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Soldiers in the Mist

Page 22

by Garry Douglas Kilworth


  Yet here at Inkerman, the British soldier had so held back the Russian Army because he had employed individual enterprise, had thought for himself, had acted on his own when it had been necessary. He took the discipline on the parade ground, he let the army try to knock all sense of individualism out of him, he even saw the sense of the battalion fighting as a single entity, a machine of many parts. But deep in the secret recesses of the heart of every British soldier is a stubborn ember, some small red coal which he never lets die, and which he fans into a blaze in times of adversity. This flame of his self-reliance can never be fully extinguished and will flare up when it is required.

  ‘Where are our bloody generals today?’ grumbled Johnson, as his large calloused right hand rammed the conical bullet down the barrel of the Minié. ‘I haven’t seen hair nor hide.’

  Crossman knew this was not quite fair. The divisional commanders were there: General Cathcart was already dead, having disobeyed orders and led his men down into a valley where they were cut to pieces. But the high command had done little to direct operations on the battlefield. Lord Raglan was as ineffectual as he had been at Alma.

  ‘They’re coming again,’ cried a soldier of the 63rd, and indeed the grey coats of the enemy covered the horizon.

  Crossman and the others found themselves being pushed further and further back. Until they were level with three British guns which were still manned on Home Ridge. But even here they could not hold and though they fought desperately to stem the tide of the Russian Army, the guns were soon surrounded. Some of the gunners went back with the infantry, others were killed where they stood. But two men, a private and a sergeant-major, defended their guns with swords until they were stabbed and clubbed to the ground.

  Unbelievably, and to the utter relief of Crossman and the rest of the desperately tired soldiers, the Russians halted. They swarmed around these three guns and came no further. It was as if they had found some toys and wanted time to play. These engines of iron were the trophies of war and they wanted to take them home with them. Their own Czar had emphasised the importance of capturing guns when he stipulated that none of the Russian guns should fall into enemy hands.

  While Crossman was reloading, a flash of colour caught his eye. A company of French Zouaves had appeared out of the bushes and had fired on the Russians around the three guns.

  These Zouaves were General Bosquet’s ‘children of fire’, in their red pantaloons, their lace collars and their blue embroidered jackets and red turbans. There were still some Algerians amongst the Zouaves, but now they were mostly European French, with a smattering of wild-spirited English and Irish. They drove into the Russians with all the élan of a swashbuckling force of men, sure of their own fighting superiority.

  At that moment, Crossman envied these colourful, reckless soldiers, who had a reputation for fighting like tigers, against the heaviest odds.

  ‘Go into ’em, go into ’em!’ cried Johnson, delighted by the intervention of this small company of around sixty men. ‘Plough their faces, you froggie spuds!’

  Not only were the French there, but behind this tiny force came what remained of the 21st Royal North British Fusiliers and the 63rd West Suffolk. Between them they routed the Russians around the guns, driving them back off the ridge again. Unfortunately heavy artillery fire from Shell Hill began raining shot on this brave band, and they had to take cover in amongst the stunted trees and bushes of the hillside.

  ‘Look over there,’ cried a soldier on Crossman’s right, as they continued to fire into the retreating mass of the Russians, ‘they’ve gone and broke through the 55th now!’

  True enough, the Russians had come up from further along their line and crashed through the weakened 55th Westmoreland troops, but Crossman was gratified to see the Russians had been too swift for their own gunners. Russian shot began to fall amongst Russian soldiers, probably not visible amongst the scrubland to their own men. Bodies and body parts flew through the air as the unfortunate Russian vanguard was hit several times.

  The Russians only faltered for a few minutes however, before coming on through the British gun line. They were faced at this point by the 7ième Léger, who fell back before the onslaught. Then the 77th arrived to bolster the French, and the two regiments marched forward, firing a fusillade, balls zipping into the enemy ranks. The Russians were still falling victim to their own gunners as they came over the ridge, and were subsequently in some confusion. They turned and retreated before the small force of resolute French and British moving towards them.

  28

  The respite did not last for long, and by the time Crossman, Johnson and a few other wayward soldiers had run up to join the main area of the battle, the Iakoutsk column was moving forwards again. Crossman found himself amongst the 77th East Middlesex, who were in the same 2nd Brigade of the Light Division as the 88th Connaught Rangers. Crossman almost felt he was among family, he had fought so long with strangers. Johnson had been separated from him now and was nowhere to be seen.

  Crossman’s mouth was gritty and dry. He had no water of his own. Another soldier could see he was suffering and offered him a drink. Crossman took the proffered water and thanked the soldier profoundly. It was as if the man had given him a share in a kingdom. Once he had taken some swallows of cool water he felt like a new man. It seemed to flow directly into his bloodstream and chase away his sluggishness.

  General Pennefather was holding the 77th in reserve. In front was the 7ième Léger with the 57th to lengthen their line. Skirmishers from the 20th were arriving just ahead of the Russian advance, having been previously left behind. The allied guns were sending shot whistling over the heads of the infantry, hoping to cause chaos and confusion amongst the Russian battalions coming up from behind.

  But the Russians came on, hoping to crack the resolve of the French, who were beginning to waver.

  The 77th, with Crossman in their ranks, were itching to go forwards and assist the French and the 57th, but no order came for the attack. Instead, they witnessed one of those incredible moments during a war, when a seemingly insignificant action makes a huge impact on the outcome of a battle.

  A colonel of the 55th, out on the Russian flank with a tiny band of men, suddenly rushed forwards and plunged into the massed ranks of the Russian column, as if he were diving into a herd of closely-packed cattle. His men followed him – the head of one big fellow in particular could be seen above Russian shoulders – and these foolhardy but courageous soldiers punched and kicked their way across the Russian column at right angles.

  This small band of men caused all sorts of confusion in the Russian ranks as they drove across the great heaving mass.

  Sometimes it seemed that those few intruders could not even move their arms up from their sides, they were so tightly wedged inside the Russian column. At other times the furious 55th hacked and cut their way through, some of them falling, some of them dying. On occasions onlookers could see the butt of a rifle being swung like a woodman’s axe, felling Russian soldiers who scrambled to get out of its way, but more often than not fell victim to its blunt edge. This weapon was being wielded by the big man, one of the last to enter the column.

  The effect this small arrowhead of flesh-blood-and-bone had when it pierced the side of the grey enemy thousands was astonishing. Those Russians who felt the movement ripple through their ranks, but could not see what caused it, thought they were under heavy attack from another direction. They began to turn away from the swell. This ripple in turn became a wave, that flowed others off their feet, until a comber of panic rolled through the massed column.

  The allies had seen what confusion this was causing in the Russian ranks and gleefully went forward to add to the upset amongst the enemy.

  Now the French bugles and drums sounded the charge. The French infantry went forward, Zouaves, 20th and 49th in their ranks. They slammed against the mighty Russian column, smashing it back, driving thousands towards Quarry Ravine. What remained of the 21st and 63rd, out
on the left, got up with bayonets at the ready and charged with a great cheer.

  Firing was brisk and steady, zipping into the Iakoutsk ranks, felling officer and soldier, leaving bodies in a trail back to the road they had reached. The great many-legged column reeled like a drunken pachyderm, staggering back, fighting a hard rearguard action. Some Guardsmen and Rifles, gathered together remnants of a previous fight, joined with around forty men of the 21st and 63rd, to fire volleys into those diehard Russians who kept trying to regain their lost ground. In the end, the foe could not recover and left the front of the field.

  ‘We’ve done it again,’ said Crossman, in a reverent, sobbing whisper, for the idea was almost incredible, given the few men involved in repelling this latest huge Russian assault. ‘Our boys have pushed them back again.’

  There were bodies scattered over the landscape, of allied soldiers as well as Russians, and men lay groaning with horrible gaping wounds. There were soldiers without arms or legs, with missing eyes, with crushed skulls. There were men whose bodies had been punctured by a dozen or more bayonets, or had been run through several times by a sword. Horses lay kicking and screaming out in the valleys. Others were so smashed they were unrecognisable as the animals they once were.

  A lone gentleman, Rupert Jarrard, walked slowly around the edge of the battle, occasionally aiming his Colt revolver at the brain of a dying horse and pulling the trigger. There were others to deal with injured men, but no one to put the horses out of their misery. He saw it as a necessary function he could perform, being a man of the American West, who valued such creatures highly and hated to see them in pain.

  Bandsmen came forward to assist the wounded where they could, carrying maimed men to the surgeons’ tents in the rear. There the saws and scissors were hard at work, cutting smashed limbs from the bodies of conscious men. A hand here, a foot there, a leg, an arm. Men were reduced to the size of babes, a bloody knot on each corner. One or two lived, many died. How the surgeons managed to work, amidst the gouts of blood, the splinters of bone and the terrible ear-piercing screams, only God and themselves understood.

  The women were there too with a word of comfort, with a trembling hand to bandage a torn or broken man. Some could only hold a man’s fingers and try to keep his soul from wafting away by sheer persuasion of will. Others, more practical than their sisters, strapped on splints or wrapped a man so tightly in a blanket that he thought he was whole again.

  Some simply held the dying until they were dead: others prayed with those who needed prayer.

  Not every helper was behind the front either. A young drummer boy, not more than ten years of age, was brewing up some tea within easy reach of Russian musketry. A French cantinière walked amongst the wounded on the edge of the battlefield, administering comfort, giving out water. A ‘gentleman traveller’ appalled by the suffering, went about doing what he could, finding healing skills he never knew he had within him.

  In the background, behind the British lines, where Lord Raglan and his staff were situated, mounted officers were trotting backwards and forwards with messages and on necessary errands. The atmosphere of life at the rear was one of reasonable calm. Officers took their lead from their commander-in-chief, who appeared unruffled by the battle.

  Some were standing around talking, discussing the battle or other subjects in quiet tones, even taking the time to read letters from home. It was as if there were a cricket match going on, which, though the fate of a nation depended upon the outcome, was nonetheless only a game.

  It might have seemed that these men did not care what was happening, what might happen, but that would not have been true. They cared with every fibre of their being. The trick was not to show it, to anyone, be they enemy prisoners or friends. And especially not to their French allies.

  Lord Raglan had several of his relations on his staff, and these were the last people in the world in front of whom he wanted to reveal any concern for the outcome of the war.

  The British commander-in-chief was a little bothered in the next few minutes however, as round shot and shells began to rain down on his staff headquarters. General Strangways, commander of the English artillery, was astride his horse when he was struck by a shell in front of Lord Raglan. One of the general’s legs went spinning through the air. Blood spurting from the stump, the silver-haired old gentleman blanched and quietly requested that someone help him from his saddle. He sat there waiting patiently for someone to come to his assistance.

  While Raglan was recovering from witnessing this gruesome event, a shell burst underneath the horse being ridden by Colonel Somerset. Pieces of iron ripped open the poor creature’s belly. Guts, blood and gore were sprayed over the watching staff officers. White faces were splashed with red flecks. Somerset went down with his mount, a startled look on his face, rolling away from the kicking, convulsing beast as they hit the grass together. His scabbard clattered against his spurs as he gathered himself and got back on his feet. He stared bleakly at his horse, which was now lying still on the ground before him.

  Then, almost immediately, Colonel Gordon’s charger was blown from under its rider, knocking down others as it fell, domino style. There was confusion and bewilderment as horses struggled to regain their feet. There was a mêlée of legs and arms. Shocked men eventually righted themselves. For a short unguarded period their faces registered their thoughts. But they very quickly became British aristocrats again, and the contents of their heads went back to being secret and unfathomable.

  Colonel Somerset was amazed to find himself unhurt. Colonel Gordon too, had only minor injuries. Only the unfortunate artillery commander, now assisted away by a Colonel Ayde, was in a bad way. Ayde shook his head to the other officers out of the old man’s sight, to indicate that he thought the general’s wounds were mortal. General Strangways was too old to recover from such a terrible injury.

  Crossman and a few others made their way down to the Barrier, deep in the heart of the battle and the apex of the defence line. There a Lieutenant-Colonel Haines was holding a beleaguered little force together consisting of some 21st and 63rd with a few skirmishers from the 20th and the Rifles. Crossman joined with Lieutenant John Younghusband, a man he recognised from exercises on Chobham Common. Younghusband, who had been but an ensign in Chobham Common days, gathered about him the odd few men not from the 20th, 21st or 63rd.

  The Russians were piling on the pressure at this point, trying to outflank Haines’s hard little group, but were being driven back time and time again by these unyielding men.

  Crossman joined the pack, most of whom were using muskets. Crossman’s Minié, and those of the few other men who had joined him, were welcome amongst the defenders at the Barrier, especially since the 21st and 63rd had but few round balls for their own weapons, having somehow been supplied with conical Minié rounds which they could not use.

  ‘Come on, my brave boys,’ said Younghusband, who was not more than nineteen years of age, ‘let’s take the fight to the enemy.’

  With that he leapt over the Barrier and ran towards a Russian column, firing his pistol and waving his sword. After a second’s hesitation, Crossman and five others joined him.

  Younghusband reached the column and slashed with his sword at throat height, making the front rank of Russians instinctively lean back and drop the points of their bayonets. Then the youth stepped on the bayonets of two men, thus exposing their chests, and ran first one through, then the other. They died still trying to wrest their firelocks from under his feet.

  The Russians on either side of these two unlucky souls recovered and one drove his bayonet through Younghusband’s left shoulder, rendering his left arm useless. At this point Crossman reached the lieutenant’s side. He blew the brains out of the soldier who had wounded Younghusband, the bullet going through two more men behind this one. Then he ran another through the abdomen with his bayonet, having to jerk and twist it to remove it from where it was lodged in his victim’s backbone.

  Two more Brit
ish soldiers on the other side of Younghusband were using their bayonets. Then one was shot through the side of the head and fell heavily against the lieutenant, who was knocked off his feet. Younghusband fired two more rounds from his revolver from a supine position. He was rewarded with spatters of blood which flecked his greatcoat and bare face as a Russian fell on top of him. Crossman grabbed the lieutenant’s collar and wrenched him clear of the Russian front line, but was not quick enough to stop another Russian bayonet from piercing the youth’s lung. Lieutenant Younghusband looked up beseechingly into Crossman’s face, then at the man who had killed him, before letting out a low moan and gasping his last.

  The Russian soldier withdrew his bayonet and stared at Crossman for a split second. Crossman could see this square-jawed man was even younger than the youth he had killed. His eyes were round with the horror of his last action and he seemed to be trying to turn away from it. However, the thick mass of the column behind him would not allow it, and pressed him forward. Crossman snatched up Younghusband’s sword, still running with blood from its last two victims, when a shot from behind passed so close to his cheek he felt the heat. This round went straight between the eyes of the soldier in front of him.

  The boy let out a surprised yell, as if he had been stung by a bee, touched the hole in his forehead, then dropped away under the legs of his oncoming comrades, felling three of them like skittles. These were lucky fellows, for Crossman saw that he was now alone and went berserk, laying about him with Younghusband’s sword like a madman. It was pure survival instinct mixed with fear and panic. All his soldierly training had been chased away by the sight of that creamy-topped grey sea of uniforms surging forward, ready to drown him.

 

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