Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Got you, my lad,’ cried Wynter in triumph, as he finished loading while the Russian was still struggling with his ramrod. ‘Here it comes.’

  Wynter coolly aimed. The Russian glanced up at the last moment and his face took on a look of dismay. The Ranger fired and the Russian swung sideways as the Minié bullet hit him in the right of his breast, spinning him off his feet. He fell to the ground and lay there, his personal war finished. Wynter went past him with barely a glance, knowing the man could not reload now, even if he were still alive and conscious.

  In the meantime, Devlin had gone ahead, with over a dozen other men. The Irish regiment vanguard came to a wall about five feet high. Beyond that wall Wynter could see several columns of Russian infantry and masses of artillery. Clearly this was the main enemy force. Some of the Rangers began to climb the wall.

  Wynter was horrified by what lay over the other side.

  ‘Don’t go over there!’ he cried to Devlin, with alarm in his voice. ‘Keep this side of the wall, you bloody daft Irishman!’

  But whether Devlin was caught up in the heat of the moment, or was so determined to show his worth, Wynter never knew. All he saw was his friend vaulting the wall and running with a few others towards the foe. There was a fleeting moment when Wynter almost ran after Devlin and joined him.

  At that precise second however, Wynter heard a Rangers officer yell in pain from not far away. A captain had been bayoneted in the leg and lay on the ground. As Wynter went to assist this man all thought of joining Devlin fled from his mind. There was a large knot of Russians descending on the British officer. Wynter thought the officer, who he now recognised as Captain Crosse, was all but gone. But then suddenly Crosse fired pistol shots into the mob and four of the Russians lay dead or wounded on the ground. The others peeled away warily.

  One of these turned and went back again, to try to further bayonet the officer, but the captain struck out with his sword. The blade went skidding along the Russian’s musket and into the infantry soldier’s hands, severing several fingers. The soldier dropped his firelock with a shout of agony and then retreated, blood pouring from his stumps and down his greatcoat.

  When Wynter reached him, the captain held a smoking revolver in one hand and a sword in the other. Despite his wound he looked supremely triumphant.

  ‘That gave the beggars something to think about,’ muttered Captain Crosse. ‘All right, lad, I’ll make it. You see to your duty.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wynter.

  Wynter limped back to the wall over which Devlin had gone, and hid behind it with some other soldiers of the 88th. Musket balls were smacking into the wall, sending chips of granite flying through the air with the humming of large insects. Then came the sounds of Retire from a regiment bugle. The Light company began falling back.

  Wynter agonized.

  ‘What about them chaps who went over the wall?’ he said to a nearby soldier. ‘Are we just goin’ to leave ’em?’

  ‘I don’t think they made it,’ replied the soldier, a Private O’Leary. ‘I saw Russians all on top of them, so I did. They’re not coming back. They’re done for,’

  Wynter took one last look at the scrubland beyond the wall, now covered in small fires. He could see no sign of Devlin. Then he followed the rest of the Light company to the bottom of the ravine, and back up the slope on the other side. Like his comrades, Wynter fired his rifle as he went. Grey-coated Russians fell and slid down the wet and slippery incline opposite. Some of the 88th were hit. The fighting was scruffy and awkward, with men on both sides shooting on the move from difficult positions.

  On reaching the top of the ridge, Wynter dropped his rifle and, bending over, took a look under his leg bandage. The wound was raw and sore. There was nothing he could do for the moment, except tighten the dressing. Then he took off his forage cap and wiped his sweaty face with it. When he straightened again, he saw that there was part of an artillery unit standing ready. Major Maxwell and two lieutenants of the Rangers called for men to rally and defend the guns while the gunners fired into the Russians on the other side of the ravine.

  ‘I’m with you, sir,’ cried Wynter, hobbling to assist the officer. Other men came up at the call. The Russians were coming on in even greater numbers. Wynter shot one in the thigh, then engaged with another hand-to-hand. They rolled over in the mud, striking each other with ineffective blows. Their struggles took them under the wheels of the gun which went off with a crashing, numbing blast in Wynter’s ears. Fortunately the explosion startled the soldier with whom he was grappling, as well as himself, and Wynter was able to kick his assailant off.

  The Russian scrambled out on the other side of the gun wheels, only to be struck over the head by a gunner with a rammer. Other gunners, including an artillery lieutenant, were fighting the Russians with swords, sponge staves and bare fists, for all the world as if it were a bar-room brawl. The startled attackers, staggered by this furious onslaught from so few, flowed round the battling gunners like a split river taking easier channels.

  ‘Fall back,’ ordered Major Maxwell, as the Russians continued to pour up over the edge of the gorge. ‘Fall back, 88th.’

  Wynter left his rifle behind. He had no time to collect it. Fortunately he came across a Ranger whose head had been blown off his shoulders by a shell. Wynter took this man’s ammunition pouch and Minié, joining the rest of the men in retreat. The abandoned guns soon had Russians swarming all over them in great triumph. Frustrated, the men of the 88th wanted to go back in, but now ammunition was in very short supply.

  ‘Where can we get some more ammunition, sir?’ asked Major Maxwell after riding over to General Pennefather, who was on his horse nearby. ‘We are desperately short.’

  ‘There’s none to be had close by,’ came the reply. ‘Your four companies must stand their ground, give the Russians the bayonet, or be driven into the sea.’

  On his way back, Major Maxwell met General Canrobert, the French commander-in-chief whom the British soldiers called ‘Bob Can’t’. He was with a number of others, some of them British liaison officers.

  ‘What is happening, major?’ asked the Frenchman. ‘Where are your men?’

  ‘To your front, sir. They are stemming the tide of Russians, but have no ammunition left.’

  General Canrobert advanced to the Rangers’ forward position to see for himself. There, the 88th were lying down, firing the last of their rounds into the Russians. The French general shook his head and spoke to Colonel Rose, the British chief commissioner with the French.

  ‘Colonel Rose, tell the colonel of that regiment to post his men here, and, if they have no ammunition, let them raise their bayonets about the brushwood, to show the enemy that the passage is guarded. We will send him cartridges.’

  The 88th reformed their line after the French general had gone and advanced again upon the guns. These had been abandoned by the enemy, who had more important affairs elsewhere. The ground between the guns and the spot where the Rangers had spoken with the general was covered with Russian dead and wounded. One of them fired at Wynter, missed him, but the round also passed close to a Colonel Jeffreys. Wynter bayoneted the Russian in fury.

  ‘You nearly did for me there, you silly bastard,’ he cried. ‘Don’t you know when it’s time to lie still and quiet?’

  24

  Crossman and the other prisoners could hear the fighting from inside the croft which was being used as a prison. It was clear the situation was serious, for they had not been given breakfast. Indeed, their latrine facilities – two wooden pails – had not been emptied either. They were hungry, thirsty and the place stank of urine and faeces.

  ‘Let us out,’ yelled one soldier, hammering on the door. ‘Give us some air – we’re choking in here.’

  The only oxygen they were getting was coming through the cracks around the ill-fitting door. There were no windows and the croft was fashioned of turf and stones which allowed no passage of air.

  The soldier put his ear to t
he door and listened to some low creaking noises passing the croft.

  ‘Either that’s a tumbril or they’re taking guns up to the front.’

  At that moment there were explosions outside and the thumps of heavy objects hitting the ground.

  ‘It sounds like a major assault,’ said Crossman, ‘and we’re all out of it. Just pray we don’t get a direct hit from a cannon. This place will come down on our heads with a ton of granite.’

  ‘Cheerful bugger, ain’t you, Mr Fancy Jack?’ said another prisoner. ‘Better you keep your trap shut, sergeant. Your stripes don’t mean nothing in ’ere.’

  ‘No, but this does, spud,’ said a belligerent Johnson, showing the man a balled fist the size of a melon. ‘If you don’t get no respect in your voice, you’re liable to have it introduced with a bunch of these.’

  Crossman was not sure whether he wanted to be guarded by this member of his regiment. It made him feel weak and ineffective, like a child with a protective parent. However, it seemed churlish to reprimand the man. Instead he tried to assert his own authority.

  ‘Whatever Johnson wishes to do or say is his own business, but let me tell you, soldier,’ he said, talking to the man who had threatened his authority, ‘that I am quite capable of putting a man in his place myself. If you do not believe that, then you had better step over here.’

  The soldier glowered at him, but then turned his attention to the noises coming from outside the croft. It sounded as if all hell had broken loose. There were cries and shouts, rifle fire and just about every piece of ordnance seemed to be in use at that moment.

  ‘We’ll be overrun and then they’ll just come in here and shoot the lot of us,’ said a prisoner, gloomily.

  ‘I think our men are made of better mettle than that,’ replied Crossman. ‘A stray round shot may hit us, but I have every confidence we shall hold the attack.’

  There was not much else to say on the matter and they simply sat there and listened to the progress of the war. An hour later Crossman’s prediction came true. One moment they were sitting silently, brooding on their misfortunes, and the next a great gaping hole had appeared in the end of the croft. One of the prisoners lay dead under a pile of rubble. A cannonball had indeed struck the croft. The men quickly scrambled through the hole out into the blessed fresh air.

  Not a moment too soon, for the croft suddenly collapsed into a heap of stones and earth. The unfortunate soldier who had been hit was now buried completely. Of the others, one seemed to have a broken arm, but the rest were whole and uninjured.

  ‘I suggest you go off and report to your regiments,’ said Crossman. ‘It would seem they need all the men they can get. You never know, if you distinguish yourself, it might be taken in mitigation when you come up for trial.’

  ‘Then again,’ said a pessimist, ‘we might get killed and never have no more worries at all.’

  ‘There is that, too, but don’t be faint-hearted, man, go to it with a will.’

  Crossman and Johnson made their way through the falling iron to where the 88th, their ammunition replenished, were still firing on the foe. To the left of the Rangers, the French were being pinned down by superior Russian forces. The mist was still too heavy for Crossman to see over the battlefield to the right, but he could sense desperate struggles going on all over the Inkerman Heights. There seemed to be a particular furore coming from the small Kitspur Ridge to the northeast, which was crested by an abandoned sandbag battery.

  Crossman found the prone form of Wynter and dropped down beside him. Looking to the front, Crossman could see dead Russians in their yellowy-grey greatcoats littering the gorge, with one or two bodies wearing British uniforms. They were mostly wearing grey greatcoats like the Russians, but a few had removed these before going into the fight, and having been killed lay like blobs of blood amongst lumpy mustard.

  There were shattered bodies, without arms, legs or heads, but most of the figures showed evidence of being bayoneted or shot. Some had their innards spilling on to the ground; others were glassy-eyed and seemingly without a mark. A few were in small pieces, beyond recognition as human beings, and their parts were scattered far and wide over the battlefield.

  Near to Crossman, stark against the ground, was a Russian boot with its foot still in it. The torn ankle of the boot’s owner stood straight up, as if the leg had been snapped from it like a stalk of celery from its root. White bone nestled like a bloated sinister maggot in the middle of bloody flesh.

  Russian muffin-shaped hats were scattered over the area, along with muskets and other pieces of equipment. It was as if a whirlwind had passed over and had scattered the men’s belongings far and wide. If so, it had been a wind created by the wings of an Angel of Death, as it flew over the battlefield.

  Crossman tore his gaze from the appalling scene.

  ‘What’s happening, Wynter?’

  The battle-weary soldier turned his eyes on his sergeant and shook his head.

  ‘It’s been a hell of a fight, sergeant, and it’s nowhere near over yet.’

  ‘Where’s Devlin?’

  Wynter’s expression told Crossman the worst.

  ‘And Peterson?’

  ‘Don’t know. He went off with Goodlake’s sharpshooters, in the early morning. Haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘All right, Wynter. How’s your leg?’

  ‘It’ll bear up, sergeant,’ said Wynter, grimacing. ‘It’s gone this far.’

  Lieutenant Howard, looking as tired and muddy as Wynter, came over to Crossman now.

  ‘Where have you been, sergeant?’

  ‘In jail, sir. No time to explain why, but the place was hit and we crawled clear. Myself and Private Johnson here.’

  Howard shrugged. ‘We’ll sort that out later. In the meantime, you two are the freshest men amongst us. We need messengers, to run up and down the lines. Because of this mist communications are almost nonexistent. You and Johnson report to General Buller. He’s over there by that spur.’

  ‘Come on then, Johnson,’ said Crossman. ‘Let’s see if you can run as well as fight.’

  ‘Yes, sergeant,’ grinned the giant.

  General Buller was with Colonel Shirley, the commander of the 88th, when Crossman and Johnson reached them.

  Shirley was apprising his general of the current situation as he knew it.

  ‘. . . the Russians have got 24- and 32-pounders on the crest of Shell Hill, sir, perhaps a hundred of them, and they have destroyed many of our guns. All those on the east of the road are gone. My own regiment is depleted and exhausted: many of them came straight from night picquet duty. The 2nd Division is somewhere out in the mist there to our right now, fighting for their lives.’

  ‘Are their rifles serviceable, d’you know?’ asked the general with a frown. ‘I understand many are useless after yesterday’s rain.’

  ‘I’ve been told that only one rifle in seven is of any use, due to their wet barrels. And ammunition is short. There’s no reserves up here on the Heights. We are having to rely on the bayonet. The 2nd Division are going in with blades still wet with blood from the last attack. Colonel Mauleverer led a particularly fierce and valiant charge with two hundred of the 30th Cambridgeshire, and a few 55th Westmoreland picquets, against four battalions of the Borodino Regiment.

  ‘Everywhere small numbers of British soldiers are flinging themselves at solid walls of the enemy. Bunches of the 41st Welch are out there somewhere, and the 47th Lancashire along with the 48th Hertfordshire. It’s hand-to-hand over on the Heights . . .’

  ‘Yes, sergeant?’ said Buller, turning to Crossman, whom he recognised as one of his spies, ‘did you want me?’

  Crossman was tempted, but this was not the time to speak of his problems with the major who had locked him up for murder.

  ‘I understood you were in need of messengers, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes – Lieutenant Howard sent you, did he? And this splendid specimen of manhood with you?’ He prodded Johnson on the chest. ‘Good, good. We
ll here’s what I want you to do . . .’

  Buller himself was a little distracted. He had been in the thick of the fighting not a short while since. With his ADC, Henry Clifford, and a clutch of 77th soldiers, he had come across a column of Russians who appeared out of the Wellway. This was the same column with which the Guards had had to deal. The shortsighted Buller had been so surprised he did not believe what was happening until Clifford cried, ‘In God’s name, fix bayonets and charge!’ Buller quickly confirmed the order.

  There were only twelve Middlesex men with Clifford, who sprang forward with Russian rifles blazing around his head. Miraculously he was not hit. He drew his sword and severed the arm of a soldier who was trying to bayonet him, then killed another with a strike to the back of the neck. Clifford’s men had also thrown themselves into the fray. When the Russians finally fell back, six Middlesex men lay dead and three wounded. Fifteen Russians gave themselves up as prisoners to the remainder of the small group, which, with Clifford, now numbered four.

  General Buller had seen several of the 77th die, though they went down fighting furiously, blood in their eyes, bayoneting the enemy right, left and centre. Colonel Egerton then led the rest of the 77th forward when he came across two Tomsk battalions. The colonel immediately ordered a volley, and over two hundred and fifty Minié rifles crashed out along the line of grey-coated British soldiers. Minié bullets penetrated the Tomsk tightly-packed battalions to a depth of four men. The dying landed on the dead. The volley was then followed up by a glorious charge, with the 77th yelling their fury at the round white faces milling in front of them.

  Just to the left of Egerton’s Middlesex men a hundred and eighty-odd men of the 49th had thrown themselves at hordes of Kolivansk. Nearby the 47th were faced by three battalions of Katherineburgers, while to the right, the 30th were engaged with Kolivansk and Tomsk. Some seventeen battalions of Russians were now swarming around Home Ridge and being held by regiments of British, each numbering under three hundred men. These were men who fought as if they were defending their homes against hated bailiffs. They went in with bullet and bayonet, with pistol and sword, with boot and fist, driving swarms of Russians before them like beaters driving game.