The Command

by Christopher Nicole

  The Turkish cavalry could now be seen, small ponies carrying small, grey-clad men with brown fezzes, swords waving, the whole still shouting and cheering as they chased what they assumed to be a British patrol.

  ‘Open fire,’ Murdoch commanded.

  The machine guns sprang into life, and the riflemen joined them. The surprise was complete. Horses reared and riders were thrown. Blood flew as the bullets scythed into the Turkish brigade. The pursuers abruptly swung to their left to avoid the ambush and galloped out of range.

  ‘Cease firing. Any casualties?’

  Prendergast was back in a moment. Not one, sir.’ ‘Very good. Prepare to move out. Captain Lowndes, A Troop of your squadron will cover the retreat with two

  Lewis guns. They are not to be overrun. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Murdoch mounted, and the remaining troops followed him. The Turks had dismounted some distance away, and now some probing fire was sent in the Royal Western’s direction, but at extreme range. Murdoch deliberately led his men out of the canal and on to the higher ground so the Turks could see them, and was rewarded with a huge hullaballoo. Then the mass of men mounted and surged forward again. Murdoch gave the order to canter, and they moved up to join Ramage’s squadron, which had halted while the horses recovered their wind.

  The Turkish cavalry were once more advancing rapidly, but again they were checked by the burst of machine gun fire from the canal, which threw them into angry confusion.

  ‘We’d better not get taken, after this caper,’ Prendergast muttered. ‘They’ll lynch us all.’

  Murdoch was watching the canal. ‘Come on, A Troop,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  A moment later he saw them, trotting their horses along the canal itself, bending in the saddle to keep out of sight of the enemy.

  ‘Well done, Lieutenant Bryan,’ he said. ‘Now let’s link up with Manly-Smith before those fellows come to their senses again. Regiment will canter.’

  ‘Looks like Manly-Smith is linking up with us,’ Prendergast said, and they saw a rider galloping along the canal bank, horse a lather of sweat.

  Murdoch rode out to meet him.

  ‘Compliments from Lieutenant Manly-Smith, sir,’ he said. ‘But there is a large Turkish force, both infantry and cavalry, moving down the east bank of the canal.’

  ‘Better and better,’ Murdoch said. ‘He’s committing some of the Baghdad force as well. Major Prendergast, send a dispatch rider to tell Mr Manley-Smith to recross the canal and join us on the east bank.’ He looked back at the Turkish cavalry. They were regrouping, and were obviously preparing another advance, but on the part of the canal from which the British firing had come. However, Murdoch calculated they would have dealt with that problem in a few minutes. ‘We need to move,’ he told Prendergast. ‘Captain Ramage, you’ll cover us.’

  Ramage dismounted his men and unlimbered the Lewis guns. Murdoch led the remainder of the regiment down the bank of the canal and across, splashing through the shallow water and scrambling up the farther side. From their south there came a chorus of yells as the Turks charged the abandoned position of half an hour before.

  ‘Signal recall, Bugler,’ Murdoch commanded, and the notes played across the morning. The sun was high by now, and it was extremely hot. But so far the game had been played entirely according to their rules, and they were way ahead on points. As Ramage brought his men back across to the east side, Murdoch saw Manly-Smith leading his troop towards them, already on the east bank.

  ‘We’ll check them here, and then withdraw to brigade,’ Murdoch said. ‘But slowly. We want to keep those chaps occupied until General Thorpe has re-established his position. Peter, how many casualties?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘All dead?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ramage’s face was grim.

  ‘Those are regulars,’ Prendergast said. ‘They’ll obey the rules.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Murdoch inspected the Turkish cavalry through his glasses. They had halted again, perhaps a mile away and on the west bank, a large mass of horsemen, presently confused by the hit-and-run tactics of the British cavalry.

  ‘Very good, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Dismount your men. Horses back to that wadi. Lieutenant Collier, your troop will stand rear guard. The rest of us will give them something to worry about here.’

  Cursing and sweating, the Lewis gunners set their machines up again, supervised by RSM Yeald, marching up and down and looking very fierce. The other five hundred odd settled down with their rifles, save for a patrol of ten men under Lieutenant Destry, whom Murdoch sent north to report on the whereabouts of the force reported by Manly-Smith.

  ‘They’re not going to try it,’ Prendergast grumbled, watching the enemy cavalry through his glass.

  ‘They’re waiting for the other fellows,’ Murdoch agreed. ‘Well, we’ll have to pull out. We’re not here to fight the whole God damned Turkish army. Withdraw in troops. Quietly now.’

  Prendergast crawled away to give the necessary orders, and the grumbling gunners began to dismantle their weapons again. Half the regiment had returned to the wadi and was mounted in concealment when Destry and his men came back. ‘The enemy force is three miles away, sir,’ he said. ‘All foot. I could see no sign of any mounted men.’

  Murdoch frowned. Manly-Smith had already taken his troop back to the wadi, so it could not be checked, but he had certainly reported cavalry.

  ‘All right, let’s get the hell out of here,’ he snapped.

  The last troop crawled back to the horses, and mounted. ‘Ride for brigade,’ Murdoch ordered, and they cantered out of the wadi in column of twos. The Turks on the far bank of the canal gave a great shout as they were spotted, and opened fire, but at such extreme range no one was hit; the enemy however made no attempt to cross the canal to come to closer quarters, preferring to keep pace with the British with the water separating them.

  ‘They probably suspect we have another hidden position somewhere,’ Prendergast suggested.

  Murdoch didn’t reply. He was unhappy about the disappearance of the other Turkish cavalry.

  Now they were close to where the brigade was engaged. The Indians were withdrawing across the canal, with great steadiness, firing volleys at a large mass of Turkish infantry which had come up to oppose them. About one third were actually across, Murdoch estimated, digging in as fast as they could. From the south there was now continuous fire; the frontal assault on Kut had commenced. Therefore they had carried out their orders, and now need only beat a fighting retreat to Maitland’s division.

  ‘Holy Jesus Christ!’ Prendergast muttered.

  Murdoch raised his glasses to peer in the same direction and felt his stomach muscles tightening. Advancing from the east was a very large force of mounted men. From the east! The cavalry that Manly-Smith had spotted! They had made a detour, and were now preparing to place themselves between Thorpe’s brigade and the rest of the division — and Thorpe’s brigade was still in the act of withdrawing across the canal.

  ‘We must break up those fellows until Thorpe’s troops have regrouped,’ he said.

  ‘How many do you think they are?’

  ‘A brigade. Over two thousand men, certainly.’

  Prendergast licked his lips. ‘Those aren’t Somali brigands, Murdoch.’

  ‘I know,’ Murdoch said. ‘But we don’t have any choice. If they get established south of us we’ll be surrounded and overrun. Dispatch a rider to General Thorpe to tell him what we are doing; there’s no time to mess about with that damned wireless set. Send back the Lewis guns and their operators as well. Oh, you can go as well, Mulai.’ The Arab was looking distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Regiment will canter.’

  He led his men forward, still in column of twos, Ramage’s squadron, then Lowndes’s, then Hunter’s. They passed the rear of the Indian position, where they were cheered by the sepoys, and then on towards the Turkish cavalry. These had now identified them, and had come to a halt, a huge gre
y-brown mass of men.

  The two bodies of horse were about a mile and a half apart. The ground between looked level enough, although there would undoubtedly be the occasional wadi. It was now just after noon, and the sun hung immediately above their heads; it was very hot, and the dragoons’ tunics were stained with sweat.

  ‘Long odds,’ Billy Prendergast muttered.

  ‘Which we can shorten, a little,’ Murdoch said thoughtfully. He raised his voice. ‘Captain Ramage.’

  ‘Sir.’ Peter Ramage rode forward.

  ‘Now is the time to put some theory into practice, Peter. We are going to charge those fellows.’

  Ramage pulled his nose. But he had been at Murdoch’s side on that famous occasion in Somaliland.

  ‘However, we may be able to soften them up a little,’ Murdoch told him. ‘As we rehearsed in France, remember? Your squadron will be the first rank. When we are within a quarter of a mile, I will raise my arm, your men will sheath swords, deliver a volley, and then draw swords again. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ramage said.

  Murdoch grinned at him. ‘Just remember, Billy and I will be out in front.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ramage said again.

  ‘So alert your men, quietly.’

  Ramage saluted and returned to his squadron.

  ‘If we attacked in line,’ Prendergast said. ‘We could use all our rifles.’

  ‘But we wouldn’t have any momentum in the charge. We have to drive those fellows away, not just check them. Bugler, sound the prepare to charge.’

  The notes rang out, and the columns swung into three lines.

  ‘Sergeant-Major, check the dressing,’ Murdoch said. ‘I want fifty yards between each line.’

  ‘Sir!’ Yeald rode off.

  ‘Stay at my right shoulder, Billy,’ Murdoch said. ‘Remember, we must disperse these fellows, at least until the brigade is fully withdrawn.’ He studied the Turks, who were advancing again, confident of being able to sweep aside the small British force opposing them. And as he watched, he saw the enemy cavalry also forming lines; theirs were six deep, and extended far wider than his own. The enemy horsemen also carried carbines in their saddle holsters, but Murdoch was certain they would not have been trained to shoot at the canter — at least, accurately.

  ‘By God, they mean to charge us!’ Billy exclaimed indignantly.

  ‘As you said, they’re regulars.’

  Yeald was back. ‘Regiment ready for action, sir.’

  Murdoch took out his handkerchief and patted sweat from his eyes, then dried his hands as well. He was aware of no single emotion, or sensation, or expectation. He had charged at the head of his men before. But then he had commanded but a single squadron, and it had very definitely been a case of charge or die. Here he was taking his entire regiment into the jaws of death, as an act of tactical duty. Nothing else really mattered, no memories, of anyone, no expectations, of anyone. His entire life was concentrated in the coming ten minutes.

  He drew a long breath, and raised his voice. ‘Regiment will draw swords,’ he shouted.

  There was a gigantic rasp from behind him.

  Murdoch pointed his sword at the sky. ‘May the great God of battle,’ he called, ‘who has guided the fate of this famous regiment on many a hard-fought field, and never failed to lead it to distinction, grant that on this day, faced as we are with a host of enemies of our King and our Country, every man will do his duty, so that should we fail in our ordained task, it will yet be said of us, they were the Royal Western Dragoon Guards, who fought and died according to the ancient valour of their regiment and their blood.’

  When he paused, the rumble of sound continued for a second, and he realized that every man of his command had also been uttering the prayer. He lowered his sword to point it at the Turkish horse, which had checked again to watch what the British were doing. ‘Gentlemen, there is your enemy. Regiment will advance.’

  He raised his sword to the upright, his fist resting on his thigh, and walked his horse forward. He was aware of Prendergast at his right shoulder, Yeald at his left, the bugler between, and behind him, Reynolds. Behind them there came the huge jingle of harnesses as the dragoons followed their commanding officer. The Turks continued to study them for a moment, clearly amazed that they should be challenged at such odds, then they resumed their own advance.

  ‘Regiment will trot.’

  The jingling increased, half smothered now by the drumming of hooves. The distance was perhaps half a mile. ‘Regiment will canter.’

  His horse was now bounding forward over surprisingly level ground, and he could make out the moustached faces of the Turks. He raised his sword to the sky. For what seemed an eternity there was no response, then he seemed to be shrouded in a very hot wind. At a range of no more than four hundred yards Ramage’s squadron had delivered a volley, perhaps not truly aimed, but with smashing effect when opposed to so close-packed a target. Horses fell and men went with them, and the centre of the Turkish force seemed to crumple and split.

  ‘Bugler, sound the charge!’ Murdoch lowered his sword and rode at the disconcerted men in front of him. Dimly he heard the rattle from behind him as Ramage’s men hastily holstered their carbines and drew their swords again. Then he was up to the Turks, who were beginning to rally. But they had lost momentum after the volley, and many of their horses were standing still. Murdoch thudded into the first of them, sword arm held rigid, wrist twisted, thumb locked in its socket on top of the hilt. The man ducked but was bowled over by Jupiter’s impetus and went flying into the man behind him, dismounting him as well. Jupiter leapt over them with such power that he almost unseated Murdoch, landed on all four legs together in front of another Turk, who received Murdoch’s sword in the face. The flesh seemed to split and blood flew. Again the horses cannoned as the Turk went down, and Murdoch felt a searing pain across his back. But now was no time to look round. There were still three Turks ahead of him, hundreds of others milling to either side, shrieking and yelling. He swung his sword from left to right, dismounting two more men, received a glancing blow on the head which removed his helmet, and then was through the other side. He let Jupiter, gasping and spitting, run on for another fifty yards before attempting to draw rein. He was breathless himself, and he could feel blood trickling down his back inside his tunic, but how badly wounded he was he had no idea. He wheeled the horse, and watched his men thundering up beside him. He spotted Prendergast, and Bugler McCoy, and RSM Yeald...and Ramage and Manly-Smith and Lowndes and Collier and Hunter and Destry — the dragoons seemed to have suffered few casualties.

  ‘Reform,’ he bellowed. ‘Reform.’

  Prendergast pointed. There was not going to be another charge. The Turks were streaming away to the north, their morale shattered. Behind them were a good three hundred crumpled figures on the stony earth.

  But there were also khaki-clad figures. Murdoch sent out a patrol to make sure the Turks weren’t coming back immediately, and led his men back to the scene of the action. Those of the enemy who could walk were pulled up and marched off towards the brigade. Of the English casualties, twelve had been killed outright, twenty-one were wounded in varying degrees of seriousness, and three were alive, but clearly dying.

  ‘Over here, sir,’ Lieutenant Manly-Smith said.

  Murdoch dismounted and stood above Johnnie Morton. He had received a sword thrust through the stomach and his intestines were spilling on to the sand.

  Murdoch knelt. ‘There’ll be a stretcher along in a moment, Johnnie.’

  ‘Waste of time,’ Morton muttered. ‘Waste of time.’ He touched Murdoch’s tunic. ‘You’re bleeding to death, Murdoch’. ‘

  ‘It’s only a scratch,’ Murdoch said. ‘Butt Johnnie...I’m sorry about Chand Bibi.’

  ‘She could’ve fooled me too,’ Morton said. ‘But you’ll get her, Murdoch. Promise me that.’

  ‘I’ll get her,’ Murdoch promised.

  ‘I can see her hanging,’ Morton said, and died
.

  ‘Mr Murdoch, sir,’ Reynolds remonstrated, having ridden up. ‘You’re all bloody.’

  ‘Another tunic gone,’ Murdoch said, and fainted.

  *

  ‘Exceptional show,’ General Maude said, standing beside the camp cot on which Murdoch was resting. ‘Thorpe says it was the most brilliant cavalry charge he has ever seen. I suppose you forgot that your orders were not to become seriously engaged with a superior force?’

  ‘I was trying to prevent that happening to the brigade, sir.’

  ‘And you accomplished that.’ He regarded Murdoch’s chest, which was entirely shrouded in bandages. ‘They tell me you’ve got a cut across the back.’

  ‘Nothing serious, sir. I just lost a bit of blood.’

  ‘Well, you’ll want to get it back. Prendergast will command the regiment.’

  ‘With respect, sir...’

  ‘You are out of action for the next couple of weeks, at least,’ Maude pointed out. ‘And you’ll want to be fit again when we enter Baghdad.’

  Murdoch raised his head. ‘Then the battle was a victory?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. It was, if I may say so, perfectly executed. By everybody. The enemy drew off men both from Kut and down from Baghdad to block Maitland’s feint, then he committed all his reserves to the defence of Kut. When he realised that I was across the river with the main force he hastily pulled out. We’re chasing him with everything we’ve got. Obviously he will make another stand for Baghdad, but his morale has suffered. None more than his cavalry. Get yourself well, Murdoch. I intend to be in Baghdad in a fortnight.’

  *

  General Maude was nearly as good as his word. The British forces entered Baghdad on 11 March, eighteen days after the second Battle of Kut. By then Murdoch was just strong enough to sit his horse and lead the dragoons in the victory parade through the streets of the ancient city; they had the post of honour, immediately behind the General himself.