The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Sit with yer backs to the wall an’ don’t show yerselves till the bugles sound,’ hissed a large warrant officer. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise party. Only the guard to show. Anyone sticking’is ’ead over the top’s on a fizzer right away.’

  Simon found Lamb pacing the wall at the south-west corner, immediately facing the looming edge of the Asmai heights. He looked at the three men quizzically. ‘Well, Fonthill my boy,’ he said, with that smile which never quite reached his eyes, ‘you’ve turned us all out. I hope you know what you’re doing. We’ve got every man on the walls but the reserve. If they don’t come we shall all have frozen balls for nothing.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll come all right, sir.’ Simon looked up at the heights and pointed. ‘The signal will come from just up there and,’ he gazed to the east, where the first, hardly perceptible fingers of yellow light were creeping above the mountaintops, ‘I should say any minute now.’

  Almost as he spoke, the beacon on the edge of the longest tip of the Y of the heights above them flared into light and the valley boomed with one great universal yell as seventy thousand Afghans shrieked their relief that the waiting was over. Simon would remember the noise that followed for the rest of his life. It was an eerie, rhythmic, high-pitched sound, like many trains trundling over points, and it grew louder by the second. From Roberts’s command post in the centre of the compound a bugle sounded, and the defenders sprang to their rifle ports. Simon peered into the darkness but could see nothing, although the deafening trains seemed almost upon him. Then, with delicate precision, three star shells from equidistant points along the Sherpur walls burst into life overhead, throwing a surreal orange glow over the plain below and solving the mystery. The noise was that made by thousands of slippered feet slapping on the frozen ground as the Afghan army raced towards the walls. As the star shells hung in the sky, the attackers yelled their defiance at the infidels and brandished their weapons. They were still well out of rifle range and the defenders on the walls could only stare at the multitude that poured from the blackness, into the light of the flares hanging over the valley.

  Despite the cold, Simon found that beads of sweat were running down his nose and trickling into the corners of his mouth. He put his hand to his chin and found that his jaw had fallen. There were so many running towards the fort! From the blackness of the mountains, beyond the lit stage of the plain, more and more Afghans poured into view, hundreds upon hundreds and then thousands upon thousands of them, yelling and waving their swords, spears and banners. It seemed as though the fort must be engulfed.

  Simon swallowed hard, wiped the perspiration from his brow and looked at Jenkins and W.G. Their faces were a ludicrous yellow as the shells began to sink and change colour, but they seemed quite unperturbed. The Sikh’s eyes were narrowed as he estimated the range between the walls and the leading wave of attackers . . . perhaps eight hundred yards? Still too early to fire. Jenkins, sucking his moustache, was picking his nose as he surveyed the scene. Their nonchalance was reassuring and Simon realised, with relief, that he was not afraid. He cleared his throat. ‘Right,’ he said, nodding to three vacant rifle ports on the castellated walls - there were plenty of them - and they took up their positions, the smooth stocks of their rifles nestling against their cheeks.

  ‘Just like old times, eh, bach?’ said Jenkins, but his raised eyebrows belied the smile and there was a question behind it.

  Simon smiled back. ‘No, 352, it’s not like old times. I’m fine, look you, bach.’

  ‘Nah then.’ The cool voice of a sergeant in the 67th Foot came from behind them. ‘No chattin’ from you black buggers. Look to your front. Pick out your target. But don’t fire till you ’ear the order, or I’ll ’ave yer bollocks off an’ served for supper.’

  ‘There’s charmin’, isn’t it?’ said Jenkins, pushing his trigger guard down and up to cock the rifle.

  The sergeant whirled. ‘Eh, wot the ’ell—’ he began, but was interrupted by the shout of ‘Fire!’ which echoed all along the wall. Instantly the embrasures exploded with flame and the familiar smell of cordite engulfed the defenders. Simon, shooting at the very limit of his range as a marksman, had no idea if he had scored a hit, but a satisfied grunt from Jenkins at his side showed that the Welshman had killed. As the rifle smoke cleared, Simon saw that the volley had done nothing to stop the advance.

  The shrill voice of a young subaltern rose above the tumult. ‘Begin rapid firing,’ he shouted. ‘Pick your targets and look to your front at all times. Fire at will!’

  Simon dug a handful of cartridges from the box beside him in the embrasure, inserted one in the slot behind the backsight, cocked the action by pushing down the trigger guard, squinted down the long barrel and fired into the mass ahead and below him. This time, he saw his man fall, as did others in the front of the running tide. It was impossible to miss, but rifle fire alone, it seemed, could do nothing to halt the attack. Roberts had no Gatling guns and he had found it impossible to mount his cannon on the high walls. His artillery sat in the compound, below the walls, waiting for an opportunity for the gates to be opened so that it could be deployed. For the moment, it was the Martini-Henry rifles of seven thousand British and Indians against the speed and courage of seventy thousand Afghans - and the problem was that those rifles, accurate and lethal as they were, could be loaded with only one cartridge at a time. It took perhaps ten seconds to fire, open the ammunition chamber, pick up and insert another bullet, cock the gun, aim and fire again - perhaps longer as the rifles heated. In that time, the Pathans could sprint some fifty yards.

  The front line was now only a hundred yards from the bottom of the wall, and Simon noticed, for the first time, that the assault was being led by the khaki-clad soldiers of Mohamed Jan’s regular army. Then, suddenly, the attack stopped. With impeccable discipline, and despite the fire being rained on them, the front ranks knelt, elevated their rifles - there were no jezails in sight - and opened up a cool fire upon the defenders at the embrasures. Jenkins drew back with a curse as a splinter of stone sprang from the castellated top of the wall and tore a wound in his cheek. Fifteen yards to Simon’s left, a private of the 67th Foot crashed to the ground, a neat blue hole beginning to seep blood from his forehead.

  ‘Eh, this is getting’ ’ot,’ said Jenkins, wiping his cheek.

  ‘Yes.’ Simon fumbled in the ammunition box. ‘W.G.’

  The Sikh withdrew behind his castellation. ‘Lord?’

  ‘Look,’ said Simon. He gestured towards the unoccupied embrasures on either side of them. ‘Spread the ammunition out and the three of us will keep moving between these ten firing positions. It will unsettle their snipers. But we have to keep firing as quickly as possible, or the scaling ladders will be up.’

  He risked a glance outwards and along the face of the wall. It was clear that their section was taking the main brunt of the attack, for the masses fronting the wall towards the north-east were distinctly thinner than those opposite Lamb’s defenders. A bullet hit the wall just below him and pinged away. He fired, ducked, reloaded and fired again from the next embrasure. To either side of him, Jenkins and W.G. were doing the same.

  Then the firing from below relented for a moment and Simon saw the ranks of Afghans part to allow scores of tribesmen - no uniforms here - to run through and lean their scaling ladders against the wall. Immediately, the firing recommenced to cover the Pathans who lined up, curved swords glistening, to mount the ladders.

  ‘Wait until the firing stops,’ shouted Simon, his back to the wall. ‘Then fire down on to the ladders.’

  ‘We’ll never stop ’em all,’ Jenkins shouted back. ‘There’s too many ’oles along ’ere without a gun at them, look you.’

  ‘Never mind. Keep dodging one to the other. While their men are climbing the ladders the snipers can’t shoot. Just fire at the leading man and he could bring down the rest.’

  Immediately, the firing from below stopped again and Simon realised, with sinking heart, that
the leading attackers must be near the edge of the embrasures. He pushed his rifle barrel out, only to have it seized from below by the white-turbaned Afghan at the head of the ladder. The effort of seizing the gun, however, unbalanced the man, and Simon brought up the rifle butt, hitting him in the stomach so that he fell from his perch, crashing into the men on the rungs below him and bringing down the ladder itself. Twisting, Simon shot at point-blank range the top man on the ladder to his left, and caught a glimpse of W.G., on the other side, half leaning over the wall, the shafts of a ladder in either hand, slowly toppling it backwards into the mob below.

  But everywhere along the line the ladders were being climbed, and although the men on them were easy targets, the thinness of the line of defenders along the wall meant that sooner rather than later the attackers would spill on to the ramparts and overwhelm the soldiers on the top.

  Simon, Jenkins and W.G. had now given up scurrying between the unoccupied embrasures and were leaning out, firing as fast as they could at the tribesmen below. It was dangerous work because the marksmen of the Afghan army had now returned to their task, regardless of the danger of hitting the leading ladder men. The flares had long since sunk to the icy ground and been extinguished and the half-light of dawn impaired the marksmanship of the Pathan riflemen, firing as they were towards the dark sky above them. Fewer of the defenders were now reeling back from the embrasures with wounds or slumping over their rifles with those fatal bullet marks in their heads. Yet the ladders remained full, and every time one crashed to the ground, another was erected. Still the tribesmen crawled upwards, striving to get close enough to swing their swords at the riflemen above, some of them doing so and pulling their adversaries through the embrasure, only to be shot by the sepoy or infantryman at the next position. It was desperately close work, with the advantage going to neither side.

  Suddenly Simon heard the thud of running feet along the top of the wall and swung back from his embrasure in despair, realising that the defending line had been broken and cursing that they had forgotten to draw bayonets - vital for close-quarter work - from the armoury. But the attackers had not cleared the wall. Doubling along the parapet, revolver in hand, his pith helmet askew, was Brigadier Lamb, leading a column of sepoys from the 28th Punjab Infantry, each of whom peeled off as he reached an unmanned embrasure and immediately began firing.

  ‘You all right, Fonthill?’ the little man panted.

  ‘Yes, sir, but you’re only just in time. Another couple of minutes and I think they would have been over.’

  The Brigadier leaned beyond Simon and fired his own revolver. ‘Sorry about that, but Bobs wouldn’t release this reserve until he was sure this was where the main pressure was. More ammo is on its way.’ He turned to Jenkins, whose face was hideously bloodstained from the cut on his forehead. ‘You’ve been hit, Llewellyn. Get down below to the first-aid post.’

  Jenkins grinned through the red mask. ‘Jenkins, sir, 352. Llewellyn is me brother-in-law, as it ’appens. Taller than me, see. But then everyone is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Eh? What? Ah yes, I see. Well, well done, 452. Stay if you can. We need every man.’

  Simon aimed, fired and then turned quickly to Lamb. ‘Is it as hot as this all along the perimeter, sir?’

  ‘Not quite, but they are probing our weak spots. This corner is one of ’em because the wall is a bit lower here, but I know we can hold them. Bobs is only committing his reserves when he has to, because we are so thinly stretched. They won’t keep this up for long. They’ll come in waves.’ He leaned over the parapet, nearly losing his helmet. ‘Thought so. Look. They’re pulling back.’

  A ragged cheer came from the defenders along the wall. Sure enough, the stronger light now showed the Afghans moving away, firing as they went. At the foot of the wall, and for about a hundred yards back, bodies littered the white ground, showing how effective the fire of the Martini-Henrys had been. And yet, as Simon narrowed his eyes to focus in the growing light, the retreating mass still seemed as large, as impenetrable, as when it had first attacked. To their left, along the line of the fort, continuous rifle fire could be heard, showing that the attack was unrelenting elsewhere.

  ‘Phew.’ Lamb took off his wayward helmet and wiped his face and head with a red handkerchief. ‘That was hot work while it lasted. But they’ll be back.’ He spat on his handkerchief and walked over to Jenkins. ‘Here, Lloyd.’ Gently he began wiping the Welshman’s face until he had revealed the wound made by the flying masonry chip. ‘Ah, just a scratch. My God, we Welshmen do bleed, don’t we? Eh, eh?’

  For the first time in their relationship, Simon had the satisfaction of realising that Jenkins was embarrassed, as, like a mother with a grubby child, the Brigadier wiped the blood from round his eyes and cheeks. ‘Very kind, sir, I’m sure,’ murmured the Welshman, ‘but I can manage now, see. No, I can manage all right, sir, thank you.’

  ‘Very good, Sergeant.’ The Brigadier inspected his handkerchief for a moment, sighed and pocketed it. ‘Right, Fonthill.’ He smiled. ‘We’re not out of this yet, by any means. But I must congratulate you. Your intelligence was accurate and you and your three-man army,’ he nodded to include W.G., who was leaning on his rifle at a respectful distance, ‘have done extremely well. And I shall tell the General so. Now,’ he leaned over and took in the bodies at the foot of the wall, ‘your shooting has also been exemplary, and I feel inclined therefore to include you all in our mobile reserve. Need good shots.’ The little man nodded towards the recently arrived Punjabi infantry. ‘So attach yourselves to this lot. I’ll tell their CO. I fancy that sooner or later we’re going to have a crisis up at the north-eastern end, by Kurja Kila. No wall there. Only got bags and wire entanglements. So when they move, you join ’em. For the moment, stay here. There will be more attacks.’

  He was right. There was only time for the ammunition bearers and the water wallahs to distribute their precious supplies to the defenders before a wailing cry and the beating of drums heralded the next wave of attack. The tactics were the same: a massed charge across the icy plain until, heedless of the heavy fire from the embrasures above, the marksmen knelt and fired in their turn, enabling more scaling ladders to be erected and the attackers to climb the walls. This time there were more ladders - but this time there were more defenders too, and the attacks were repelled more decisively than in that first, hard-fought battle in the half-light of dawn. And so it went on through the morning, with the defenders standing to at what seemed like half-hour intervals and firing until their rifles were almost too hot to touch.

  By noon, it became clear that the attacks on this south-west face of the fortress were diminishing in intensity, although a strong fire was being maintained by the Afghan riflemen. At this time a young subaltern of the Punjabis came along the parapet and, hesitantly, approached Simon.

  ‘Captain . . . er . . . Fonthill, is it, sir?’

  Simon grinned. ‘Yes. Sorry about our number one dress. We had to leave our dungarees at a ball in Simla.’

  The lieutenant grinned back. ‘My word, it becomes you, sir! Very fetching, I’d say. Anyway, our CO, Colonel Brookes, sends his compliments. We are being called to the gap in the north-east wall right away. He wonders if you would care to join us.’

  The formal wording took Simon back to a more leisurely, mannered world. The young man gestured over his shoulder and Simon saw the Punjabis peeling away and doubling, heads down, along the parapet before descending to the compound below. He nodded. ‘We’ll be right with you.’

  Touching the shoulders of Jenkins and W.G., Simon picked up his rifle, and the three followed the subaltern down the steps and joined the tail end of the Punjabis, who were marching in quick time across the vast space towards distant heavy firing. As they loped along, a strange trio in their Afghan garb behind the smartly accoutred sepoys, they could see, in the distance, a line of infantrymen crouching behind sandbags, which seemed to be the only obstacle preventing the Afghans from pouring through the gap betw
een the end of the broken wall to the right and the mountain climbing to their left. Simon knew that the new American invention, barbed wire, had been stretched between crossed timber stakes out ahead of the bags, because he had seen it yesterday. Roberts had brought samples of the wire with him from India, under great protest from his transport officer, for the stuff was hell to coil and carry. Its use in battle was unproven, but the little ex-quartermaster had a nose for innovations and he sensed the potential worth of the wire in defensive situations. It was to be tested now. At least light cannon could be fired through it, and Roberts had placed three field guns at intervals in the gap. The noise of this artillery intensified as the Punjabis neared this corner of Sherpur.

  Simon realised that the guns must be firing over open sights, for as the Punjabis ahead of him broke ranks to spread along the line, he could see that Afghan bodies were strewn ahead, extremely close to the defenders, and that some of them were hanging in grotesque postures on the wire. The bravest of the attackers, however, had pulled part of the wire fencing - which was free-standing - to one side, and it was through these gaps that the attackers had poured and were now engaged in hand-to-hand fighting with the kilted men of the 92nd Highlanders.

  Despite the cold, Simon once again found himself perspiring. His mouth had gone dry, and although he lengthened his stride, his legs seemed insecure and he felt that they were trembling. Fighting from the top of the wall had been different: then there had been the advantage of height and distance from the enemy to lend protection in the fight, however illusory. The shooting was impersonal. The bullets hitting the wall all around him were a lottery; it was in the lap of the gods whether one found its target. He could do little about that. But hand-to-hand fighting was another matter altogether. The confrontation would be between spear and sword - savage, brutal weapons - and a bayonet-less rifle; it would be about ferocity and strength, and he doubted whether he possessed either. Oh God, was he going to freeze, as he had looking down that stairwell in Kabul? He stole quick glances at Jenkins and W.G. on either side of him. As usual, they showed no sign of fear, or even concern. Oh, how he envied them! Not for them this crippling imagination, this vision of sharp steel cutting through flesh, the pain . . .