by CL Skelton
‘Most good ideas are.’
‘Well, if you had a man standing alongside the breech with a big board, and he fanned like hell whenever you were firing, it might disperse the smoke enough for you to be able to see.’
‘You know, I think you could be right. I’ll take one of your jocks and we’ll try it. Good thinking, Ian. Oh, hello, Hugh,’ he said as Grant came into the tent. ‘Ian here’s got a great idea. We’re going to have a punkah wallah for the Gatling.’
‘Can I have a word with you, Alex?’ asked Grant, ignoring that important piece of military information.
‘Sure,’ said Farquhar. ‘I’ll get a bottle out.’
‘Er, Alex,’ said Grant, looking rather pointedly at Ian. ‘That’s all right, Hugh. Ian’s going to have a dram, too. Aren’t you, Ian?’
‘Oh, yes, rather. Thanks a lot.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Grant, ‘I’ll have to tell you, because there isn’t much time. Just you keep your trap shut about this, young Maclaren. Some of the sergeants have got a fresh meat stew and they’re willing to share it with us if we can supply a dram.’
‘How did they manage that?’ asked Farquhar.
‘Need you ask? It was Frankie Gibson. Apparently the beast impaled itself on his dirk voluntarily.’
All three men laughed. ‘Where do we come in?’ said Ian.
‘I’m sorry, but you don’t. They’re only willing to share it with two of us, if there’s a dram in it for them.’
‘Ah,’ said Farquhar, ‘we can’t very well leave poor old Maclaren out of it. Why don’t we get our two shares and each of us give him a bit. How about that?’
‘They mightn’t like it,’ said Grant.
‘They’ll like it, all right. I tell you what, Ian, you carry the bottle. They won’t say no then.’
‘Righto!’ said Ian, grabbing the bottle of whisky. ‘Where are they?’
‘They’re just outside the R.S.M.’s bivvy.’
Off the three of them went, heading for the flickering light of the fire outside Regimental-Sergeant-Major Macmillan’s bivouac, their gastric juices flowing in anticipation.
Further along the lines Peter Leinie cocked his head on one side. ‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘What’s what?’ asked MacTavish. ‘Awa’ tae yer beed.’
‘Whist. Dinna ye hear it? Dinna ye hear it?’
MacTavish was impressed and the two men were silent a while, listening.
‘There it is again,’ said Leinie.
In the distance they could just make out the unmistakable sound of firing.
‘Aye, I hear it noo,’ said MacTavish. ‘There’s shooting gannin on. Awa’ and tell the sergeant-major.’
‘What, me?’ said Leinie. ‘Why dinna ye go?’ He was appalled at the thought of approaching the august personage of R.S.M. Macmillan.
‘Aye, you. Ye heered it first. Awa’ and tell him.’
Grudgingly Leinie got to his feet and reluctantly walked down the lines towards Macmillan’s bivouac. There around their fire they were just finishing their meal, and poor Leinie was assailed with the mouth-watering odour of the fresh stew. He stopped outside the group and, seeing officers present, he saluted. Frankie Gibson looked up.
‘Weel, here’s a smartie. De ye no ken that ye dinna salute wi’oot your bonnet on? What dae ye want, sodger?’
‘Sorry, sarge. Please, sir, I ha’ something tae tell the sergeant-major,’ he replied.
‘All right, lad, what is it?’ demanded Macmillan, not very pleased at being discovered at their feast.
‘Please, sir, there’s shootin’.’
‘Shooting? Where, in camp?’
‘No, sir. If ye’ll listen, yees’ll hear it.’
‘Quiet a minute!’ said Captain Grant.
They were all silent. For a moment or two they heard nothing, and then, in the far distance, but quite unmistakable, there came a sporadic burst of firing.
‘He’s right, you know,’ said Grant. ‘Somebody’s shooting. Have any of our chaps gone out tonight?’
‘I saw a detachment of Black Watch move out about two hours ago. I thought that they were just drilling or something,’ said Ian Maclaren.
‘All right, Private ‒ er ‒ what’s your name?’
‘Leinie, sir.’
‘All right, Leinie,’ said Grant. ‘You can go back to your bivvy now. Good work, lad.’
Relieved of his responsibility and the awesome presence of superiors, Peter Leinie scuttled back to tell MacTavish how he had told the officers a thing or two.
‘I don’t suppose that it’s any of our business,’ said Farquhar.
‘I certainly hope not,’ said Grant. ‘And if the top brass don’t know, I don’t see why we should disturb them and maybe lose a night’s sleep. And talking of sleep, we had better get our heads down in case the balloon does go up.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell anyone?’ said Ian.
‘No, sonny,’ said Farquhar. ‘Thou shalt not have converse with those set above thee. You’ll only end up with a bloody sight more work to do. That’s the eleventh commandment. Anyhow, they’ll know what’s going on. The sentries are sure to have reported it.’
‘I still think we should tell somebody,’ said Ian.
‘Look, laddie,’ said Farquhar, ‘you go along to the general and tell him what we’ve heard. Just at that moment, he’s pretty sure to be looking for someone to go out on a recce to find out what’s happened, and you are standing right in front of him; who do you think gets the job?’
‘Me?’ said Ian.
‘You,’ replied Farquhar. ‘Right, Hugh?’
‘Right, Alex.’
‘Right, Sergeant-Major?’
‘Right, sir.’
‘So now, if you want to go and tell the general, you can go. But don’t say we didn’t warn you.’
‘All right, I’ll go,’ said Ian almost petulantly.
And he did, and everything that Farquhar had predicted happened just as he had said it would. It was over two hours later that a tired and dusty Ian rode back into camp on a borrowed cavalry charger to tell General Graham that the detachment of Black Watch had achieved their objective. They had taken a zariba, an enclosed square fortified by palisades and thick thorns. This lay about a mile north of the ravine beyond which lay Osman Digna’s main force. It was all very satisfactory to the general. The detachment he had sent out would hold the zariba until he arrived with his main force tomorrow. And moreover, it would provide a fortified base, should that prove necessary in order to secure his rear.
‘Well done, Mr Maclaren,’ said the general. ‘You’ve done a good job. And now, you had better get to sleep. It’s almost two o’clock.’
At five thirty the following morning the bugles sounded reveille. After a hurried breakfast of hardtack and water from their canteens, the brigade formed in two squares, as General Graham had decreed, and began their march on Tamai village.
By about ten o’clock, they were in sight of the zariba and received a resounding cheer from their comrades who were now occupying it. They were marching at ease, each man carrying his rifle in whatever manner was most comfortable for him. They marched in light field order. They had no packs, only their rifles, fifty rounds of ammunition, their canteens, and a couple of biscuits stuffed into their sporrans.
But an army on the move is not a machine. It is men, individuals, each one with his private fears and thoughts. Private Brady, a Glasgow Irish Catholic, nineteen years old, had seen action for the first time at El Teb; he was a member of A Company and A Company had been in the front ranks. He had seen the hordes of Sudanese rise to attack and he was now scared. A man of uncommon imagination, he could, in his mind’s eye, see, over and over again, a spear thrusting towards him and tearing at his guts. He complained bitterly that there was no priest to hear his confession, though he had not been inside a church since he was ten when he used to steal pennies out of the collection plate until he was caught and given a most memorable thrashin
g. Private Doig of B Company was sick but afraid of reporting himself so in case they found out about the bottle of evil-smelling liquid which he had found in the village of El Teb and drunk the night previous. Doig’s marras managed to get him to his feet and into the square where, after vomiting up his breakfast, he was able to move, albeit somewhat unsteadily, of his own volition. But Doig and Brady and the rest were really quite ordinary men; it was the task which confronted them, the killing and being killed, which was extraordinary.
And now they were on the march again, out into that barren thankless country only describable by the complete sameness of the vista whatever direction you went, whichever way you looked.
Davis’s square moved out first and Buller, with the Maclaren Highlanders in his formation, followed some five hundred yards to the rear and in to the right. They talked and smoked as they marched over the barren, empty yellow earth.
‘Where the hell have they gone, Sergeant?’ Ian inquired of Frankie Gibson.
‘They’re no sae far off, sir,’ was the reply. ‘We’re no disturbin’ any birds or wee animals. That means that there’s men around. Men whae got here afore us.’
From their position in the front of Buller’s square, the Maclarens could see Davis’s square approaching the ravine, when suddenly, out of the seemingly deserted earth, where a moment previously no living thing could be seen, thousand upon thousand of Sudanese appeared. They rose, it seemed, from nowhere, and fell upon Davis’s square.
The Maclarens in Buller’s square watched helplessly as Davis’s men, without awaiting orders, opened a frantic fire on the hordes which now surrounded them. Soon they were almost obscured from view by the black pall of smoke which hung over them in the still air ‒ almost, but not quite.
‘Jes’ look at yon daft buggers,’ shouted Private Anderson.
The Black Watch, who formed the front ranks of Davis’s square, had rushed forward with bayonets fixed, leaving a gap between themselves and the two flanks of the square. In a trice the Sudanese, with that intense ferocity and courage which was the hallmark of their fighting men, had seen their opportunity and charged into the gap. Hundreds of them were now inside the square engaged in bloody hand-to-hand fighting.
Buller halted his square and gave the order for covering fire. The Maclarens and the rest poured volley after volley into the masses who were still far enough from Graham to offer a safe target. There was, however, nothing they could do to assist their comrades who were engaged within Davis’s square.
Even above the noise of the battle they could hear the bugles as they called the square to re-form, and the shouts of the officers and N.C.O.s as they rallied their men into some sort of formation. They seemed to be broken up into small groups standing back to back as they fought and died. Isolated, the Gatling guns wrought a terrible carnage until their naval crews were all killed or wounded. A little to the rear the gunners, with a battery of four eight-pounders, stood firm and fired off round after round of shrapnel at the advancing foe.
The battle had been raging for a few minutes only when another horde charged towards Buller’s square. But this time they were ready. Calmly they opened fire at this new threat, mowing them down like the corn on the hill before the scythe. Captain Farquhar opened up his Gatling, complete with the ministrations of his punkah wallah, and to his utter delight, it worked. They managed to keep the smoke away from the gun as it poured hundreds of rounds into the advancing enemy.
While Buller’s square was blowing the enemy off the face of the earth, many anxious glances were cast towards the other square. But the hand-to-hand fighting seemed to be diminishing, and at last they started to re-form. As Davis’s square became once again coherent, Buller was able to resume giving covering fire across the open ground which separated them. Ian Maclaren was standing just to the rear of his platoon holding his Webley and wishing he could get hold of a rifle, for not a single one of the enemy had yet come within range of his pistol. Donald Bruce had not even unholstered his revolver; he simply stood there, watching, sickened at the carnage.
Private Leinie had killed four, perhaps it was five, or even six, of the enemy, and the strange, almost sexual excitement of watching men die at his hands made him mad. Suddenly and without warning, he broke ranks and charged a small group of Sudanese. He shot one and bayoneted another, and then he was among them being hacked at by their swords.
‘Come back, you bloody fool!’ roared Frankie Gibson.
‘He’s a goner,’ said R.S.M. Macmillan, who was standing next to Donald Bruce.
Those of them who had seen Leinie shifted their fire to try and cover him, and give him a chance to get back to the square. Leinie went down, still fighting, blood streaming from him, and only about twenty yards to their front.
Donald had seen it all as well, and as Leinie charged into the group of Sudanese, he had turned and shouted at the R.S.M.
‘Cover me, Sergeant-Major, I’m going to bring him in.’
‘You’ll be killed, sir.’
‘That’s an order, Sergeant-Major.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Then, calmly unholstering his revolver, he stepped out of the square and walked, the shots of his own men whining around him, towards Leinie. There were three Sudanese left. All of them were wounded, but just about to give Peter Leinie the coup de grâce. Donald, his face grim, shot each one of them. He then went to where the wounded man was lying, threw his revolver to the ground, heaved Leinie over his shoulder, and carried him back into the square.
As he returned, an enormous cheer rang through the ranks, and Gordon Bruce, who had seen it all, uttered a silent prayer of thanks for the manner in which his brother had acquitted himself.
By now the battle was virtually over and the Sudanese were in full retreat. Davis took his square back to the zariba, and Buller formed line and marched into the village of Tamai. There they set fire to all of the buildings and then returned to join up with Davis once again. The ground was covered with Sudanese dead, and as the men returned across the Khor Gwob, the ravine by which they fought their battle, they were silent in the presence of so much havoc. Frankie Gibson looked down on one of the corpses, soon to become bloated and flyblown, and wondered who and what the man had been. Frankie, true professional that he was, held no hatred for the enemy and he could see, in the body of the man he was looking at, someone who had probably got a home somewhere. Maybe he had lived in one of those little square mud huts at El Teb, perhaps he had a wife and children who even now were waiting for their father to return. Frankie shrugged, it was all luck. It could just as easily have been himself lying there and the Sudanese standing where he was and looking at him. They had fought their battle and won it and the price was over two thousand Sudanese dead. As for Graham’s force, their casualties were 109 killed and 102 wounded. The proportion of dead to wounded bore tribute to the tenacity of their opponents. But of the man they were after, Osman Digna, there was no sign.
Most of the British casualties had occurred in Davis’s square, which had borne the brunt of the fighting. As for the Maclarens they had got off very lightly with only six of them wounded and of them, only one seriously, Peter Leinie.
Osman Digna excepted, Graham had achieved his objective. The road from Suakim to Berber was open, and perhaps now Khartoum could be relieved and Gordon saved. But that was not to be their decision.
They headed back towards Suakim where their lines were ready to receive them. Two companies of the Yorks and Lancs had been left out of the fight to do this. When the men got there, footsore and battle weary, the neat rows of bivouacs, the smoke from the cooking fires, and even the hard ground on which they would lie looked like paradise. There was even a stew, real meat heaped onto their tin plates, and they were able to gorge themselves before bivouacking for the night. At first most of them could not sleep and they sat around bragging about one another’s deeds and many a story was told of the action of Captain Donald Bruce on that day. But suddenly fatigue overcame them and one b
y one they drifted into sleep, many of them without moving from where they had been sitting, tin plates still on their knees and fingers still through the handles of their mugs.
But it was the Maclarens who talked most and longest and many a bet was laid that Captain Donald would be getting a Victoria Cross for his deeds.
The medical staff worked throughout the night, treating the wounded. ‘When in doubt amputate,’ said one young R.A.M.C. captain. ‘God, it makes you sick. We’ve got nothing and half of these men are going to die because they won’t give us an extra couple of hundredweight of supplies.’
‘Get on with your job, Captain Walker,’ said the major in charge. But there was no reprimand in his voice because he knew that what the young man was saying was true.
Those of the casualties who were bad, but not too bad to be moved, and this included Peter Leinie, they were transporting to Port Sudan. At least there was a reasonably well-equipped hospital there.
After the battle and after they had bivouacked their men, the three major-generals gathered together in Graham’s quarters. General Graham had a large tent and he lived in comparative comfort though nothing like the luxury in which generals had managed to live as little as thirty years ago or less. They had a meal of soup followed by the same stew which had been served to the men, and here was the luxury, Stilton cheese washed down by a bottle of the general’s excellent claret, the second last of the dozen he had carefully hoarded through the Sudan campaign.
There were no tablecloths and no expensive silver to polish and only the general’s batman to serve the meal. So with the meal over and the servant having cleared the table they sat on at table to review the day’s happenings.
‘Well, sir,’ said Buller. ‘It worked.’
‘Yes,’ said Graham. ‘It worked. Now they’ve got to get to Gordon.’
As Graham ordered the last bottle of claret, Buller said, ‘I think we got a V.C. today, sir.’
‘Who, you?’ said Graham.
‘No, thank you, sir. I already have one,’ replied Buller, a smile crossing his usually grave countenance. ‘I’m referring to a young captain in the Maclaren Highlanders.’
