To Do and Die

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘Well you won’t see much up there...’ Morgan mumbled in reply, tinkering with his own telescope, he’d paid almost ten pounds in Dublin for this new one, ‘...it’s so much higher than we are and all the fire will be high-angle to get at the buggers down in the depths of the place. There’s a hell of a racket going on though, and see how far our lads have got the parallels.’ They both studied the freshly-dug lines of trenches that were snaking closer and closer to their objective.

  ‘Aye, if we jump off from the closest, I reckon it’ll only be about three hundred paces.’ McGucken was right, but they were both thinking the same thing: unless there’s supporting fire then three hundred paces was more than enough distance to lose an entire company.

  Impressed by the concentrated destruction and grimly satisfied with as much as they had gleaned about the forthcoming assault, the two men left their viewpoint, pushing past a few other infantrymen who were studying their own objectives and a host of others from the commissariat and Staff who had come just to be nosey.

  Pegg was waiting for both of them a little way to the rear. ‘Jesus, sir, there’s a right old din going on, ain’t there, I ‘ope it’s all one way?’ His hands covered his ears, purely for dramatic effect.

  ‘Most of it is, Corporal Pegg. You seen anything from up here?’ Morgan asked.

  Not really, sir. Whole bunch o’ Frogs marched over that hillside yonder.’ Pegg pointed up to the left where the French gun-lines were deep in smoke. ‘Looked like them dirty Zouave buggers an’ a brigade of Algerians. Can I borrow your nice new glass for a minute, please sir?’

  ‘Aye, but be careful with it.’ Morgan handed over his precious telescope to Pegg whilst he and McGucken peered hard to try to make out where the French might be massing. By the time they looked back at Pegg he was scouring the parapets where they had both just been.

  ‘What have yous seen, Corporal Pegg?’ McGucken asked.

  There was a pause for Pegg was concentrating hard. Eventually, ‘Would you look at that, Colour-Sar’nt. One of them blanket-stackers has brought his tart up with him from Ballyklava: she’s got a prime arse on her.’

  ***

  Now, lads, this’ll be where Russ is concentrated. With a bit of luck the guns will have done the job for us and all we’ll have to do is occupy the ground—but don’t bet on it.’ Morgan pointed to the very centre of his sand-model of The Quarries—the Grenadier Company’s target.

  Until the night before, nobody had been told anything beyond the briefing that Morgan had received from Hume two weeks ago. The company had continued their lectures and weapon training whilst all the time listening to the increasing racket of the artillery and watching companies from other regiments in the 2nd Division going through similar routines, knowing full well that the attack must be imminent, but being told nothing beyond what they’d guessed.

  Then it all happened at once. Just before lunch-time a runner had arrived direct from Brigade telling Morgan to report to Colonel Shirley for instructions and informing him where ‘specialist stores’ could be picked up. As he trotted off to get his orders, McGucken plunged the company into a vortex of preparations, issues and inspections and when he returned two hours later, the previously orderly scene was like a wasps’ nest that had been knocked from the eaves. Dry rations had arrived and were being dished out, spiking nails and fougasse markers lay in bundles for each corporal’s section, every man had been given an extra pouch of twenty rounds to be carried on their belts and a pile of coloured signal rockets was being divided up by Sergeant Ormond.

  Now that the non-commissioned officers had done their work, Morgan assembled the company in front of the model of The Quarries faithfully made from sand by Sergeant Keenan and Peters. The pair had tried to pretend that the nine square yards of sand bordered by pegged lines of thick twine was simply one of Paddy Morgan’s latest fads, but as they laboured with charts and diagrams, cut miniature trench lines and piled tiny hillocks, its real purpose was impossible to disguise. Troops going to and from the cookhouse would stop and offer advice and adjustments and in no time everyone knew precisely where they were to assault—but not when.

  So, after an early supper, before the light faded, the men were assembled around three sides of the model, belching gently, most still sipping tea from their mugs, almost every man puffing at a pipe. They were relaxed but expectant, tense but eager to know when they would ‘jump the bags’.

  For almost an hour Morgan went through the French plan, routes, forming-up points, the tasks of the 49th’s company that would be in front of them and the party of 55th who were behind, what to do with casualties and prisoners and where extra ammunition would come from. Most important of all, though, was the heart of the Russian position and its mortars.

  ‘We’ll get supporting fire from Major Armstrong’s party and then launch ourselves from this part of the main sap...’ Morgan pointed to a half-inch-deep squiggle in the sand, ‘...and once that’s taken, boys, The Quarries will be ours. The Redan can be outflanked and then it’s on your marks for the Sevastopol Steeplechase.’

  After so much concentration, the men laughed out loud, feeding off Morgan’s confidence.

  ‘Any questions?’ But there was none. He looked round the ranks of faces as the light faded, keen, trusting, very different from the set of lads that McGucken and he had inherited just a few weeks ago. How many of them would be able to look each other in the eyes this time tomorrow, he wondered?

  Well before dawn they were woken, fed and paraded, every man a jumble of sticks, stakes and shovels as the non-commissioned officers inspected them by the light of lanterns. As Morgan approached, each man was being made to jump up and down a few times to ensure that his equipment didn’t rattle.

  ‘Right, that’ll do, listen-in.’ McGucken’s voice penetrated even the crescendo of the guns. ‘Company, company, ‘shun.’ The men banged their heels together, standing stiff as posts.

  ‘Sir, one officer and sixty-three men of the Grenadier Company, Ninety-Fifth Regiment on parade, awaiting your orders.’ Even in his sea-smock and covered in kit, McGucken was magnificent.

  ‘Thank you, Colour-Sergeant, fall the men into columns, order of march as detailed.’ Morgan went through the ritual, turning stiffly to his left before marching to the flank of the company. Orders were bawled, the troops stamped and turned and the slab of men was converted into a thin, sinuous snake. ‘Right, lads, follow me,’ and with just one word of command from a corporal, all of them stepped out behind him.

  Follow me, thought Morgan as they started the mile and a half through the ravines that would lead to their assembly point. The cliffs towered either side of them as the dawn broke and he wondered what lay ahead and how he would manage. There could be no dithering this time, no indecision. Suddenly his mind flew back to his first taste of blood at the Alma, when he’d grappled with that foul-breathed rifleman near the riverbank. He remembered how the eyes of his men had seemed to bore into him, expecting him to lead. Now that tickle went up his spine again in just the same way.

  By the time they’d cleared the Careening Ravine, climbed up the track to the rear of the last parallel, found the 49th and settled down in a fold in the ground, the guns were hammering harder than ever. Occasionally, a heavy round would skip over their position, or a shell burst off to a flank, tokens of the remaining Russian resistance from the Redan to their front. So, the soldiers were told to stay within the cover that the banks and sandbag lip provided, whilst McGucken, Ensign Parkinson and Morgan went forward to see what was what.

  ‘The Frogs are in the Mamelon, ain’t they, Colour-Sar’nt?’ Parkinson’s young eyes had picked a floating tricolour from the depths of smoke and dust that hung above the shattered earthwork to their left.

  ‘Where...yes, I see it,’ Morgan had his glass on the scene of devastation as ripples of fire poured from the French guns into the Malakoff whilst, just discernible through the flying muck, columns of French infantry trotted up into the assault.

/>   ‘I never seen gunfire like this, sir.’ McGucken was almost transfixed with professional interest. ‘See how our guns are punishing The Quarries and the Redan.’

  Certainly, the walls of the Great Redan, the ultimate target of the British, were punctured in any number of places whilst the shells and roundshot received hardly any reply from its garrison. Above The Quarries a great pall had spread suggesting, they all hoped, fires and damnation inside.

  ‘No, Colour-Sar’nt, you’re right. I hope it ain’t bad luck to say it, but I think that we might be in for an easier ride than people expect. We may be told to bounce straight onto the Redan—Christ, I hope I’m right,’ but Morgan immediately regretted his optimism.

  ‘Sir, Major Hume wants you back in the main position.’ In the gunfire, none of them had heard the young private who had been sent forward to announce the visitor. Morgan hadn’t thought that his commanding officer might be present as the whole operation had been placed under the hand of another, but it was typical of the man. There he was, lying chatting above the noise with the men, the adjutant by his side, both puffing away at cheroots.

  ‘Hello, sir, good to see you,’ Morgan had to shout to make himself heard above the cacophony. He slumped down on the ploughed ground next to Hume.

  ‘Good to see you, too, Morgan. I’ve just been talking to Cattray here.’ Morgan wished that Hume had picked one of the more wholesome youngsters. ‘He tells me it’s going to be a walk-over and that the Grenadiers are going to be in Sevastopol before the morning.’

  Morgan quickly revised his opinion of Cattray, ‘I’m sure he’s right, sir. I see you’ve brought Father Mountford with you.’ Morgan looked across behind an embankment where the priest was busy administering the sacraments to the Catholic soldiers. His spectacles shone in the sunlight as his right thumb smeared at the foreheads of five men who knelt before him.

  ‘I have: I’ll leave him with you. I wasn’t expecting the guns to have made as good a job as they have, the adjutant and I are going back to get the rest of the regiment in fighting trim, just in case they go on to the Redan.’ Hume had made just the same assessment that he had. ‘And Morgan, one more thing;’ Hume pulled him off to one side so that they couldn’t be overheard, despite the noise. ‘You’ve made a damn fine start with the company. The whole Regiment will be watching you and your boys today, you know.’

  What did he mean? wondered Morgan. Hume was always courteous and a skilful leader, encouraging others by his own example—today he was positively gushing. In this tight-buttoned military society, no one bandied those sorts of sentiments about unless they were truly worried about you.

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you.’ Even as Morgan whittled at these words, Hume was up, patting Private Cattray lightly on the calf and waving Father Mountford towards Morgan. The priest dumped himself down on the bank next to him.

  ‘Just given some young lads of yours a bit of spiritual mettle,’ Mountford yelled, his black top-coat already wet with mud.

  ‘Thank you, Father. The Protestants all went to the last church parade—it was thoughtless of me not to ask for your services.’

  ‘No matter, Morgan, they’re now all as ready for what lies ahead as I can make them. That Sergeant Keenan is a grand man, ain’t he?’ Morgan had noticed Keenan in the row of communicants. ‘Had no idea that you knew him from home and that he’s married to the lass that seems to run your hospital single-handed.’ Mountford sounded as if he was making small talk after Sunday Mass rather than shrieking under gunfire and Morgan warmed to him—until he spoilt it.

  ‘Gather you know her as well?’ Had the priest’s eyes narrowed a little? What on earth had Keenan been saying?

  ‘Good luck, Morgan, the men think the world of you—and we all know what you’ve been through already.’ Mountford clasped his shoulder, his mouth close to Morgan’s ear.

  But Morgan was too bemused to reply, he simply nodded. He had visions of the cuckolded Keenan telling the priest not just about his officer’s misdoings with his wife, but also about his cowardice. And why did he try to sugar the pill with all that, ‘the men think the world of you’ and ‘we all know what you’ve been through’, nonsense? Bloody priests.

  ***

  What had Finn, the groom, said back in Ireland? Something about the army always being in an indecent rush just to keep you hanging about in one fly-blown hole of a place or another? That’s just what had happened now. One minute they’d been waiting well to the rear, next a breathless guide from the 49th had arrived with a garbled message about the French moving faster than everyone expected, that the attack had been brought forward and, ‘Major Armstrong’s compliments, sir, but the Ninety-Fifth had best get off of their fat arses.’

  So they had. They’d trotted as fast as they could in one long file up the winds, saps and traverses as the guns sang overhead until the guide had shown them where the 49th were, in the forward parallel just to their left front. Then, as Finn predicted, they hung about for an hour or more in shallow trenches where they only had room to crouch, where there was no water other than their own bottles and any movement attracted rifle fire from The Quarries just a couple of hundred paces up the slope from them. But this time it wasn’t any old fly-blown hole of a place, it was a very frightening hole of a place indeed.

  At least their own fire was overwhelming. Howitzer shells cracked above the target, mortar rounds plunged in incessantly and roundshot whirred flat over their heads before bouncing and ploughing through the Russian embrasures. It was impressive, but so close that every man in the company clung to the earth walls of the trench, most with their eyes closed against the torment of noise.

  Then, over to Morgan’s left, there was a shout. ‘There, sir, yellow over green.’ Keenan yelled the link-man’s warning down to Morgan. Arching up into the dusk were two rockets fired by Major Armstrong, the ‘make-ready’ signal.

  ‘Ball cartridge, load.’ Even before Morgan said it, the command was being passed up and down the trench, the men grappling with pouches, fumbling with ramrods as they half-crouched, half-sat in the shallow scrape. The signal not only warned the assaulting troops of all the companies, it also told the guns to lay-on one last concentration before the infantry sprang from the earth. Single shots were now indiscernible as one long shriek of hot metal bounded, stung and seared the target.

  Now, Duffy, it’s the devil’s own job ain’t it?’ To Morgan’s left, Private Duffy was curled-up like a question-mark grappling with rifle and cartridge whilst desperately trying to keep his head below the parapet. Loading a rifle when standing upright was tricky enough; crouched like this it was close to impossible. Duffy was biting time and again at a cartridge, trying to rip open the paper, but failing. It was made no easier for him, Morgan noticed, by his violently trembling hands and his tight-shut eyes from which he peeped only when absolutely necessary. But when the officer spoke he answered well.

  ‘Aye, sir, it’s a right bitch trying to tear cartridge when you’ve got no front teeth.’

  Morgan squeezed past Duffy, smiled and patted him on the shoulder as he did so. ‘Well, I tell you what, Duffy, my lad, we gave each other a much worse time in the ring than this bunch of Muscovites up yonder will.’

  The soldier gave a gappy grin at this, but Morgan noticed how weak his own knees were as he crouched down amongst the troops. They laboured with ramrods and percussion caps as he bobbed his head above the parapet. The Quarries were now almost entirely obscured by slowly drifting smoke, but over to his left he just caught sight of a ripple of bayonet blades catching the last glimmers of the evening light. As he watched the next cry went up.

  ‘Green over green, sir.’ He’d seen both rockets already and as they flew, figures scrambled from the dark scar of earth in front of them, pulling each other from the trench, wiping loose soil from their weapons.

  As the 49th rose, so the artillery lifted. One lone gun fired late, the rest were as silent as they had been deafening. They heard a cheer from the 49th as they shook ou
t, and then Morgan gave the command they all expected.

  ‘Grenadiers, fix bayonets.’ Jesus, how the steely song made cold prickles canter up your spine.

  ‘Prepare to move.’ The non-commissioned officers repeated the order along the sap as Morgan held his yellow rocket ready. This rocket—the same colour as the regiment’s cuff-facings—would tell the Staff that the second assault wave was about to move: a blue one shot up from the storming party of the Light Division over on his right. A quick check left and right showed him that the men were ready, then he pulled at the loop of the wire igniter. The trench was instantly filled with smoke as the rocket lifted.

  ‘Jesus and Joseph but you love them fireworks, don’t you, your honour?’ Keenan chaffed him as they both coughed and blinked.

  ‘Come on boys, let’s be at ‘em!’ The men scrabbled and stumbled over the bags. ‘Check your pouches, form on me.’ A babel of cheers, encouragements and cursing swelled as they rose onto the open slope. Morgan’s balls shrivelled to nothing as he pulled at a wooden stake, levering himself out of the trench and to the head of his company.

  The line of men plodded along unevenly, weapons ready, sixty tongues licking one hundred and twenty lips, watching the 49th a hundred paces in front and the louring, smoky, broken defences of The Quarries.

  Still no enemy fire. Their own guns had started again, pummelling the Redan and other forts, but in front of them there was no resistance. The 49th were slowly bunching, clambering and pushing their way up the mounds of shot-ploughed spoil, split sandbags and ruptured gabions, when the gathering dark was lit by a vivid flash and a spread-hand of flame. There were shouts of pain.

  ‘All right, lads, it’s only a fougasse...’ Morgan heard Lance-Corporal Pegg quietly encouraging the same two boys whom he’d punished a few days ago, ‘...watch where yer stepping.’

  There was a spatter of rifle fire from inside The Quarries, a shouted cheer, then it was the 95th’s turn to haul them-selves into the earthwork. They were suddenly in the belly of the very monster that had hurled death at them for so many months—but how dangerous would its death throes be? Morgan pulled himself through a torn and scarred embra-sure, grabbing the trunnions of a great naval gun whose muzzle had been gouged by their own fire. He saw bright, ragged gashes in the dull gun-metal of the barrel whilst three bundles of grey cloth lay scattered about. No faces or hands showed, just boots and coats torn by splinters, the coarse cloth wicking the dark blood away from the crew’s death wounds.