Sweethearts and Wives (The Regiment Family Saga Book 2)

by CL Skelton

  ‘Aye, sirr. Corporal MacTavish, awa’ oot and tell the general that the Boer’s in strength on the other side and especially aroond the loop. Leave your rifle wi’ yin o’ the men and double up.’

  ‘Yessir,’ said MacTavish, and doubled away towards the head of the column.

  ‘I’ll just gan doon the column and dae a wee check, sirr,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Righto, Sergeant-Major, carry on.’

  When he arrived at C Company, Frankie looked around and noticed that they were veering away to the right and leaving the path.

  ‘What the hell’s gannin’ on?’ he said to Sergeant Leinie, who was marching just behind Robert Maclaren, his company commander.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Robert. ‘Something worrying you, Sergeant-Major?’

  ‘The drift is right doon this path. There’s a wee burn at the tail o’ the loop and unless we’re ganna cut right across tae there and join up wi’ the brigade on oor right ‒ och nae, ye canna be sich a lunatic.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Robert.

  ‘Sir, if we get trapped in yon loop it’ll be a massacre. We’ll be cut tae ribbons.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I was oot there last night. I had a guid look aroond. There’s nae way ye can get across that river excepting right doon this path.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant-Major,’ said Robert. ‘Will you hang on here with Sergeant Leinie while I go and have a word with the colonel.’

  Robert hurried down the column but when he got to Ian, he didn’t have to tell him anything.

  ‘I think our dear general has gone off his head,’ said Ian. ‘Bob, pass the word quietly. Open order, keep spread out and keep your eyes open for cover for when the shooting starts.’

  The word was passed throughout the ranks.

  ‘You’re taking a bit of a chance,’ said Hugh Grant.

  ‘Perhaps, but not with the lives of my men,’ replied Ian.

  They were very close to the Tugela now. They could see the river running straight away to their left, then behind back again to create the salient which was on all of their minds. It was half a mile wide and a mile deep and Hart was taking them right into it.

  They were almost up to the first bend of the river when the shooting started. They heard the crackle of rifle fire but no whine of bullets and they certainly could not see any of the Boers.

  ‘I think that the poor bloody Dubliners are getting it, sirr,’ Sergeant Leinie said to Robert.

  ‘Yes,’ said Robert grimly. ‘It’ll be us next. Where the hell’s that bloody fool taking us? You can’t see any of them, can you?’

  ‘No a one, sirr.’

  It was just then that they got their first casualty. Private Alasdair Maclaren was marching alongside Jamie Ross. Jamie Ross was his marra, not much older than Alasdair but much more afraid. Alasdair was telling him that all he had to do was to stick close to him and he would be safe, sure that his own security would rub off on to his friend. Jamie was just about to say something. He opened his mouth, but instead of words, a big glob of blood came out. His eyes went glassy and he fell across Alasdair. Alasdair could not believe it.

  ‘Jamie, Jamie, what are you saying!’ he called, leaning over the body. ‘Jamie, for God’s sake, say sumthin’ tae me.’

  But Jamie was very dead, shot through the head. Alasdair looked at Jamie, horrified. He had never seen a man killed before. He had never even seen a corpse.

  ‘Get up. Get up,’ he said.

  Then he got to his feet and stood transfixed as the battalion went on past him until he got a boot up his arse and Corporal Anderson said, ‘Get on wi’ it, sodjer, he’ll fight nae mair battles.’

  The rifle fire was becoming more persistent and more and more directed at the Maclarens and men were beginning to fall. Ian at the head of his column realized full well the trap that they were marching into.

  ‘Look,’ said Ian to Hugh Grant and Frankie Gibson, ‘I’m going to try and get the men out of this. We’ll take them across to the other side of this bloody salient. At least we’ll be able to get out of it from there. Pass the word. Open order. Straight across as far as we can go. If there are Boers there, we’ll fight them. If not, then we’ll start to move out.’

  ‘What about the general, sir?’ said Hugh.

  ‘To hell with the bloody general. Pass the word.’ Ian was in a state of cold fury.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said Frankie Gibson and he even allowed himself a smile. This was the kind of C.O. that a soldier could appreciate.

  Within a matter of a minute the Maclarens were spread out in open order and were heading across the salient. Fifty yards from the bank a rapid fire opened up on to them from the far side.

  ‘Take cover,’ shouted Ian at the top of his voice.

  Right then a big rock was just about the most precious thing that a man could find, but a little hillock or even a tuft of scrub grass would do.

  The Boers were entrenched on the opposite bank, to all intents and purposes invisible. On their left they saw a sergeant from some other regiment shouting at the top of his lungs as he led a group of a dozen men straight into the river. Those that the Boers did not get, the river did; it must have been fifteen feet deep just there.

  ‘There’s a brave man,’ said Sergeant Leinie.

  ‘There’s a bloody fool,’ said Frankie Gibson.

  General Hart, mounted on his charger, came galloping down the Maclaren section of the river bank.

  ‘Where’s your colonel? Where’s your colonel?’ he shouted.

  Nobody knew, and if they had known, it is doubtful that they would have told him.

  ‘I want this battalion closed up,’ he raged.

  ‘I want some Boer to put a bullet through yon bastard,’ said Sergeant Leinie.

  ‘Och, they wouldna dae that,’ said Frankie. ‘He’s worth a couple o’ brigades tae them.’

  Peter Leinie raised his Lee-Metford and started to take careful aim.

  Frankie Gibson realized what was in Leinie’s mind. ‘Dinna be a bloody fool, they’ll hang you and yon’s nae worth hangin’ for.’

  The Maclarens did not close up. They stayed where they were. Here and there one of them was hit, but they were so dispersed that no one knew quite who.

  They stayed there, pinned down for two hours, under the scorching sun. The backs of their legs ‒ that exposed portion between the bottom of the kilt and the top of the hose ‒ was seared red and agonizing by the sun. All around them was the sound of firing. Somebody seemed to be having a battle.

  Ian Maclaren was sharing the cover of a large rock with Gordon Bruce and two privates.

  ‘Are we going to do anything, sir?’ asked Gordon. ‘We can’t stay here forever.’

  ‘We’re not going to do anything if I can bloody well help it,’ replied Ian. ‘This is the stupidest thing that I have ever seen in the whole of my life. God preserve us from the generals.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but what are we going to do?’

  ‘If necessary, we’ll stay here till dark; then we might have a chance of getting out of it. How are you two feeling ‒ MacKay, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, sirr,’ replied the soldier, a grizzled, stoical man of about thirty. ‘I’m all right, sir, but I dinna want tae stand up.’

  ‘I don’t think that we’ve had many casualties, sir,’ said Gordon.

  ‘Thank God for that. I daren’t think how many there would have been if we had obeyed orders,’ replied Ian.

  On another part of their little front, Private Donaldson was holding forth.

  ‘You know this is a non-battle,’ he said to Corporal MacTavish. ‘The idiots who control our lives and deaths seem to have decided that the Boer was in need of a spot of target practice. I really do think that they ought to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘Who?’ said MacTavish. ‘The generals or the Boers?’

  ‘The Boers, of course. You cannot teach generals anything. They are completely solid between the ears.’

  ‘
Aye? And are ye ganna be the yin tae dae it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Donaldson. ‘After all, I have less to lose than almost any man in the regiment. I have no home, no honour, no reason for living. Goodbye, Mister MacTavish, I shall probably see you in hell.’

  He crawled out from behind the bit of scrub which was their cover, dragging his Lee-Metford with him.

  ‘Come back, you bloody fool,’ shouted MacTavish as he watched in horror.

  There were a couple of little spurts of dust around Donaldson as somebody on the other side spotted the movement. Donaldson stopped and fired and a man rose from a trench on the opposite bank and fell.

  ‘All right,’ yelled MacTavish. ‘You got yin. Noo, come ye back.’

  Donaldson moved forward a little way and fired again.

  ‘Twa,’ shouted MacTavish. He half rose from the scrub and immediately took cover again as a volley of shots whistled round his ears.

  By this time half of the battalion was watching Donaldson as he approached the water’s edge. From the tenuous security of his rock, Ian turned to Gordon Bruce.

  ‘Who is that bloody fool?’ he demanded.

  ‘It looks like Private Donaldson, sir,’ replied Gordon.

  ‘If he ever gets out of this, I’ll have him court-martialled.’

  In another part of the field Frankie Gibson saw what was happening.

  ‘Cover me,’ he yelled, ‘I’m going tae get the stupid bastard oot o’ this.’

  ‘You’ll stay right where you are, Sergeant-Major. That is an order,’ called Hugh Grant who was nearby.

  Frankie pretended not to have heard and started to crawl out towards the river, but he was too late. Donaldson had paused and then suddenly rose to his feet with his bayonet fixed.

  ‘Charge!!’ he yelled and started rushing towards and into the water.

  He had barely got his feet wet before he was cut down. He must have been hit a dozen times. He was waist deep in the water when he fell. His body started to float downstream in the middle of a big red stain. He was floating face down, the flow of the water pushing his kilt up and revealing his bare buttocks. Frankie Gibson crawled back to his cover.

  ‘Why does a man dae a thing like that?’ he said to no one in particular.

  General Buller, instead of remaining at his headquarters from which he could have directed the progress of the battle, had mounted his charger and was riding around different sections of the front. He discovered the plight into which Hart had inexplicably led his brigade, and at eleven o’clock in the morning he ordered that the battered remnants of Hart’s brigade should retire. It fell to General Lyttelton to take his brigade in and cover their retreat.

  They came out of the salient in dribs and drabs, each pathetic little group making its own way to the safety of the rear. Once they realized what was happening, the Maclarens provided what cover they could for the bloodied Dubliners who had been trapped on their left.

  After the Dubliners had got out, Ian turned to Gordon.

  ‘Right, Gordon,’ he said. ‘It’s our turn now, let’s try and get out of this hellhole.’

  By one o’clock that afternoon the Maclaren Highlanders were back in their lines.

  When he arrived at his bivouac, Ian Maclaren flung himself wearily down on his cot. But it was only for a moment. He was the commanding officer, there would be no pause for him; there was work to do. He struggled out through the flap of his tent and called a passing soldier.

  ‘Find the R.S.M. and tell him to report to me,’ he said.

  The soldier went off at a reluctant trot. A minute or so later Frankie Gibson arrived at Ian’s bivouac. Somehow or other he had managed to look spruce and smart. Even his buttons seemed to be newly polished. Ian eyed him enviously.

  ‘How are you feeling, Sergeant-Major?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine, sirr,’ was the reply.

  ‘We had better call the roll.’

  ‘We’re daeing it noo, sir.’

  ‘Have you got the casualties yet?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. But they’re no heavy. Apart from Donaldson, there seems tae be only twa deed. There are some wounded, but nae many o’ them bad. I dinna ken if anybody’s missing. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘All right, Sergeant-Major,’ said Ian. ‘Let me know as soon as you have the figures.’

  Frankie went off and Ian sat down on his cot. He was damned tired, though whether it was through exhaustion or fury, he could not tell. It had been such a criminal waste. It was the biggest non-battle that he had ever heard of. Neither side had even tried to attack and the Boers, secure in their trenches, had dealt a crushing blow to a British force which must have outnumbered them by four to one, at least.

  Five minutes later Frankie was back.

  ‘Well, let’s have it,’ said Ian.

  ‘Three deed; seventeen wounded, three serious, eight fit for duty and twa missing.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘Sergeant Leinie, sir, and I’m sorry tae have tae tell you, but the ither yin’s Major Grant. What are we gannin’ tae dae aboot them, sir?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Ian. ‘Tell somebody to get my charger.’

  Ian went into his bivouac and removed his kilt. He put on a pair of light serge breeches and a pair of leather riding boots. He checked his Webley to see that it was fully loaded and shoved it into his leather holster. He came out of his bivouac to find Frankie Gibson waiting for him with his charger.

  ‘Where are you gannin’, sir?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘I’m going back to the loop, Frankie,’ said Ian. ‘I’m going to see if I can find them. If anything happens to me, I want you to tell Major Bruce that he is in command. Do you understand?’

  ‘Let me come wi’ ye, sir.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing, Sergeant-Major. I’m going alone. Can you rig me up a white flag or something?’

  ‘A white flag?’ said Frankie, horrified.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant-Major,’ said Ian impatiently. ‘A white flag. The Boers are not animals, they’ll respect it. They’ll know that we are looking for wounded.’

  ‘All right,’ said Frankie, disapprovingly.

  Soon Ian was riding out of the camp back towards the loop with a white handkerchief fluttering from a little stick.

  He had been quite right; the Boers did respect the white flag. Moreover, he was not alone on the battlefield. There were several small groups of men moving around. There were stretcher bearers carrying out the wounded. Well, thought Ian, at least the Maclarens had got their own wounded out. And there were other little clusters of men who were digging shallow graves while a chaplain went from one to another and said a few words over each corpse.

  Ian was back in the sector where they had been pinned down for two hours and he felt sick at the utter, useless waste of it all.

  ‘Have you seen any Highlanders?’ he called to a couple of stretcher bearers who were hurrying past.

  ‘Naw, sir, ’aven’t seen a sign of one,’ one of the men replied in a thick Cockney accent. ‘If any have been picked up, they’ll be back at the dressing station if they’re alive.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ian, and commenced his search.

  He had been looking without success for a little while when he was interrupted.

  ‘Englander,’ said a voice.

  Ian whipped around, startled. A tall bearded figure rose from the scrub. Ian started to tug at his revolver.

  ‘All right, Englander,’ said the Boer. ‘No more shooting, the battle is over.’

  ‘What battle?’ said Ian bitterly.

  ‘The one you just lost, Englander.’

  ‘I’m not an Englander,’ said Ian. ‘I’m a Scot.’

  ‘Where is your skirt, then? But it doesn’t matter what you are. You all want our country. I have one of your men here. A Scot.’

  Ian ran to where the Boer was standing. And there, lying in a shallow depression, he saw Hugh Grant. There was blood all around him, flowing from a massive wound in his stomach. Ia
n could even see bits of his gut through the remnants of his kilt.

  Ian stopped, horrified at the sight of his old friend. ‘Is he alive?’ he demanded.

  ‘Just,’ replied the Boer. ‘I gave him water but ‒’

  Ian got down beside Hugh and cradled his head in his arms. Hugh’s eyes flickered open.

  ‘Hello, Ian,’ he said. ‘It’s bloody sore.’

  ‘Don’t try and talk, Hugh.’

  ‘Nice of you to come and see me,’ murmured Hugh. He coughed and a little trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘We’ve got to get you back,’ said Ian. He turned to the Boer. ‘Can you get some stretcher bearers?’

  The Boer shook his head. ‘No use, Englander.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Hugh. ‘This is it, you know.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be you, Hugh,’ said Ian, and there was a catch in his voice. ‘You should have had command.’

  ‘No, Ian, I wasn’t right. You’re doing a great job. You’re the finest Maclaren of them all.’ He raised his head a little. ‘It’s such a pity, it’s such a lovely day.’ He coughed once and was silent.

  ‘He was your friend?’ said the Boer.

  Ian nodded.

  ‘I am sorry, Englander.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ian bitterly.

  ‘You like I should help you to bury him?’ asked the Boer.

  ‘No,’ said Ian, rising to his feet. ‘There’s someone else that I have to find.’

  ‘I help you look.’

  The area around them was clearing now. It seemed doubtful that anyone was within half a mile of them. They walked together among the few boulders and the bits of scrub that had meant the difference between life and death to his men only a couple of hours ago. They found Peter Leinie. He was sitting up, his back against a rock, smoking his pipe. He had been shot through the thigh and obviously could not walk, so, with Highland resignation, he had made himself as comfortable as he could until such time as somebody came and found him.

  ‘Hello, sirr,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you’ve found me. It’s getting bloody hot here.’

  ‘All right, Sergeant,’ said Ian. ‘I’ve got a horse here. We’ll be able to get you back to camp on that.’ He turned to the Boer. ‘Will you help me to get this man on to my horse?’