Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Then they were crouching and scrabbling along endless zigzag trenches, ducking and waiting as shots crashed into the ground or murmured spitefully overhead.

  They came into a cleared, saucer-shaped gun emplacement and somebody gave an ironic cheer as the first of the marines panted past.

  Blackwood saw the familiar blue coats around the massive guns, the cheerful grins. It was like a home-coming, in spite of the danger. They were a detachment of the Royal Marine Artillery, and as he looked at their faces he saw a big lieutenant running, arms outstretched, towards him.

  Fynmore rasped, ‘Fall out the column, Sergeant Quintin. Ten minutes rest, no more.’ He glared at the grinning lieutenant. ‘And who are you, sir?’

  Blackwood shook the man’s hand. ‘This is Lieutenant Dick Cleveland, sir. Used to be my second-in-command in Audacious.’ He studied the lieutenant warmly. What a place and a way to meet after all these months and months. ‘I see you’ve changed to the gunners, Dick.’

  Cleveland chuckled. ‘I thought it would be safer.’ He looked round as the ground shook to another shell. ‘Wrong again.’

  Blackwood looked at his half-brother. How long was the arm of coincidence. It never lost its grip. But for Cleveland breaking his leg after a drunken party at Spithead, Harry would have been sent elsewhere. He might even be at Hawks Hill with their father.

  He said, ‘Dick is the chap who got you into this mess, Harry.’

  Fynmore snapped, ‘Enough of this time wasting. Rouse the men.’ He tugged out his watch. ‘It looks like snow.’ He strode back towards Brabazon and the others.

  Cleveland pursed his lips. ‘I pity you, sir.’ Then he said, ‘This really is odd, meeting you like this.’

  ‘I was thinking the same.’ Audacious, the summer balls and regattas seemed like part of history.

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ He had to raise his voice above the din of shouted commands and the clatter of weapons as the marines fell into line again. ‘I’ve been here from the beginning. They couldn’t have managed without our battery. But a week or so back we received a lot of new supplies and medical stores at the base camp. You could have knocked me down with a feather, Philip, er, sir. Women, out here in the bloody Crimea, well, I ask you.’ He put his head on one side and smiled. ‘The prettiest one of the lot came straight up to me and asked if I knew you of all people!’

  The marines shuffled into single line for the next length of trench, but Blackwood could not move.

  ‘Tell me, Dick, for God’s sake!’

  The lieutenant nodded. ‘I should have realized how it was. Her name is Davern something-or-other. You must have marched right past her!’

  ‘Captain Blackwood, sir!’

  Sergeant Quintin’s boots crunched towards them.

  ‘The colonel wants you to take the lead.’

  Blackwood grasped the lieutenant’s hands. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  As the twisting line of marines entered the trench a second lieutenant clambered from a gun pit and joined Cleveland by the track.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘That was Blackwood. The best I ever met.’ He stared bitterly at a far-off patch of smoke from an explosion. ‘Still a captain. He should be in command of these bunglers!’

  He swung round and thought of the dark haired woman by the harbour. Already they were being called angels of mercy by the wounded and sick from the battle-front. Another great boom of falling shells shook the emplacement and he tried not to think of Blackwood and what was waiting for him. Two hundred troops had already died there in less than a fortnight.

  ‘Prepare to fire. On the hour, by the hour, right?’

  The second lieutenant nodded and hurried away.

  The marines repeatedly took shelter as directed by the army scouts and pickets. Breathless and often dazed by the crashing roar of gunfire from both directions, they eventually arrived at their allotted sector. The soldiers had dug holes into the ground and along the side of the trenches and lined them with stout props and timbers. An army captain assured Fynmore that there were also deep caves in the nearest hills where a whole platoon could find shelter and prepare its rations. If they took shelter during each bombardment there was little risk unless someone got buried under falling rocks, he explained. Like the others, the captain looked worn out, his eyes ringed with dark circles to reveal the strain of daily survival.

  Blackwood and Brabazon made notes while Ogilvie held up a map for the soldier to complete his explanation. There was a Scottish battalion to the right, a light infantry regiment to the left. He shifted nervously from foot to foot. He was eager to go.

  The ground shook once more and some loose stones rolled over the lip of a heavily sandbagged parapet. Far beyond it, pale grey in the dull light, was another hill.

  Ogilvie asked brightly, ‘And what’s directly to our front?’

  The soldier glanced at him searchingly then tapped the map with a grimy finger.

  ‘Sloping ground, then that hill. That’s where they are. The enemy.’

  Fynmore plucked at his lower lip and stared at a flake of snow as it melted on his tunic.

  ‘Carry on, Blackwood. Section by section stand-to. I’ll inspect them when you’re ready.’ He beckoned to his servant and orderly. ‘Find my quarters and prepare things.’ He walked away with Brabazon, his shoulders squared and straight.

  The soldier let out a long breath. ‘Thank God.’ He waved to one of his sergeants, and at a shouted command the troops began to climb from their defences. ‘I never thought . . .’ He looked at Blackwood and tried to smile. ‘Sorry about this. Can’t take much more. Never been so glad to see anyone before.’

  He made to leave but Blackwood said, ‘If you see a Mrs Hadley at the base camp, she’s a doctor’s wife . . .’ He did not know how to continue.

  But the captain nodded firmly, his fear put aside.

  ‘I’ll remember. Blackwood. I shall tell her.’ Then he was gone.

  Tell her what? Blackwood winced as the ground quivered and more dust spewed over the sandbags. He remembered what Tobin had said about the nights, the constant bombardment. The defences looked strong enough, but no army gained ground by staying put.

  He saw Harry sliding down a bank of shovelled earth and said, ‘All ready?’

  He nodded. ‘They’re fine, sir.’ He smiled at their sudden formality. ‘I’ve put the old hands among the green ones, although after Tenacious I should think most of them know what to expect.’ He watched him and added, ‘Something wrong?’

  Blackwood looked at the dark clouds and felt snow on his face. So light and gentle, like a secret kiss. She was down there now. Just a few miles away. He had walked right past her. What was she doing among all the horror and the suffering?

  He said simply, ‘If I fall, Harry, tell her for me. Will you do that?’

  Harry stared at him, his face shocked. ‘You won’t! What would I do?’ He tried to shrug it off. ‘You tell her yourself.’

  ‘When you are quite ready, gentlemen.’ Fynmore’s voice was like the chill air. ‘I will inspect the positions.’

  Soon it was dark, and as the marines settled into holes and dug-outs and wrapped themselves in their coats and blankets there was a lull in the firing.

  Blackwood made his rounds along the defences and the zigzagging support trenches and visited the sentries who were posted at intervals along the sandbagged parapet.

  It was too dark to see their faces, but he recognized many of the voices as each man made his report. Dialects from Yorkshire and Dorset, his own Hampshire, or from Scotland, like M’Crystal, and the harsh accent of the London slums, like Quintin’s.

  In the stillness he could hear bagpipes from far away and knew M’Crystal would have heard them too. The Scottish soldiers were relaxing. Just for the moment. There was a smell of cooking, the squeak of a ramrod as someone, probably Frazier, lovingly cleaned his rifle.

  He felt the searing pain in his eyes as the skies lit up to great vivid flashes.
The nightly barrage had begun. Whistles shrilled, and men dived for cover as the air shook and trembled to the onslaught. It came from the hill directly in front of their position. The Russian redoubt.

  Blackwood pressed himself against the sandbags and gritted his teeth.

  Crash . . . Crash . . . Crash . . .

  That must be Dick Cleveland’s battery firing in retaliation. It went on and on, the air cringing to the din until it was impossible to think clearly.

  His grandfather would have been at home here. Would have retold the story better than anyone.

  The ground shook again, and pieces of wood flew above the sandbags like shredded paper.

  Blackwood continued slowly along the ramparts, touching a shoulder here or murmuring a quick word to another crouching shadow.

  He reached a tiny dug-out which had been allotted to him. Smithett was there warming a pot on a small fire, and he had even found some old canvas to hang across the entrance to give an illusion of privacy.

  Blackwood lowered himself on to a blanket and held his hands to the flames.

  ‘You’re a marvel, Smithett.’

  The marine gave a mournful grin and poured some scalding coffee into a mug. He had found it in an adjoining trench which was occupied by a line regiment. Their high and mighty officers would never miss it.

  He watched Blackwood’s eyelids start to droop as he sipped the coffee. Like most of the old sweats, Smithett had heard all about the girl at the base camp. He could remember that day in Africa when he had helped the captain to carry her from the hut. The hut where they had raped her, where he had cut one of them down with his bayonet.

  Rest easy, Captain. He listened to the rumble of guns, muffled now as the enemy shifted their sights. We’ll be needin’ you tomorrer, I’m thinkin’. He reached over and caught the mug as Blackwood’s head lolled in sleep.

  22

  A Time For Action

  BLACKWOOD CLIMBED ON to a crudely carved step and raised his head above the parapet. The first day, he thought. He stared directly ahead at the gently curving hill. It looked more brown than grey in the early morning light. No sign of life. He licked his lips and tasted Smithett’s coffee. Then he examined the open ground which separated the trench from the distant hill and concealed redoubt. It was hard to look at it without feeling dismayed. A scene of indescribable havoc. The whole area was strewn with remnants of military adornment. Shakos and lance caps, and here and there a once-proud brass helmet. Rusting weapons and the rotting carcasses of slaughtered horses. There was no sign of a dead soldier, which made it worse in some way. As if their disgust had taken them away from where they had been cut down.

  On either side of him he heard the marines whispering to one another as they lined the firing-step and aimed their weapons across the deserted battle-field. Looking to right and left Blackwood could see nothing of the army positions but noticed that the marines’ sector bulged slightly ahead of the others, a place which might attract the brunt of an enemy attack.

  M’Crystal and Quintin had not wasted their time during the night and had been into the Scottish lines to find out what they could. The Russians, it seemed, had nothing to match the British fire power, especially when it came to their rifles. They still attacked en masse, impossible to miss, but hard to stop.

  He heard Fitzclarence, one of the newest second lieutenants, speaking with Corporal Jones as he inspected the ready-use ammunition and a stock of grenades which had been provided by the army. Poor Fitzclarence, he was so keen it was painful. The marines called him Girlie behind his back because of his gentle, even frail appearance.

  A runner came dashing down the trench and stopped when he saw Blackwood.

  ‘Colonel’s respects, sir an’ would you join B Company immediately.’

  He ran on without waiting for a reply.

  Blackwood jumped down and nodded to Fitzclarence. ‘I shall be with Captain Ogilvie if you need me.’

  B Company was spread out on the extreme left of the sector. It had taken a pounding over the weeks, and much of the defensive parapet had been blown apart. The gaps had been filled with sandbags and huge bundles of lashed sticks which were laid horizontally and called fascines by the military, and which were said to be good protection against small-arms fire.

  Captain Ogilvie stood on his firing-step and surveyed the enemy positions without enthusiasm.

  ‘Deuced difficult to see a thing, Philip.’ He grinned as Blackwood joined him. ‘Colonel just sent word. The army is about to mount a big attack at Inkerman. It’s all I can do to find the damn place on my map.’ He shivered. ‘Bloody cold too.’

  Blackwood looked across the sandbags. The view was much the same here. There were a few haphazard sap-trenches which snaked away to the left which had been started by the army for some sort of advance position. The sappers had either given up or had been caught in the open during an attack.

  ‘Give me a glass.’

  He took the telescope from Ogilvie’s orderly and rested it between two sandbags.

  The battle-field immediately grew in size and he saw that it was not totally deserted. Some of the tattered uniforms contained corpses or pieces of them. A Russian trooper lay pinned beneath the carcass of his mount, a sabre still grasped in one hand.

  He moved the glass upwards and saw the pale line of the enemy’s ramparts. If the army attacked at Inkerman the Russians might be forced to evacuate the redoubt. Perhaps they had already gone?

  Blackwood noticed that Ogilvie had one of the new five-shot Adams revolvers which gave its owner a tremendous advantage over the ordinary pistol, which, even when you found time to reload it, would often misfire.

  Ogilvie saw his glance and grinned. ‘Bought it in London off a Yankee gentleman. Dying to use the thing.’

  They both turned as a voice shouted, ‘Here they come!’

  The word ran along the trench like a fast fuse, and Blackwood marvelled that such a force of the enemy could rise up apparently from out of the ground like a living tide. They must have worked around the foot of the hill, and now advanced on the British lines in a solid mass.

  Ogilvie scribbled on his pad and thrust a page into a runner’s fist.

  ‘Give it to the colonel, on the double!’ He peered along the parapet and shouted, ‘Hold your fire!’

  Blackwood found that he could watch the advancing Russians without fear. It was like seeing it from a distance, or not being here at all. Long coats, glittering bayonets, here and there a mounted officer. A sea of people, they even rose and fell like waves as they tramped into ditches and over humps of rough ground.

  The marines had levelled their rifles and were peering at the enemy, each man within his own thoughts. They could not miss.

  Dull bangs and then the whine of shots passing overhead showed that the artillery were awake too. Blackwood watched, sickened, as great gaps were carved through the oncoming mass, gaping, bloody paths which were instantly filled by the press of men behind.

  Somewhere a bugle blared, and Blackwood imagined the whole Allied force cocking its head to listen to this small part of the war.

  The front of the advancing Russians was about four hundred yards away, and although the British artillery were hampered by the sloping ground and the fear of dropping shells on their own lines, they were doing terrible damage to the closely-packed soldiers.

  Ogilvie remarked, ‘Must be ten thousand of the buggers.’

  Blackwood glanced at him. He sounded completely untroubled.

  The sergeants moved behind their sections. ‘Easy, lads. Rest your eyes, ’til the order.’

  There were several violent explosions from the other sector, and Blackwood guessed that the Scots had come under artillery fire to discourage them from interfering.

  It’s us they want. They probably know we’re new in the line. And yet how could that great faceless mass think or plan?

  Blackwood steadied his racing thoughts and said, ‘I’ll leave you now.’

  ‘Quite right to
o. Don’t want our two best eggs in one basket, what?’ Ogilvie shook with silent laughter.

  ‘Sir! The trench!’ The marine sounded as if he was hysterical.

  Blackwood jumped back on to the step and stared with disbelief as the abandoned sap-trench which dwindled away to the left suddenly spewed men over the edge in a wild stampede towards the British line.

  ‘Shift target! Hundred yards! Take aim!’

  The enemy were already firing as they came, the flashes darting from the ranks and slamming shots into the sandbags. It acted as a signal to the main attacking force, and Blackwood saw the whole mass of them begin to charge, their officers in the lead, leaning forward in their saddles as if afraid they would be overtaken.

  ‘Fire!’

  Along the trench the marines took aim and pulled their triggers. Every shot must have found a target, and the pointed bullets probably cut through the leading soldiers to hit the ones close behind.

  Ogilvie pulled out his revolver and examined it briefly.

  ‘Must drive ’em back,’ he said, as if his remark was addressed to the revolver.

  ‘Rapid fire!’

  The marines were shooting and reloading as fast as they could, faces grimly intent as they rose to the pock-marked parapet and aimed for the leaders. Horses fell screaming and were overrun by the infantry. Blackwood could hear them yelling, their voices linked into one great roar of sound.

  Ogilvie yelled, ‘Christ, we’re not stopping them!’

  There was a terrible crack and Ogilvie’s forehead exploded into a gaping red hole.

  Blackwood snatched the revolver from his hand and stared wildly at the advancing Russians. Fifty yards, perhaps less. They had no time to reload, but were intent on swamping all resistance by sheer weight of numbers.

  Some of the marines were fumbling with their weapons and pouches, others fired before they had found a target. It was all going to be over in seconds.

  Blackwood pulled out his sword. There was no other way.

  ‘Fix bayonets!’ He hauled himself on to the sandbags and stared along the ramparts. ‘Up, marines!’