The Elite

by Ranulph Fiennes

  After the Unity had been taken, the chain broken, and the Matthias and Charles V set on fire, the Dutch set their eyes on the greatest prize of all: the Royal Charles. But, rather than defend the most prized ship in their fleet with their lives, the English chose to jump ship or surrender before any serious fighting got underway. It took just nine Dutch marines to take England’s most prestigious ship.

  Such was this disaster that Samuel Pepys wrote:

  All our hearts do now ake; for the newes is true, that the Dutch have broke the chaine and burned our ships, and particularly ‘The Royal Charles’, other particulars I know not, but most sad to be sure. And, the truth is, I do fear so much that the whole kingdom is undone, that I do this night resolve to study with my father and wife what to do with the little that I have in money by me.

  At this news, the citizens of London fell into a full-scale panic. As rumours spread that the Dutch were in the process of transporting a French army from Dunkirk for an all-out invasion, many wealthy citizens fled the city, taking their most valuable possessions with them. Those who had no choice but to stay prepared to defend their homes with their lives.

  Meanwhile, van Ghent’s squadron ran aground the Royal Oak, Loyal London and Royal James, with ever more English ships being sunk, set ablaze or captured. In response, Monck could do very little. While he ordered some ships to be towed further upriver, away from the rampaging Dutch, others were deliberately breached to try to slow them down. By the end of the raid, the English had deliberately sunk thirty of their own ships.

  Rather than any English defence, it was only the ebbing of the tide that halted the Dutch assault. Pulling away the Royal Charles and Unity with them, the English sailors who had fought for the Dutch yelled out, ‘We did heretofore fight for tickets; now we fight for dollars.’

  After one of the greatest humiliations in British naval/military history, coming hot on the heels of the plague and the Great Fire of London, Charles was in no position to defy de Witt. The English navy had lost all but one of its largest warships, which in the short term left the country in a dangerously weak position. He subsequently ordered the peace negotiations to be concluded as quickly as possible and the treaty was signed on 31 July. The terms saw the Dutch hold Surinam, while they were also allowed to import into England goods of their own, or from Germany and south Holland.

  There was jubilation in the Dutch Republic after such a famous victory. Many festivities were held in the fleet’s honour, while the various admirals were hailed as heroes. De Ruyter and van Ghent were even commemorated on precious enamelled golden chalices depicting the events. Rather than be of any actual use to the Dutch navy, the Royal Charles’s draught was found to be too deep for the shallow Dutch waters. It was therefore permanently dry-docked as a tourist attraction until 1672.

  Almost 250 years after these events, Rudyard Kipling wrote the poem ‘The Dutch in the Medway (1664–72)’ for C. R. L. Fletcher’s A School History of England:

  If wars were won by feasting,

  Or victory by song,

  Or safety found in sleeping sound,

  How England would be strong!

  But honour and dominion

  Are not maintained so.

  They’re only got by sword and shot,

  And this the Dutchmen know!

  The moneys that should feed us

  You spend on your delight,

  How can you then have sailor-men

  To aid you in your fight?

  Our fish and cheese are rotten,

  Which makes the scurvy grow –

  We cannot serve you if we starve,

  And this the Dutchmen know!

  Our ships in every harbour

  Be neither whole nor sound,

  And, when we seek to mend a leak,

  No oakum can be found;

  Or, if it is, the caulkers,

  And carpenters also,

  For lack of pay have gone away,

  And this the Dutchmen know!

  Mere powder, guns, and bullets,

  We scarce can get at all;

  Their price was spent in merriment

  And revel at Whitehall,

  While we in tattered doublets

  From ship to ship must row,

  Beseeching friends for odds and ends –

  And this the Dutchmen know!

  No King will heed our warnings,

  No Court will pay our claims –

  Our King and Court for their disport

  Do sell the very Thames!

  For, now De Ruyter’s topsails

  Off naked Chatham show,

  We dare not meet him with our fleet –

  And this the Dutchmen know!

  Though I cannot claim to have destroyed a nation’s entire fleet, I did once manage to stop all canal traffic across Europe. While on a canoeing operation with the Scots Greys in the Schlei River, one of my corporals accidentally fired a flare onto the deck of a huge Russian tanker. Our flare hissed and burned away fiercely on the boat deck and in a short while the klaxon and red-light system, which was installed along the Kiel Canal banks right across Europe, began to honk and flash as though World War Three was about to erupt. Loudspeakers crackled and a disembodied male voice spoke to us with British Rail-like intelligibility. I understood only two words with crystal clarity: ‘Englander Soldaten’. A British-style beret or cap comforter must have been spotted on a canoeist. At this, I ordered the immediate end to our exercise and ensured we scarpered.

  It soon transpired that, because of the flare, all canal traffic across Europe had stopped for five hours, which was an expensive delay. Six months later a forester found a Grey’s beret by the canal and handed it to the police. I was immediately summoned to see my CO. Realising that my team and I had been responsible for the flare on the tanker, he asked if I had any idea of the consequences if the highly flammable tanker had exploded? While I tried to play dumb, I was assured that an international incident might have occurred, and the Cold War might have suddenly become very hot. For this, I received a hefty fine.

  The Dutch raid was an almighty wake-up call for the English navy. It now had no option but to rebuild the fleet with newer and larger ships. In time, this would establish the Royal Navy as a major fighting force for the eighteenth century, a position that led to it securing command of the world’s oceans. Yet the rise of Napoleon soon represented a new threat. If England was to prevail, it once more had to face abject humiliation before a new elite force of soldiers would deliver victory . . .

  16

  THE BRITISH LIGHT INFANTRY

  AD 1809

  Like a scene from the Old Testament, thousands of bedraggled, emaciated figures emerged from the snow-covered mountains and staggered towards the Spanish port of Corunna. With their matted beards, bloodied bare feet and stale stench, these men could easily have been mistaken for a horde of beggars, if not for one thing – their filthy, torn, red uniforms. For this was the might of the British Army and, if they didn’t get home soon, they might all be wiped out.

  For weeks, they had fled from Napoleon’s forces, retreating for over 250 miles, in perilous conditions, in order to reach the ocean. Here, their leader, Sir John Moore, expected a convoy of ships to be waiting. However, as they reached the port, they found it was empty. There appeared to be no way to get home, while Napoleon’s men were advancing hard on the rear. If they were still going to be alive by the time the ships did finally arrive, then they would have to fight. And while England’s armed forces looked to have nothing left, Moore had one card left to play: the British Light Infantry. To prevent total obliteration, they were the British Army’s only hope. Yet, without the inspiration of the French, and the genius of Sir John Moore, it was unlikely that they would have even been formed.

  The French were experts at utilising their light infantries, with their so-called chasseurs, helping Napoleon to a number of victories ever since he had seized power in 1799. The British, meanwhile, had been left behind. Despite
these units offering greater mobility on the battlefield, British attempts to embrace the concept had been half-hearted at best. Unbelievably, some British commanders were resistant because they believed that fighting from cover was in some respect dishonourable. Yet, if Britain was to prevail against Napoleon and his chasseurs, it had to take building a light infantry force seriously. The man it looked to achieve this was Sir John Moore.

  The son of a Scottish doctor, Moore was born in 1761 and, after joining the army in 1776, had risen to the rank of lieutenant general of the 52nd Regiment. His knowledge of military tactics, and his good relations with his troops, were said to be second to none. However, it was his experience with light infantry that made him particularly ideal for the role, having utilised such a corps when serving as military governor of St Lucia.

  As such, in 1803, following the outbreak of war between Britain and France, Moore was appointed commander of a new brigade based at Shorncliffe Army Camp in Kent. This brigade was designed to serve as the basis of the permanent light infantry force, with Moore offering his own regiment of line infantry, the 52nd Oxfordshire, for training. Moore subsequently chose fellow Scot, Colonel Kenneth Mackenzie, to take command.

  At Shorncliffe, the teaching of musketry was considered of the first importance. From taking immaculate care of their arms to efficiently loading them, the troops incessantly practised shooting at targets from a range of distances, at rest and on the move. A firing book was even kept by the captains so that they could record the men’s progress.

  Speed was also vital to light infantry so drills were practised to the point of tedium, with each soldier knowing the various calls verbatim. Of utmost importance was the so-called ‘firing in extended order’, whereby, fighting in pairs, one would shoot while the other would reload, ensuring there was virtually no break between them. Skirmishers also practised ‘chain order’, which meant that, when the first shot was fired, one man from each group fired at a time, so that continuous fire was maintained.

  Rearguard drills were also crucial, with the object being not to fight but to delay. It was also understood that, should a rearguard be pursued by an enemy, it would divide itself into two bodies, with skirmishers sent out to protect them. As the skirmishers would need to move quickly, and sometimes react without any direct orders, the men were encouraged to develop initiative and self-direction. These drills would in time prove to be vital to the survival of the British Army.

  However, perhaps more than anything at Shorncliffe, instilling discipline was top of the agenda. Colonel J. F. C. Fuller, in his book Sir John Moore’s System of Training, said of this:

  We may look in vain for a written system of discipline that made the Light Division famous; for no true system of discipline can be set forth within the covers of a book. It is the ceaseless minutiae of daily work, the actions, care and supervision by the officers, the willingness of the men, the interest in the work, the perfecting little by little, and above all, the self-reliance and good comradeship of all ranks that go to build up discipline, esprit de corps and efficiency; not the rules of well-intentioned pedants and the regulations of learned doctrinaires.

  Instilling discipline might sound draconian but Moore’s warm character, and magnetic personality, ensured that was never the case. Sir Henry Banbury, a friend of Moore’s, said of him: ‘I knew him well, and loved him, he was always kind to me . . . He was thoroughly honourable, just and generous; far above all sordid motives and hardly to be swayed by any passion from what he felt to be his duty.’ Sir William Napier, whose brother Charles was trained by Moore, echoed these thoughts: ‘His was the fire that warmed the coldest nature.’

  As Moore prepared his light infantry in Shorncliffe, the Napoleonic Wars continued to rage across the continent. Napoleon had already forced the Austrian, Russian and Prussian Empires out of the war, and, by 1808, he had set his sights on Portugal and Spain. However, while British forces were successful in forcing him from Portugal, the French moved into Spanish territory, occupied Madrid and installed Napoleon’s brother, Joseph, as king. While this provoked an explosion of popular rebellions across Spain, no organised attack against the French came. With the fall of the monarchy, constitutional power had devolved to local juntas, who engaged in a haphazard resistance at best.

  Many in Spain now looked to Britain as its last hope. However, scandal had erupted following the victory in Portugal. British commanders, such as the Duke of Wellington, had been called home to answer questions about why they had allowed French soldiers to evacuate instead of being compelled to surrender. In their absence, Sir John Moore was sent to Portugal to command 30,000 troops.

  At the same time, Napoleon himself was en route to Spain. Enraged at the loss in Portugal, he was now concerned that his brother might be forced out of Madrid, with insurrection growing throughout the country. He determined that his commanders were to blame and decided to take personal control of the situation, intending to conquer Spain in just two months with a fresh influx of troops.

  To face off this threat, Moore was ordered to take 20,000 men and advance into Spain. This was not just the largest army that Britain had in the field, it was virtually the only army available. As such, some 15,000 reinforcements, under General David Baird, were also at sea and on their way to Corunna, a port in the northwestern corner of Spain. Following behind were Moore’s light infantry divisions, including the 1st Battalion 52nd, 1st Battalion 43rd and 1st Battalion 95th, fully trained and now under the command of Major General Robert Craufurd.

  Moore had every right to believe that with this influx of troops, and the addition of his light infantry division, he could before long hold Madrid and force Napoleon from Spain. Yet the operation soon turned into a disaster. With Moore and Baird both facing troubles on their journey to Madrid, including poor roads, untrustworthy guides and dreadful weather, their effort to free the capital was doomed to failure. Napoleon had over 250,000 troops at his disposal and had retaken Madrid before Moore and his men even arrived. Moreover, while Moore was unaware of this, Napoleon knew that the British were on the march and was prepared for them.

  When British forces engaged with the French in bitterly cold conditions, near the town of Sahagun, the half-frozen troopers had trouble holding their reins and sabres with their numbed fingers, while their horses lost their footing on the ice. Despite managing to hold off the French, Moore learnt that Napoleon, and the main bulk of his army, were now heading their way, aiming to destroy Britain’s only field army. This would be a catastrophic blow that would surely put the British out of the war and at the mercy of Napoleon.

  Moore decided he had no option but to retreat to the port of Corunna and get his men home. But the journey would not be easy. They would need to travel over 250 miles of frigid mountain roads, with the French chasing them all the way. In such circumstances, he entrusted the safety of the British Army to the light divisions that he had once trained at Shorncliffe. They would act as the rearguard, fighting off and delaying Napoleon’s forces, keeping the bulk of the army safe until they reached Corunna.

  So began one of the most arduous retreats in British military history. In appalling weather conditions, heavily laden commissary and baggage wagons were pulled up tortuous mountain tracks by exhausted oxen and mules, while the men went days without sleep. Moore was determined to reach Corunna before it was too late, but such were the conditions that some men collapsed and died in the snow, their red jackets not enough to keep out the cold. For those who managed to keep going, many were forced to walk barefoot after their boots disintegrated, and thus suffered frostbite. Anyone who tried to prop up an ailing comrade ran the risk of being left behind. Rain, heavy snow and sleet alternated, soaking every soldier through to the bone. With food at a premium, their gnawing hunger was also growing ever stronger.

  Such conditions are liable to make even the calmest man snap. I remember when, on an expedition in Antarctica, my team and I were trekking in the dark, up to our knees in snow, battling against
a windchill factor of minus 120. It was so cold that the natural liquid in our eyes kept congealing. In such circumstances, it was very difficult to avoid outbursts of temper at each other and the smallest thing would trigger hours of silent hostility. Explorer Ashley Cherry-Garrard said of Captain Scott’s winter party during its failed trip to the South Pole: ‘The greatest friends were so much on one another’s nerves that they did not speak for days for fear of quarrelling.’ I know how they felt. Once my partner Mike Stroud somehow managed to break our only two vacuum flasks, which meant we could no longer have a hot drink. Mike’s solution was that we should instead drink our tea, or pre-stress energy drink, from the communal pee-bottle. If I wasn’t already annoyed at Mike for breaking our two flasks, the prospect of drinking from a bottle that had previously contained urine tested me to my limit. I remember saying, ‘It’s one short step from cannibalism.’ However, I must confess that I noticed no change in the taste of the pre-stress, which was foul at the best of times. On the British Army’s march to Corunna, I can only imagine many of these men being at each other’s throats, without the necessary clothing, equipment and food they needed for such an ordeal, making matters worse.

  Indeed, trekking for hundreds of miles in wet and freezing conditions can also put a terrible strain on your body. On one occasion, my feet were so cold, and red raw, that despite my best efforts to dress them, when I removed the dressing at the end of the day, the outer half of my little toe, along with a chunk of flesh, came away, right down to the bone. I had no choice but to continue onwards, and limping every step of the hundreds of miles still in front of me was agonising and certainly tested my patience. The combination of slow starvation and massive energy expenditure also takes its toll. During our 1,700-mile trek across the Antarctic, where Mike and I pulled sledges weighing 485lbs, 16 miles a day for ninety-three days straight, tests revealed some alarming results. Our blood samples showed that our whole enzyme systems, everything that controlled our absorption of fat, were changing and we were recording levels of gut hormones twice as high as were previously known to science. Furthermore, with zero remaining body fat, we were losing muscle and weight from our hearts as well as our body mass. In similar conditions, it is no wonder that so many soldiers on the trek to Corunna simply sat down and died in the snow.