by David Gilman
‘I saw him. We waited. Listen, the lad’s Irish. If I let him go he could talk. You keep him here awhile, then get to that Englishwoman at the camps; she’ll know what to do with him.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want him here.’
‘It was Hertzog’s idea. We’ve a battle coming up – he’d be a hindrance.’
‘And where do I put him?’
‘Anywhere you like.’
Edward pushed himself up against the wall, holding on to the small table for balance. ‘I don’t have to be here. I can look after myself.’
‘Oh aye, we’ve seen proof of that. A twenty-year-old rifle and a well-thumbed book of poetry won’t get you far in these parts,’ said Liam.
Sheenagh gnawed at her knuckle, holding her arm across herself. ‘Jesus, I don’t know...’
But as Edward slumped on to the floor she instinctively stepped towards him to help. Liam grabbed her arm.
‘Leave him be for now. Hertzog was going to kill him. I stopped him.’
‘And when did you get so soft-hearted and heap misery on to your own and other people’s heads?’ she said.
‘His name’s Radcliffe,’ he said tiredly.
‘The Dublin fella? His father?’
‘How many other Radcliffes do you know?’
She looked at Edward slumped back into the corner. Perhaps the boy wouldn’t live long enough for her to risk moving him. She nodded in acceptance. ‘The English... they’re gonna get behind your guns.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Late the following day Colonel Alex Baxter strode out of the Irish Brigade’s briefing. He and the half-dozen other officers said little to each other because they knew the task that lay ahead for each of their battalions was going to cost them dearly. Entrenched and rigid views from the high command allowed scant dissent and demanded the enemy see the courage of the British soldier. That would entail sacrifice, and be remembered as glory.
Lawrence Baxter saw his father shake hands with the other officers as each went on their way. He quickly fell in step next to him.
‘We are to be the lead regiment. We’re going to force a passage through the hills,’ the colonel told his son. ‘One of the strongest natural positions we’ve ever seen. Artillery will bombard the Boer gun positions.’ Baxter smiled grimly. ‘I’ll brief company commanders in an hour.’
‘They’ll let us wait until their artillery is silenced, though?’ the young man asked nervously.
Colonel Baxter shook his head. ‘There is a limited supply of ammunition and it’s going to be dark by the time we get to the Boer positions. They’re dug in on the forward slope of the hills. When we advance the artillery will do their best for us.’ He hesitated. ‘And once we get across the pontoon bridge the approach is along a narrow gorge. There’s no opportunity to advance in open order.’
Realization dawned on the young lieutenant. ‘Dear God, not closed order? They’ll cut us to shreds. Have they learned nothing from Paardeberg? We walk under their guns shoulder to shoulder?’ he said. All the men knew that only days before an assault further downriver had caused grievous loss to other regiments. One of Lord Kitchener’s commanders had advised that the artillery should lay a creeping barrage down to afford his infantry protection as they attacked. The advice had been ignored and elements of General Hart’s Irish Brigade had advanced in closed order and been mown down as they marched into the Boers’ rifle range. It was important, Kitchener had said, that the enemy see British courage: one man’s vainglory had slaughtered his own troops.
‘Yes. I’m afraid so,’ Colonel Baxter said. ‘Columns of four until we reach our position. The General will allow open order for the advance once we’re there. He’s under pressure from Kitchener who wants action and results.’
Lawrence was unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. ‘How many more men does he want slaughtered? Surely to God he’s learned –’
‘Lieutenant!’ Baxter reprimanded his son, turning his back to where his own officers waited. He placed a hand on his son’s arm. ‘We have our orders. It’s the only way we can attack. Let’s thank God for small mercies. At least the men will have a chance when the time comes.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lawrence answered. A greater loyalty was being tested than that felt between father and son.
‘Lawrence, we keep our fear to ourselves. Don’t let the men see it. They depend on us and it’s our duty to lead them. Let’s at least do what we can when we can – thirty paces between each man when we reach our forward position.’
Lawrence Baxter’s mouth was dry. ‘Of course, sir.’
The moment passed and father and son gazed across at the men who waited in their companies. ‘His argument is that we cannot control the men in open order. Platoon and company commanders are the linchpin but we must have the NCOs to keep them steady. First light is at four; we leave an hour afterwards. There’s no time for breakfast – see what you can do for your men. Biscuits, perhaps. Better than nothing. Good luck, my boy.’ He shook his son’s hand and turned away without another word. Brave lads – his brave lads – being mown down in a so-called glorious act of courage was no more than stubborn stupidity, the commander-in-chief’s. They had no choice in the matter – orders would be obeyed. If his part in the attack failed then others might suffer more. They were just a cog in the military machine. And that machine was in need of urgent repair.
The British had suffered a number of defeats over the previous weeks. Their advance had faltered, started again and then in a stumbling fashion had begun to pick up momentum. Under Lieutenant General Sir Redvers Buller, who commanded the forces in Natal, the pace had been slow and agonizing and the heat sapped men’s energy. Guns had been dragged up five-hundred-foot-high hills; at least some of the staff officers finally realizing that a creeping barrage could give their infantry the chance to get close to Boer positions, providing the artillery could be well placed and the location of the Boer trenches known. But as always success depended on the infantryman and his ability to kill the enemy. Taking each successive hill, fighting up and down the difficult terrain, would be costly.
Here and there kopjes interrupted the darkened landscape that had once sheltered Boer riflemen who had since been pushed back across the Tugela River. The broad river had to be forded by a pontoon bridge as other troops waded through chest-high water clinging to steel cables strung across by engineers. It would take almost six hours before Baxter’s battalion reached their position.
*
The Lancashire Brigade were across the Tugela and attacked up the rolling hills that curved like ocean swells above them. They and the other brigades had to reach the main Boer force dug in on the distant Pieter’s Hill. It was hard going that required grunting effort as the men struggled on carrying equipment and supplies. They had to get across the river and then clamber up the first undulating rock-strewn thousand-foot hill before they could reach the railway embankment that crossed its plateau. Beyond that was another hill, and then another. Wave after wave of them, until they reached the vast plain of Ladysmith fifteen miles beyond, where a beleaguered town waited, impatiently, to be relieved. Across all these heights the Boers were dug in. Gunners from the Royal Horse Artillery cantered their limbered horses across open ground hauling their 12-pounders behind them. They were an easy target as they halted to set their guns. Many had already fallen, smashed by Boer artillery as soon as they had their range. Man and horse were torn apart, often before a shell could be loaded into the breech. Ten thousand yards behind the British lines the Naval Brigade had hauled their 4.7-inch guns overland to hurl their projectiles across the advancing troops. But to what effect no one knew. All that was certain was that the Boers were still firing and that meant that the infantry had only their own courage to rely on.
The Irishmen swore and prayed in equal measure. It had been a two-mile march under fire.
‘Come on, come on, for Christ’s sake,’ Flynn muttered as the Royal Irish trudged on in closed formation a
round the base of the first hill. Rifle fire rattled from unseen Boers scattered among the rocks and shrubs; men fell, abandoned in their agony as the close-ordered men were forced to skirt a defile and face more sniper fire.
‘I’m fucked if I’m marching to my death,’ someone muttered, breath rasping with exertion and fear. ‘Come on! Open order. Come on. Jeezus! We’re like pigs to the slaughter! What the fuck are they waiting for?’
Men’s screams echoed down the line as they fell. An officer tumbled from his horse; the beast bucked free and ran. As each company reached their position they were sent up the hill, too narrow an attack to be effective, but a chance to break free from the lethal formation.
Men ducked as shellfire exploded above them, but kept marching until ordered otherwise. Shell bursts scoured the road ahead, forcing the column to falter; men dived for whatever cover they could find. Officers and NCOs bellowed their commands above the roar of explosions. Behind them a field artillery howitzer suddenly roared and laid shrapnel on to the high ground.
Baxter spurred his horse on at the head of the formation. He drew fire but miraculously was not hit. Whistles blew and trumpet calls finally allowed the men to abandon their suicidal formation. Cries of command echoed up and down the columns. Open order! Open order! Thirty paces!
They burst free like pigeons from a cage and quickly ran into a single extended line, each man putting thirty yards’ distance between himself and the next man, stumbling and jumping over their dead. Officers ran with them, corporals and sergeants staying with their sections and platoons, urging them to be steady. They were exposed from kopjes on their left and a lethal crossfire tore into them. They were brought down like ducks at a fairground shooting gallery. Then a howitzer found the Boers and their shells bought respite as the Royal Irish advanced. Progress would be agonizingly slow across the harsh landscape and although the morning was wet and cool following a rainstorm, the dusty ground had turned to a boot-hugging clay. Boer artillery had yet to be silenced, their 75-mm guns puffing out a lethal bombardment that had crept to within striking distance of the soldiers. The air hummed with shellfire. Shrapnel burst in all directions. Pockets of men fell as they held their ground; others steeled themselves for the dash across the open before they reached the higher ground of the rising hills that rolled back upon themselves like a gathering tide. No sooner would the men who survived the initial assault claim the first ridge than they would have to press on, fight the entrenched sharpshooters on the reverse slope and then start the process again against the second rising hill. The flanking hills were under siege by other regiments that had greater artillery support, but the Royal Irish were to go down the throat and dig out the Boers with rifle and bayonet.
Officers, pistol in hand, led the assault. Lawrence Baxter craved water, his mouth already dry with fear. But he held his ground and kept his eyes on the broken hills several hundred yards away. He flinched when shells exploded in no man’s land, but felt shame each time that he did. Squaring his shoulders to try and show the troops behind him that they could rely on him to lead them forward he watched as Colonel Baxter guided his horse along the line of soldiers, shouting over the increasing noise.
‘All right, lads, you wanted a fight, here it is!’
A salvo of British artillery peppered the distant hills.
‘We will advance in extended line.’ The men’s fear of what seemed to be a hopeless assault rippled like a caterpillar across their backs. Baxter rode to their front and stood in his stirrups, so all could see him, roaring so that all could hear: ‘Because those are our orders!’
He beckoned his orderly forward, who took the horse from him. Colonel Alex Baxter would lead his battalion from the front, on foot. ‘The battalion will advance!’
The barrage splintered the air as they ran across the exposed plateau. Lung-bursting fear drove them forward. If they could run hard and fast enough they would get beneath the artillery shells before the Boers could adjust their guns. Soldiers fell, their bodies ripped by shrapnel; dying men screamed and squirmed in agony; others lay contorted from the violence inflicted on them. There was no time to stop for those who survived; the rest just had to get through the smoke and terror. Above it all the colonel’s voice bellowed back and forth, urging his men on. Lawrence Baxter could barely keep pace as soldiers began to pass him, their hands clasping the wooden stock of their rifles, desperate to plunge the twelve-inch blade of their bayonets into any damned boojer that they could find. The urge to kill had overtaken their fear of dying. Men screamed with blood lust. None looked anywhere other than straight ahead; men disappeared in a storm of explosions. Wet shreds of a man splattered Lieutenant Baxter. He gasped in horror and smeared the blood from his face; tears stung his cheeks and he faltered. But then he felt raw hatred flood through him. The banshee wails of attacking men rang in his ears as he added to them his own primal scream.
*
Liam’s men sheltered in the boulder-strewn hillside, huddled with men from other commandos. The British artillery had concentrated on the distant ridges, not on these unseen men well concealed on the forward slopes behind slabs of rocks and shrubbery. Old and young alike waited, shoulder to shoulder, knowing that their own were being killed behind them. Explosions thundered down the hillsides, clouds of grey and black smoke from the impact of the high explosive lyddite shells that killed anything within a hundred yards. Distant figures of men engulfed in flames had fallen from the top of the hills. It would not be long before the Boer artillery fell silent, forced into retreat to save their guns. And that would leave the commandos alone to stop the British assault.
Colonel Baxter’s Irish had faltered under the Boer’s mind-numbing artillery fire and fallen back. Smashed bodies stained the veld. Men desperately sought cover that wasn’t there, pressing their faces into the coarse dirt, hunched behind anthills or lying, barely moving, scraping dirt with their mess tins into a shallow sangar in front of their faces. No banter escaped any man’s lips, but whispered prayers for God’s forgiveness were common enough.
Colonel Baxter clawed the ground.
‘Major Drew!’ He called for his second in command.
Ten yards behind Baxter’s right shoulder a dust-covered khaki-clad figure dared rise from the ground, zigzagged towards the colonel and then threw himself down.
‘Guns are falling silent, Henry,’ Baxter said. ‘We must make up lost ground and push on. Take your company on the flank before the Boers regroup and strengthen their positions. They’ll have more men in trenches than we realize and behind every damned boulder. We’ve got this far. We must not lose momentum again.’
‘I have no company commanders left, sir, only junior officers.’
Baxter knew the carnage that lay behind him. He had to ask the question but he dreaded the man’s answer: ‘My son?’
‘Took command of C Company.’
There was no hesitation in Baxter’s order: ‘Take him.’
Both men knew that survival that day might be nothing short of a miracle. Major Drew nodded, got to his feet and ran back.
Colonel Baxter looked to where his men lay like mounds of dust. The smoke from the artillery shells lingered in the dry, still air. Perhaps the drifting smoke might give them a few precious minutes before the Boer marksmen picked their targets.
He stood and called to his men, turning his back to the hidden enemy, and then pulled the khaki cover from the puggaree on his helmet, exposing the regiment’s band of colour.
‘All right, the Irish, let’s have you. Come on, my boys. Put a brave face on it. We’ve only to go forward. Who’s with me? Who’ll race me to the top of that damned hill?’
Frightened, but inspired, the men clambered up from their kneeling and lying positions. Shots began to buzz and crack. Adrenaline-fuelled fear brought them to their feet. Flynn gripped his rifle and shook it at Baxter.
‘You’re a mad bastard you are, colonel, and so must I be, by God!’
‘Flynn! You’ll be on field puni
shment!’ shouted Sergeant McCory.
‘Damned if I will, hey, colonel?’
Baxter laughed: ‘Damned if any of us will, lad. Come on the Irish! Come on!’
He turned and ran for the misshapen hill with the roar of his men’s cries bellowing behind him like a storm coming off the wild Irish Sea.
Seven hundred yards, and then six.
As the drifting smoke cleared and the artillery fell silent, the Irish emerged howling for the blood of their enemy. Liam and the others waited until the khaki-clad figures were two hundred yards from their positions and then, from somewhere on the hillside, one of the senior Boer commanders shouted the order to fire.
*
Barely a few hundred yards from the first line of Boer positions the Royal Irish flattened themselves into the dirt, scrambling to push whatever rocks they could find in front of them to deflect the Mausers’ bullets. British artillery boomed again, shells whooshing overhead as the naval guns fired beyond the Royal Irish positions, trying to knock out the Boer guns. The punishing explosions beat at a man’s skull, forcing tiredness into exhaustion. As night fell so did the artillery fire. Occasionally shots rang out as Boers listened for men’s voices in the darkness and fired in their direction. Cold, stiff and exhausted, the attacking troops took advantage of the darkness and remained on their bellies, pushing more rocks in front of their faces. Scattered groups of men huddled in the drizzle that only added to their misery. They stayed mostly silent and unmoving, thankful for the rest but desperate for water. Twelve hours of hard fighting across the broken ground had taken its toll on them all.
