by John Wilcox
This, in fact, proved to be a mixed blessing, for the rearguard marched, not only in appalling heat, but in the dust cloud caused by the long column stretching ahead. Whenever the column halted, the weary, parched British found that all the shade had been taken and many of the wells drunk dry. It was whispered among the ranks that the amenable Lieutenant General Gaselee had volunteered to take this unenviable place on the first day as a gesture to his international colleagues.
It was the Japanese, in fact, who led throughout the day, in recognition of their numerical superiority, and it was they, therefore, who encountered the enemy first. On the basis of what he had learnt concerning the rail trucks at Peitsang, Fonthill had advised Gaselee that it was unlikely that the column would meet any serious opposition at that first small town, but the Japanese met the Chinese dug in at its front.
The engagement that followed was brief but conclusive. The Japanese advanced remorselessly in close formation, supported by artillery fire, and the Chinese, after first firing a couple of volleys, turned and fled, taking their guns with them.
At the rear, Fonthill and his companions knew little of the encounter, for the guns up ahead seemed to cease firing almost as soon as they had begun. Gaselee, riding by, paused to explain to Simon what had happened. ‘They’ve got away, dammit,’ he said. ‘I knew we would have to pay for not having enough cavalry.’
The advance continued at a fast pace and by the early afternoon of the next day the column had reached Yangtsun, some twenty miles from Tientsin, where, as Fonthill had warned, a more formidable Chinese force was waiting for them, firmly entrenched in several defensive lines, supported by artillery. This time it was the British and Americans who were in the van and who consequently led the attack.
Simon, whose burns now appeared to be on the mend, had requested permission for himself and Jenkins to join the ranks for the attack, although Chang had been firmly posted to the rear. To avoid being mistaken for the enemy, they had been issued with Royal Welch jackets, although for comfort’s sake they would have wished to retain their cool cotton overalls. Now, as the Allied artillery played along the Chinese positions, they waited, rifles and bayonets at the ready, for the order to advance. Perspiration trickled down their faces as they stood in the smoke and heat.
‘I can’t see a bloody thing,’ said Jenkins, licking his lips. ‘I’m just as likely to stick this lunger into a friend as into a foe. What’s the plan, bach sir? Do we just march up to them trenches?’
Simon nodded. ‘Looks like it.’ He thought back to his conversation with Gaselee about strategy. ‘I don’t think there’s much scope for flanking movements in this war. For one reason there’s not much room, with the river on our right. And for another, we haven’t the faintest idea where our support might be – or, for that matter, who they are. This campaign is going to be chaotic, mark my words.’
They exchanged weary grins and then a bugle sounded and they were off, heads down, marching through the cannon smoke, half-blinded by perspiration. It seemed almost at the last minute that the smoke cleared and they saw the first line of the Chinese trenches immediately before them. A ragged cheer broke out from the British – led, once again, by the Royal Welch Fusiliers – and Fonthill and Jenkins, with the rest of the line, broke into a shambling trot.
Simon was dimly aware of flashes of rifle fire very close up ahead and of the hiss of bullets. Then he was jumping into the enemy trench and firing at one green-clad Chinamen who rose before him, and then wheeling to engage his bayonet with that of another to his right. A shot rang out and the man slumped to the ground. Fonthill was dimly aware of Jenkins, at his side, sliding the breech bolt of his rifle to insert another round, when a sergeant’s voice rang out in the mellifluous tones of the Welsh valleys. ‘Don’t hang about, lads. Onto the next trench. We’ve got’em on the run!’
Using his rifle butt as a crutch – his ankle was beginning to burn again – Fonthill levered himself up the side of the trench and lumbered ahead over uneven ground to where he could see the Fusiliers jumping down into the next line of entrenchments, stabbing and firing. He was conscious, among the chaos, of glimpsing Chinese banners in the distance and then he too was down in the trench, pausing amongst the bodies that lined its floor and realising that he was completely out of breath.
‘I’m too bloody old for this now,’ he gasped to Jenkins. ‘Not to mention a wonky leg. Let me get my breath back.’
‘Ah, bach sir. Now you know what it’s like being a poor bloody infantryman.’ He, too, however, was gasping for breath.
They stayed, perhaps for three minutes, at the bottom of the trench before crawling up the far side and advancing once more towards where rifle flashes through the smoke showed where the Chinese, at their third line of entrenchments, were putting up a stronger resistance. Now they were among a platoon of gaitered Americans, wearing their wide-brimmed hats, whose advance had been halted by sweeping fire from a machine gun embedded immediately ahead of them. The men were lying spreadeagled, hugging the soil, attempting to take advantage of the undulating nature of the ground but not moving forward.
Fonthill crawled alongside a corporal. ‘Why don’t you try and outflank the gun?’ he asked.
The young man turned a startled face towards Simon. He looked him up and down, taking in the Royal Welch jacket, with no chevrons or other badges of rank and the coolie trousers and sandals. ‘Who might you be, then, buster?’ he demanded.
Simon sighed. ‘Captain Simon Fonthill, British Army. Intelligence. Where’s your officer?’
‘Haven’t got the faintest idea, bud.’
‘Say “sir” when you speak to me. Now, take three men and follow me and Sergeant Major Jenkins here. Crawl and keep your heads down. Come on. Now!’
For a moment, the corporal considered refusing. Then the tone of command in Fonthill’s voice and his air of authority prevailed. He turned to the men on either side of him. ‘Foster and Schumann follah me and this … er … Limey officer. Come ahn and keep yoh heads down.’
The five of them crawled to the right, slithering on their bellies and sometimes across the front of other American soldiers, similarly taking cover. Then, when they were outside the arc of the machine gun, Fonthill led them at a tangent towards the Chinese line, again taking advantage of each patch of cover he could find: a stunted clump of millet, cut down by rifle fire; a rare rocky outcrop; or a dried-up irrigation ditch. Fonthill used every bit of knowledge he could dredge up from his days as a platoon commander, leading ground craft exercises on the Welsh Beacons.
Somehow, they managed to get within about fifty yards of a section of a Chinese trench from which only desultory rifle fire was showing. Still on his stomach, Fonthill turned to the three Americans.
‘Which part of the States are you from?’ he asked.
‘We’re all from the South … suh. From Virginee.’
‘So you can do a rebel yell – a real yell, from Virginia?’ (Simon had studied the American Civil War during his time at Sandhurst.)
A puzzled smile crossed the corporal’s face. ‘Sure can.’
‘Right. All five of us will discharge a volley and then we’ll up and attack that trench with the bayonet. But give a bloody great yell. Pretend, if you like, that you’re going at a bunch of Yankees. Right?’
All three grinned and nodded.
‘Right. Five rounds rapid fire and then up and at ’em.’
The resultant volley was not the most impressive that emerged from either side on that day at Yangtsun, but it caused fragments to fly from the soil bags lining the top of the Chinese trench and sent one of its defenders falling back with a bullet hole in his forehead. Then the five rose to their feet – Simon with the aid of a push from Jenkins – and charged across the intervening ground, their bayonets glinting, as the three Americans and one Welshman let out piercing screams.
It was enough to send the already demoralised Chinese – for they had seen the occupants of the first two lines of their trenches
leap over them in wide-eyed retreat – drop their weapons and run to the rear.
‘Where to now, bud?’ cried the corporal, turning to Simon as they grouped together in the trench.
‘Don’t call me— Oh, never mind. To the left. Clear the trench till we come to the machine-gunner. Run on now. I have a problem with my foot but we’ll be right behind. Oh, and keep up the yell. Shout for Dixie.’
Hobbling behind with the help of Jenkins, Fonthill found the trench cleared most ably by the three Americans, whose rebel yell preceded them and seemed to strike terror in the Chinese manning the line. Then he found the three Southerners crouched behind a traverse in the trench, on the other side of which they could hear the machine gun still chattering.
‘Thought we’d wait for yoh heah, suh,’ the corporal explained, a trifle diffidently. ‘Don’t know what’s on the other side, yah know?’
Simon nodded. ‘Dammit,’ he frowned. ‘Wish we had grenades. Nothing for it but just to charge round. At least the Maxim will be in a fixed position and firing forward. I’ll lead. You four follow.’
‘No, bach sir.’ Jenkins thrust him aside. ‘This is a job for a Welshman. Our yell is much better than any Yanks.’
‘Hey, man.’ The corporal was indignant. ‘We ain’t Yanks.’
But with a scream completely Celtic in its origin Jenkins charged around the traverse, closely followed by Fonthill and the three Americans. Three Chinese were manning the heavy machine gun in a specially built mini salient jutting out from the line. They stood no chance as five rifles fired as one.
‘Stand guard at this other traverse,’ shouted Simon to Jenkins. Then to the corporal, ‘Lend me your hat.’ Fonthill seized it, then stood up on the embrasure protecting the gun and waved it towards the American line. ‘Come on, boys,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve put the gun out.’
Immediately, there was a cheer from the line and scores of figures rose from the ground and, bayonets fixed, ran towards the Chinese trench. Fonthill waved them on and then, exhausted, slumped onto the line of sandbags. The Americans ran by him down into the trench and then up and over, continuing their attack.
Jenkins squatted next to Simon and shouted to their three companions, ‘Go with ’em, boys, we’re a bit knackered, see.’
The corporal seized Simon’s hand and shook it. ‘Keep the hat, bud,’ he grinned. ‘Consider yourself an honorary Dixie Boy.’ Then the three of them ran after their comrades, now all disappearing into the dust and gun smoke ahead of them.
‘Well done, bach sir,’ said Jenkins. ‘We could ’ave been there all day in front of this bloody gun.’ He turned to inspect it. ‘Looks brand new,’ he muttered. Then, ‘Ah bloody ’ell. It says ’ere, “Made in Birmingham”.’
Fonthill had no time to reply before the ground seemed to erupt all around them and they were in the middle of an artillery barrage. The two dropped to the salient floor and covered the back of their heads with their hands as earth, rocks and things indefinable rained down on them. The noise was deafening and Fonthill flinched as a piece of rock hit his injured ankle. He tried vainly to press himself further into the ground that seemed to shake beneath him.
Eventually, the barrage lifted and Simon lifted his head and reached out a hand towards Jenkins. The Welshman raised a face covered in soil and debris.
‘Are you hurt, 352?’
‘No. You all right?’
‘Yes. Where the bloody hell did all that come from suddenly?’
Jenkins wiped soil from his moustache. ‘It was a bit late, look you. We’d already captured all the bloody trenches. Do you want to carry on?’
‘No. This leg is giving me trouble. I shan’t be able to march if I don’t rest it. Let’s stay here for a minute.’ Fonthill gave a wan smile.
‘It looks as though the Taffies and the Yanks can manage very well without us.’
The two were clambering out of the trench when the thud of hooves announced the arrival of General Gaselee and his ADC. The general looked down on them in disapproval.
‘What in God’s name are you two doing here?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ gasped Fonthill. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t quite keep up with the charge. Gammy leg and all that. Jenkins stayed behind to give me a hand.’
‘Good Lord, man. I wasn’t rebuking you. Well, I was. You have no right to be charging with the infantry. I am going to need you when we come to Peking and try to get through those bloody walls into the legations. You mustn’t risk your life at this stage. We’ve got plenty of damned good infantry who can do that. Now, get back out of it as soon as you can.’
‘Will do, General. Where the hell did the Chinese suddenly produce that artillery barrage from? It was a bit too far in the rear to catch our chaps but it certainly caught us two.’
General Gaselee brought the head of his horse around as it tried to prance away. ‘Bloody mess, Fonthill, I’m afraid. Those weren’t Chinese shells. They were ours. It was the Americans in the second wave who mainly caught it. I’ve just come back from investigating it – the Chinese, by the way, have retreated once again. But we lost four men of the Yankees and another fourteen wounded, most of them fatally.’
‘Good Lord! How did that happen?’
Gaselee pulled at his moustache. ‘Two batteries involved. Ours and the Russians’. Nobody’s exactly sure what happened but it seems that the Russians were unlimbering next to our battery and asked us for the range. We gave it to them in yards and it’s my belief that they thought it was metres, so they dropped short before we could stop ’em. Anyway, the Yanks caught it.’ He shook his head. ‘This is what happens when you get a polyglot collection of units fighting alongside each other in complete bloody ignorance, without any overall coordination. Can’t be helped. Probably won’t be the last time it happens. Now get back and rest that leg.’
With a forefinger touch to his cap brim, he turned and galloped away. Fonthill and Jenkins exchanged glances.
‘Well, there you are,’ sniffed the Welshman. ‘Nearly drowned in that blasted river, narrowly avoiding gettin’ whipped to death by the Chinese, nearly blowin’ ourselves up with dynamite and now just escapin’ by our teeth from a shellin’ by the Russkies. This is a bloody dangerous war, I’m thinkin’, bach sir. Too dangerous for me.’
‘Rubbish. We’ve been through worse. Now give me a hand to get up. I wonder if the cooks are brewing any tea back there.’
The relief column spent that evening and the next day resting at Yangtsun, waiting for the supply junks to catch up and, in the words of one senior officer, ‘sorting itself out’. Having been present at the council of war held at Tientsin on the eve of departure, Fonthill knew that the original plan had been to advance no further than Yangtsun until reinforcements had arrived. Some fourteen thousand troops had reached that town, a number originally felt to be insufficient to push on to Peking. But the comparatively easy victories in the two battles experienced so far had firmly put the bit between the teeth of the Allied generals involved. The old competitiveness had also reared its head.
‘I fear that this is no longer going to be an advance, more a damned race,’ observed Fonthill, when orders were given to break camp and resume the march on the morning of the eighth, just four days after leaving Tientsin. The field had now thinned out and of the eight starters, only the Japanese, British, Americans and Russians were sufficiently well organised in terms of transport and commissariat logistics to be able to continue. The much smaller German, Italian, Austrian and French contingents were forced to return to Tientsin and reorganise, without having fired a shot in anger.
Nevertheless, the four nations that now comprised the column were determined and quite undaunted by being outnumbered – at least in practice – by the enemy. It was, however, a gruelling march. Much of the plain now was covered in the tall kaoliang which provided ideal conditions for ambushes. None came, however, and it was the sun and the lack of drinking water that were the worst enemy for the column.
The British were once agai
n forming the rearguard, with Fonthill, Chang and Jenkins marching with them. Despite the harsh conditions, both Simon and Chang had recovered from their injuries well enough to be among the 7th Rajputs of the Indian contingent when the latter marched through an American detachment.
‘Blimey,’ whispered Jenkins, ‘look at ’em. ’Alf ’ave got their eyes closed and it looks as though they’re goin’ to fall over at any minute.’
‘Yes, Mr Jenkins,’ said Chang. ‘But they’re plodding along, you see. They’re not giving up. They’re making a splendid effort.’
The Welshman grinned. ‘Yes, Changy, but you can see ’ow them Injuns beat old General Custard. Take away their ’orses and make ’em march an’ the Yanks are buggered.’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘Well, they fought well in that trench and on the wall at Peking. And I hope to God they’re still doing that last bit.’
More and more his thoughts were turning to Alice and the Legation defenders. He was relieved and delighted when the commanders of the column decided to push on from Yangtsun without waiting for reinforcements. He kept telling himself that they would have heard if the Legation compound had fallen. But the fear grew that, as the news of the advance neared the capital, so, too, would the efforts of the attackers there. If, in breaking through, the Chinese took prisoners, then the better they would be able to bargain with the relief column outside the walls. So, despite his aching body, Simon put down his head and trudged on amongst the dust at the rear.
One night, around their campfire, Fonthill took advantage of their close proximity to question the Chinaman about his half-brother, Gerald. How well, he asked, did he know him?
