made for to cosh the poor bloody prisoners.’ That wasn’t like McGucken, thought Morgan. He’d seen him despatch any number of Russians without any sign of remorse—now he was sympathizing with them. Perhaps his wound had mellowed him.
The day passed too quickly. By the time Morgan had scoured the ground again with his glass and talked to the four men who had patrolled there most recently, he was late for his meeting with the Gunner subaltern who was waiting for him in the dugout. The man was impatient. What to Morgan was life or death, to the artilleryman was very routine, for all that these infantrymen wanted was enough light to let them see the enemy’s position once they had found the edge of it. There was no preparatory bombardment needed from his mortars, nor any protective fire once the job was complete—that would require careful timings and fussy fusing—it was just a simple, illumination job. Yet this jumpy-looking captain wanted to know every last detail.
‘So you’ll fire your first round once you see my green rocket, will you?’ Morgan asked.
‘Yes, as I said before, you’ll have to judge it a bit cleverly because it’ll take about twenty-five seconds for the star-shell to light up fully, then you’ll get constant light for the next eight minutes.’ The gunner tried to be patient.
‘It’s vital that we don’t have any of those patches of darkness halfway through the assault.’ Morgan was aware that he’d made the point before.
‘No, of course not,’
the Gunner said as breezily as he could, ‘but I can’t absolutely guarantee the fuses: we do have some tricky ones occasionally. You should be all right, though.’
Should be all right, though, thought Morgan to himself. It was fine for this base-rat sitting warming his hands on his mortars, drinking tea whilst he and the boys gave the enemy some target practice. But he mustn’t show how worried he was. The last thing that Morgan wanted was a gang of Gunners sniggering at stories of the reluctant 95th.
‘They look fine, no damp or mildew there.’ The Gunner threw a perfunctory look over the two green signal rockets that the Quartermaster had provided. ‘Good luck, then.’
***
Before they came into the trench system, Morgan had given careful orders: they’d rehearsed how they would fight through each enemy pit and how prisoners would be handled; how they would dig a link back to the company and which eight men would remain in the new position. Then bayonets had been taped tightly to muzzles to stop them rattling; digging tools were carefully secured and wrapped in hessian to prevent any scraping, whilst each man was dressed in his muddy-brown sea-smock, just a pouch, scabbard and water-bottle on his belt. McGucken had been there to oversee the issue of extra bandages and two spiking nails to everyone before hot broth and an extra tot of rum were issued. Then he watched them file off silently, wishing that he was going too.
By ten o’clock it was pitch-black. After the twists, turns and trips that any trench journey involved, the raiders had arrived at the point from which they were to leave the forward sap. Now they waited quietly, no moon showing and the guns unusually quiet.
‘Sir, we need to check that no one’s weapon is at half-cock.’ Keenan was clucking around the men quietly but purposefully. ‘We don’t want a percussion cap falling-off just when we need it most.’
‘Yes, of course, Sergeant Keenan, get the non-commissioned officers to see to that, and get the men to draw socks over their boots now, if you please.’ Keenan bustled off amongst the dark figures, whispering instructions to the corporals.
‘Gi’ it ‘ere, you bloody crow.’ Just at Morgan’s elbow Corporal Pegg berated a soldier in a venomous whisper, grabbing the man’s weapon as he fumbled with the hammer. ‘An’ hurry up getting them socks over yer boots, d’you want Russ to hear us before we’ve even started, you twat?’
Morgan wondered at Pegg. In a few minutes’ time he might have to trust his life to the very man whom he had just humiliated—not a wise move. He’d speak to him about it later—if there was a later. Now he had no time for anything other than to crouch at the bottom of the trench and stare at his watch, dimly lit by the shrouded lantern that one of the corporals carried. Slowly the hands crept towards ten-past ten whilst Morgan imagined the gun crews, Hume, McGucken and the rest of the company waiting and listening for the first shot, the first yell. He wondered if the Russians were waiting as well.
Then it was time. As quietly as he could he levered himself onto the parapet, the men to left and right of him doing the same. There he crouched until all of them were out of the trench, then he beckoned them to stand, before the front twelve moved off, the second wave of eight—who were to hold the ground they took—just behind. The men stepped carefully whilst Morgan held his signal rocket ready, his fingers tight around its wire initiator. If the enemy fired first then he would launch the signal, but if they could get up to the rifle pits and silently overwhelm the sentries, then he would delay as long as possible.
The line moved quietly on. There was no light to flash on the levelled steel blades and the troops were silent in their muffled boots until, with a curse and a stifled cry one of the men on the left of the line fell headlong into a hole. For a second there was silence then all the devils in Moscow were let loose. Shouts and cries, Morgan crouching, confused, Keenan sprinting hard, the two men with clubs panting along behind. Then thumps, whimpers and more shouts before silence again.
‘Got two of ‘em, sir. Hennon stepped on one—teach ‘em not to sleep on duty, won’t it?’ Keenan was exhilarated. His two bruisers supported one injured Russian between them whilst nudging another with a cudgel.
‘Good, well done all of you. Take the prisoners back, you two: report to the Colour-Sergeant.’
With a quiet ‘sir’, the two men were away, but what to do now? Certainly, they’d stumbled over one trench, taken prisoners and, amazingly, remained undetected. But Morgan still had no idea where the other trenches were. The men lay or crouched, their pale faces just visible in the darkness, all looking to him for orders.
‘Right, your honour, which way now?’ Keenan whispered.
‘I...I’m not...just wait and listen a moment, Sergeant Keenan.’ Morgan bought himself time.
It was a curious relief when a low, incomprehensible voice growled through the darkness. What it said, no one knew, but it was certainly a challenge that was repeated when there was no reply from the British. A second passed, two before Pegg piped up, ‘Tsar Nicholas.’ It was an old trick but Pegg had seen it work before.
Not this time. The reply was a bang and a gout of flame that stained the eye, an angry shout, then nothing. The British sank to a crouch: more bellowed commands followed by more, tense silence.
Morgan looked about him, desperately wondering what to do whilst Keenan quivered with excitement beside him and said in a loud whisper, ‘Come on then, your honour let’s get at ‘em.’
But before Morgan could make a decision there was another yell close at hand and a ripple of fire that sent one of the men sprawling in the dark, a metallic ring coming from his shovel.
‘Shoot at ‘em, boys, for Christ sake!’ At last Morgan acted, but despite the preparations and rehearsals, he failed to tell only one half of the party to fire. As a result, the imprecise, panicky order caused everyone to fire blindly in the dark—and in an instant all the weapons were empty.
‘Reload, then, quick as you can.’ Keenan whirled on the men, realizing the emergency. If half the men had held their fire—as they’d been trained to—they would be able to resist whatever the enemy’s next move was. Now they were utterly vulnerable as each man grappled with ramrod and cartridge in the pitch-black.
‘No, sir, wait...’ But Keenan’s plea was too late. Morgan had been fumbling with his rocket; pulling at the wire loop that would ignite it. Then, with a fan of flame and a mushroom of smoke, the giant firework fizzed into the sky until it burst high above, shedding a sinister green light over all of them.
Almost before the rocket reached its zenith there was an echoing bang from their own mortars and half a minute later the whole landscape was lit by a great, blazing ball that hung in the sky, dripping phosphorus. It was just as the gunners had promised, except that the wind carried the illumination behind Morgan’s party, silhouetting them for the Russians who were now firing as hard as they could from their pits. Bullets whirred and buzzed, drying Morgan’s throat in an instant, just as they always did. The men had gone to ground as the lead sang, making reloading almost impossible whilst a series of thumps and flashes came from deep inside The Quarries.
‘Jaysus, sir, we don’t need that fucking light...’ Keenan didn’t need to whisper now. They both looked into the sky as the star-shell fell at the end of its parabola. But, as its light began to fade, another round erupted just as brilliantly. ‘Can’t we stop it, your honour?’
‘No, we’ll get continuous light now until...’ But the end of Morgan’s sentence was drowned out by the crashing arrival of the Russian mortar salvo that they had just heard being fired. Shells exploded across the top of the British lines, orange-yellow flashes ripping the night apart, momentarily brighter than the star-shells. There they crouched—a curtain of fire cutting off their retreat, weapons useless and everything lighter than day.
‘All we need now is a bloody counter-attack,’ Morgan yelled to Keenan as they both tried to press themselves into the earth.
And that’s what they got. The enemy had, obviously, been expecting just such a raid by the
British for they were out of their trenches and yelling in what seemed like seconds. In the juddering light, Morgan and his men could just see darting figures a hundred paces in front of them, rising, ducking and firing: a flurry of bullets whirred and cracked about them. Then to their right more shouts and stabs of flame—the enemy were skirmishing forward by half-companies, one half loading then firing whilst the other half moved.
Not that it made a damn bit of difference to the raiding party. All that they knew was that walls of disciplined lead were sweeping over them, pinning them to the ground whilst their enemies got closer and closer. Over to Morgan’s left, the wounded man’s moans rose and fell, but no one dared to go to help him.
‘Sir, we can’t just lie here,’ yelled Keenan, cheek flat against the earth, ‘what’ll we do?’
Morgan didn’t know—he could hardly think. The flickering light, the din of the artillery, the flying metal and the noise of the wounded were horribly confusing. In daylight it was all so much easier—your enemy was there in front of you, coming on like soldiers—that was how it was meant to be. Now they dodged and jumped in the dark, leaping from holes and dips, yelling like demons whilst his own, stupid, bloody artillery made it so much easier for them. He quivered with indecision.
‘Your honour, come on, we must do something.’ Keenan was right. The first wave of Russians were close now, too close—he could see their long sword-bayonets gleaming in the light. To do nothing meant certain death: they must fight or run.
Then it was simple. What was it his father had said? These men needed ‘...every bit of leadership they could get’, and he wasn’t going to shame his family and the regiment and, more to the point, he was no Carmichael.
‘Get up you lot...’ Morgan rose, shouting above the racket, the hesitation, the trembling temporarily gone. He’d done all this before—the chaos of the Alma, that free-for-all on Shell Hill, then Inkermann: suddenly he didn’t care if he survived; all that mattered were the men around him and the goddamn Muscovites. Shouting for the troops to follow, Morgan ran at the enemy, dragging his pistol from his belt.
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