by Saul David
So much for the diversionary attack, thought George, as he watched from the hospital roof. The star shells were still arcing up into the night sky and throwing an eerie light onto the now empty battlefield in front of the south wall. There was a brief lull and then the storm broke with increased ferocity on George's sector.
It began with a mighty roar as ten thousand Afghan throats shouted their battle cry 'Allahu Akbar!' ('God is Great!') and a storm of fire was opened onto the unfinished wall, the field hospital and the entrenchment that linked it to Bimaru village. Then, as the two sounds mingled in a deafening clamour, the Afghans attacked in human waves. At first George found it hard to distinguish the attacking masses in the grey dawn, but as they got closer he could see they were led by fanatical Ghazi warriors dressed in white and waving green standards, and backed up by tribesmen in black and former soldiers in red. The majority seemed to be heading for the shallow trench system and wooden stockade on George's left that covered the four-hundred-yard gap between the hospital and Bimaru village.
'Wait for it! Wait for it!' shouted Havildar Singh.
George squinted down the sights of his Snider, the trigger cold against his finger. The nearest Afghans were four hundred yards away, and well within range, but still the havildar waited because Roberts had ordered the troops to hold fire until the very last moment. George glanced to his left, past Ilderim to the trenches beyond, and wondered what the Guides were thinking as thousands of Afghans bore down on their exposed position. George himself was in a relatively secure spot, behind a parapet twenty feet above the ground, yet his mouth still felt dry and his palms sweaty. He wiped his trigger hand on his trousers and took a last swig from his water bottle. The liquid tasted brackish and he spat it over the parapet.
On raced the Ghazis, and the range was down to a hundred and fifty yards or so, and virtually point blank, when the havildar bellowed, 'Fire!'
George gently squeezed the trigger and felt a buzzing in his ears and a sharp pain in his shoulder as the rifle recoiled, throwing the foresight off the big Ghazi he had been aiming at. For a few seconds his view, and that of his neighbours, was obscured by a thick wreath of smoke from the black cartridges they had fired. As it cleared he could see no sign of the Ghazi and assumed he was one of many lying prone in the snow, their gaping wounds staining the white landscape with vivid patches of red. But for every casualty another twenty warriors were racing towards the east wall, determined to get to grips with the hated infidel.
At Singh's command, the men on the hospital fired successive volleys into the onrushing mass, as did the troops on either side. Shell fire and case shot from the artillery on the heights added to the maelstrom of flying lead and steel. Yet still the attackers kept coming, though they had resorted, like the Zulus at Isandlwana, to short rushes from one piece of cover to the next, while others used their marksmanship to pick off the defenders.
George was leaning forward to load his Snider when a bullet ricocheted off the parapet in front of him and into the neck of the soldier on his right. The man tried to staunch the flow of bright red arterial blood with his hand, but it kept spurting between his fingers, spraying George and even Ilderim beyond. George tore open a dressing and clamped it on the wound, only to find a much bigger gash on the back of the man's neck where the bullet had exited. A second dressing was applied, but by now the soldier was choking on his blood, his frightened eyes pleading for help. George wanted to lay him down, to comfort him in his last few minutes of life, but he was reminded of the harsh realities of war by Havildar Singh.
'Leave him and pick up your rifle, you bloody fool! If those buggers down there get a foothold in the fort, we're done for,' he shouted, drawing his hand across his throat.
Horrified by the havildar's callousness, George was about to tell him to go to hell. But then he remembered that the havildar was, for the moment, his military superior and, more importantly, he was right. This was no time for sentiment. So he held his tongue, wiped the dying man's sticky blood from his face and resumed his place on the parapet.
The noise of battle was, if anything, even louder, yet the smoke from the defensive fire had drifted across the battlefield, making it hard for the defenders to target their foe. Many Ghazis had taken advantage of this and George could see groups of the white-clad warriors emerging from the obstacles of telegraph wire that had been placed just thirty yards ahead of the trench to their left. He snapped off a shot and missed as more Afghans broke through the obstacle and raced for the barrier of trees that protected the trench. 'Havildar, look!' shouted George, pointing towards the danger. 'The Guides are about to be swamped. Let me take thirty men to reinforce them.'
The havildar swivelled his head and, for just a moment, considered the seriousness of the situation. George fully expected him to refuse permission and a row to ensue. But the havildar surprised him. 'Go, and take every other man from the parapet. We're safe enough here.'
George called out the order and the men fell in. 'Shall I come too, huzoor?' asked Ilderim who, by the havildar's calculations, was supposed to stay.
'Of course you must come,' said George, with a grin. 'I doubt I'd survive without you.'
George led the twenty or so men down the steps to the rear of the hospital where they joined one of the covered walkways that criss-crossed the cantonment and gave protection to the soldiers as they moved from one point to another. They soon came to a door that was roughly opposite the centre of the trench and George flung it open. Bullets were tearing up the ground all around, and smacking into the plastered wall on either side of the door, and it seemed the height of madness to leave the cover of the walkway. But one glance at the trench ahead was enough. The Ghazis had broken through the wooden barricades and were fighting hand-to-hand with the hard-pressed Guides in the trench, their curved tulwars slicing easily through bone and flesh.
'Fix bayonets!' howled George, as he drew from the scabbard his own triangular bayonet, just under two feet long, and fixed it to the muzzle of his Snider with a snap of his wrist. Satisfied that Ilderim and the men had done likewise, George led them out of the doorway with a yell. The centre of the trench, the scene of the heaviest fighting, was barely a hundred yards distant. Yet ten Punjabis fell crossing the exposed ground, and George felt his lungs might burst as he sprinted the last twenty yards, almost grateful to join the struggling mass and escape the hail of fire above ground.
He slithered into the shallow trench, little more than four feet deep with an earth parapet facing the enemy, and saw to his right two Ghazis about to despatch a fallen Guide with their Khyber knives. He quickly raised his Snider and shot one, causing the other to turn on him. With no time to reload, he lowered the weapon and skewered the charging Ghazi on his bayonet. But as he did so he saw from the corner of his eye another Afghan with upraised sword. Hauling his bayonet free, he swung round and parried the blow, the sound of steel on steel ringing out above the din and the impact jarring his arm. His wiry opponent glared at him and uttered an oath. George saw hatred in the Ghazi's eyes, and the complete absence of fear he would witness only in a religious warrior who believed he would go to Paradise if he fell in battle. George was far less sanguine about the afterlife and had no desire to find out the truth sooner rather than later. But as he made his move, thrusting his bayonet with as much force as he could muster, the Ghazi stepped deftly to the side and raised his tulwar for the killing blow. With no time to parry, George tensed his muscles in anticipation of the razor-sharp blade cutting into the unprotected flesh of his shoulder. But before the Ghazi could strike, his body stiffened and the sword fell from his lifeless fingers. Ilderim had shot him from the rear lip of the trench.
George waved his gratitude as the rest of their party leapt into the trench, tipping the balance the defenders' way. As the last Ghazi was cornered and killed, his body thrown from the trench, George felt his hand grasped by that of a young subaltern with a blond moustache and ice-blue eyes. 'I'm Lieutenant Duggan. You saved my life.'
'You were the soldier on the ground?'
'I was, and about to meet my Maker when you intervened. I'm very grateful.'
'Glad I could help.'
Dawn had broken at last and, with the repulse of the Ghazis' determined attack, a temporary lull seemed to have settled on George's sector of the battlefield. It was as if the Afghans were gathering their strength for a final effort and many of the defenders, George included, were fingering their trigger guards nervously as they peered over the earth parapet to the corpse-strewn ground beyond.
When the attack was resumed ten minutes later, it was directed not against the trench but against the fortified village of Bimaru to its left, and another small village called Khatir, only lightly held, that occupied the tactically vital gap between Bimaru and the heights above it. Looking north, George could see thousands of tiny figures advancing on both objectives, and he and the rest of the trench's defenders fired into the enemy host as fast as they could load. But so numerous were the attackers that this counter-fire had a negligible effect and it seemed to George that the assault must carry all before it. He held his breath as wave after wave of Afghans neared and then recoiled from the loopholed houses on the edge of Bimaru village, shot down in their hundreds by the rifles of the Guides.
Further north at Khatir, though, the attackers appeared to have gained a foothold. This was confirmed a short while later by Colonel Jenkins, the Guides' commander, who had come down to the trench from his command post in Bimaru village to thank the Punjabis for their timely intervention. 'Who's commanding the Twenty-Eighth here?' asked Jenkins.
'I suppose I am, sir,' said George, stepping forward.
'You? But you're a private.'
'Actually, I'm a captain, but General Roberts chooses not to recognise my rank.'
'Why ever not?'
'It's a long story, sir. I'd be happy to tell you when the battle's over.'
'I might hold you to that. In the meantime, please give my compliments to your company commander and tell him that his prompt action in sending you and your men to help us may have saved the garrison.'
'It wasn't his idea, sir. It was mine.'
'Yours?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, I'm very grateful to you, then, Captain . . .?'
'Hart, sir.'
'Well, Captain Hart, you'd better get back to your post. The Afghans have captured the village of Khatir, to the north of Bimaru, and from there can launch fresh assaults on both Bimaru and the heights. This fight is far from over.'
'Does General Roberts know, sir?'
'Of course. General Gough, who's in command of the heights and Khatir, sent him a message by internal telegraph, requesting reinforcements. Roberts's reply was that no men could be spared, as we were hard pressed elsewhere, and that Gough was to "hold on" at all costs.'
'But what if he can't?'
'Then we're all in trouble.'
George shook his head in disbelief. 'This is madness. If Roberts was on the spot, instead of safe in his headquarters, he'd surely release part of Baker's reserve. It's only a mile away, in the lee of the heights, and could be here in no time.'
'I agree with you, Hart. But as I'm a mere colonel, and he's a major general with a Victoria Cross, I'm hardly in a position to tell him that. Then again,' said Jenkins, scratching his beard, 'it wouldn't do any harm to repeat the original message. If I write it out, will you agree to carry it? Your personal observations just might make a difference.'
'Of course I will, sir, if you'll inform the Twenty-Eighth of my whereabouts.'
'Consider it done.' Jenkins pulled a pencil and notebook from his pocket, scribbled a quick message and handed it to George. 'Tell the general that I support Gough's request for reinforcements. The dyke's sprung a leak and we need to plug it.'
George smiled at the colonel's choice of metaphor. 'I will, sir. But may I take this man with me?' he asked, nodding towards Ilderim. 'He's my lucky charm.'
'By all means. If something happens to you, he can carry the message.'
Proceeding at a jog-trot, with Ilderim complaining most of the way, it took them a good fifteen minutes to negotiate the two miles that separated the north-east corner of the cantonment from Roberts's headquarters in the centre of the west wall. With the battle still raging, particularly against the south wall where the firing was incessant, George was grateful for the protection given by the covered walkways from stray bullets that rattled the tiles above them like rain.
At last they emerged into the low winter sunlight, close to the headquarters gate, and were shown the way to Roberts's office on the ground floor of the bastion by a private of the 5th Punjab Infantry, one of the regiments defending the west wall. Two more tall Punjabis guarded the entrance to the office, but George walked straight past them, leaving Ilderim to explain their business.
Having opened the door, George paused on the threshold. He was struck by the tense atmosphere in the room as Roberts and his staff - FitzGeorge among them - stood grouped round a central table spread with a huge map of the cantonment and the surrounding area, listening intently to a telegraph clerk delivering the latest situation report. It was from Brigadier General Macpherson, and seemed to confirm that the attack on the south wall was still at its height, though as yet no breach had been made.
'Very good,' said Roberts, still unaware of George's presence. 'Tell Macpherson to hold on. They can't keep this up for too much longer.'
The clerk saluted and returned to the telegraph room, at which point George announced his presence with a cough. All eyes turned to the doorway, though it was FitzGeorge who spoke first. 'Hart! What are you doing here? Who gave you permission to leave your post?'
'Colonel Jenkins. I have a message from him for the general,' said George, nodding towards Roberts.
'And why didn't he send it by telegraph?' asked Roberts.
'Because, sir, he wasn't convinced that a telegraph message would have the desired effect.'
'Ye gods!' snapped Roberts, his quick temper and bloodshot eyes showing the strain he was under. 'I'm plagued by little Napoleons. Well, bring it to me, then.'
George handed Roberts the slip of paper. Having read it, he frowned. 'This repeats General Gough's message.'
'I know, sir. Like General Gough, Colonel Jenkins is of the opinion that if you do not release reinforcements now we might not be able to hold on. By capturing Khatir, the Afghans are perfectly placed for further assaults, either against the heights or Bimaru village itself. They could break through at any time.'
'Yes, and they could break through elsewhere too. Do Gough and Jenkins think they're the only ones under attack?'
'Of course not.'
'Well, they're damn well behaving as if they do. That firing you can hear is coming from the south wall. It's been under attack for the best part of three hours and, according to the report we've just heard, the Afghan dead are piled before it in heaps. So if I do release the reserves, and there's a breakthrough at the south wall, what then?'
George could hardly believe that a general famed for his tactical brilliance was being so cautious. But now, he realized, was not the time for sarcasm. 'I can't speak for General Gough or Colonel Jenkins, sir, but I doubt either of them is expecting you to send the whole reserve force to assist them, just some of it. The north-east section of the wall is, after all, the one the princess identified as the Afghans' chief target.'
'Certainly she did - but can we rely on her word?'
'I think we can, sir. The pattern of attacks so far seems to back up her assertion.'
Roberts turned to his chief of staff. 'What do think, MacGregor?'
The hard-bitten old soldier fingered his salt-and-pepper goatee. 'I don't suppose it would hurt, General,' he said, 'to send Gough a wing of Third Sikhs from Colonel Hills's sector above us. His men have hardly fired a shot. And that way we'll still have the reserve if we need it.'
'An admirable solution,' said Roberts, nodding. 'Give the order at once.'
'Of course, sir,' said MacGregor, scribbling a note and then handing it to an assistant.
Roberts turned to George. 'Satisfied?'
'It was not I, sir, who requested reinforcements.'
'No, but you've made it quite clear you agree with the request.'
'I do, sir, and so would you if you had seen at first hand the hair's breadth by which we held on to the trench between the hospital and Bimaru village.'
'Are you daring to criticize my generalship?' asked Roberts, his voice rising.
'No, sir, I'm simply saying the situation in the north-east sector is a little more precarious than you've been led to believe.'
'Is it? Then you won't mind telling us your solution to the problem, will you?'
George was a little taken aback by the question and took a moment to weigh his response. 'Well, as you ask, General, I'd recommend an immediate sortie by cavalry and horse artillery through the gap in the Bimaru Heights to take the Afghans in Khatir village in the flank. They might be expecting an assault from the front, but not the side.'
Roberts's eyes widened - he appeared to be looking at George with new respect. 'That's not a bad idea, young Hart. Not a bad idea at all. MacGregor, what do you think?'
'I think his plan has merit, General,' said the chief of staff, 'but now is not the time. The Afghans are still attacking in huge numbers and we need to weaken them further before we can risk a sortie.'
'But that's my point,' said George, his hands clasped. 'If we wait too long they may force a breach. At least this way we'd keep the initiative.'
Roberts seemed in two minds. 'Anyone else like to voice an opinion?'
'Yes, sir, I would,' said FitzGeorge. 'We know from spies' reports that our attackers number at least sixty thousand men. I doubt half that number has yet entered the fray, which means it might be extremely dangerous to take the initiative. Remember what happened the last time our cavalry got caught in the open by Afghan foot soldiers?'