The Winter Soldiers

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Crossman’s face clouded over as he interrupted sharply with, ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Who?’ she attempted to keep it light, but in vain.

  ‘You know who I mean. Some fellow asked for your hand, didn’t he? Then what did he do? Cry off? I can see it in your eyes. No, no, don’t weep, Jane. Oh, Lord, I never know what to do with you when you weep. You must tell me his name. I’ll seek him out and . . .’

  ‘No, you must not,’ she said, drying her tears. ‘That would make it worse. He’s gone and that’s that. Besides I’m not telling you his name and I forbid you to try to discover it. Those were tears of anger, by the way, not of self-pity. Let us speak no more of it. I wish to forget the whole episode. If you want a reason for me being here, it is to help. Despite the description of the Crimea in your letter to me – you made it sound like some Mediterranean paradise – I was aware through the articles in The Times that it was no heaven. I was particularly upset by the reports that so many men were dying of disease. I wanted to help and indeed am spending my days here, as well as some of my nights, nursing young soldiers with bewildered eyes. You see the frivolous side of me, I’m afraid, when I take a little time away from it all, but without that I think I should die of heartache.’

  He nodded. ‘Or of fatigue. Cholera and dysentery have taken their toll – we lost a man a short while ago – a soldier named Kelly. One moment he was laughing and joking with this comrades, three hours later he was dead. A tough man, too. One of your rugged Irishmen, who could out-drink and out-punch any soldier who cared to take him on. He went out like an old man, with withered yellow skin, his breath so shallow it wouldn’t have stirred a dead leaf. I believe he was twenty-two years of age.’

  ‘So young.’

  ‘Young – and still, as you say, bewildered.’

  She changed the subject. ‘I wonder how Lavinia is doing, entertaining those two handsome men? She has so many admirers here. But then she is exceptionally pretty. I wonder you let her get away, Alex.’

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? But, you know, for all her loveliness I prefer the company of someone like you.’

  She took his arm for a moment. ‘Now why is that?’

  ‘Well, you are a little more serious about life than Lavinia Durham. You do not turn everything into merriment. You do not ride Hell for leather looking for a skirmish the moment a cannon goes off. You have an air about you, which is more queenly than coquettish princess. And your beauty is not to be thrown away, my dear. You could stand with the best.’

  She laughed again. ‘Cousin Alex, you have a way of putting things which lifts my spirit.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She was quiet for a moment, before saying, ‘I spoke with your father the other day. In fact I see him most days, of course, he being my pretend uncle. He urged me to go home.’

  ‘We do not agree on much, but I think that is one piece of advice which is very sound.’

  ‘He also told me not to have anything to do with you. I refused of course, which made him cross. In the end he lost his temper with me a little and stormed away. I think he went sea fishing.’

  ‘Sea fishing?’

  ‘It’s a new pastime with him.’

  ‘Good Lord. What will he do next? He’s the most boorish man I know, yet he still has the ability to astound me. A boor but not a bore.’

  ‘It’s a shame Cousin James has gone home. I think he could have helped you with your father.’

  ‘James, bless his heart, is terrified of the old man, as am I at times. I think James is better off at home. Father will soon get tired of dogging my footsteps. I expect he’ll be on his way home himself soon.’

  The sound of boots on stone came out of the night and Yorwarth appeared in the light of a lantern hanging from a storehouse. His jaw was bandaged up, having been rebroken and reset by the surgeons. It must have been painful for him to speak.

  ‘Sergeant? Sorry to disturb you, sergeant.’

  ‘What is it, Yorwarth?’

  ‘Beggin’ the sergeant’s pardon,’ Yorwarth was being overly polite with a lady present, ‘but our battalion’s going into battle tomorrow, with some other regiments – but all to be led by our own Colonel Horatio Shirley. Some of us will go at the Quarries. Some of us at the trenches and rifle pits. We’re to be the Right Attack, I understand, going at the Quarries. That is, a lieutenant has said so – the officer who sent the message. The same lieutenant who asked us to silence the clocktower.’

  ‘Colonel Shirley’s in command, but who’s our officer, the officer leading the actual attack?’

  Yorwarth’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh, I don’t – wait – yes, I do remember now. I heard it was to be Lieutenant-Colonel Campbell, of the 90th.’

  Crossman nodded in approval. ‘A good man. A good officer. And the French?’

  ‘They’re going to go at the Mamelon.’

  ‘At last,’ breathed Crossman, bunching his fist, ‘we’re going to attack at last. Thank you, Yorwarth. I’ll join you and the others in a minute.’

  Yorwarth left.

  Jane gripped Crossman’s arm. ‘You don’t have to go with them, do you, Alex? I mean, you’re on special duties.’

  ‘It’s my own regiment, Jane. You heard. The attack is being commanded by my own colonel. The 88th will be leading.’

  ‘But you don’t need to go,’ she insisted.

  He peeled her fingers from his sleeve. ‘You don’t understand, do you? The Rangers are going into battle. I have to be with them. Yorwarth has to be with them, even though his jaw is still not yet set. And Peterson. And even Wynter. When that battle is depicted on our colours, in the future, I have to be able to say I was there. It is unthinkable that I am here and do not take part in a battle led by my own battalion’s commander. Unthinkable.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I really don’t understand. But I want you to promise me something.’

  ‘Of course, if it’s in my power.’

  Her jaw tightened. ‘Do not try to be a hero, Alex.’

  ‘Jane, you don’t understand why I have to take part in that battle tomorrow, and you certainly don’t understand how I shall conduct myself while I am in it. When the air is full of whining pieces of hot metal, the last thing I shall be thinking about is heroic action. Survival is what will be foremost in my mind. There will be the object in front of me, the Quarries, and I shall be running for it, but when I reach it my mind will have flown somewhere else, like a black crow released from a trap, and I shall fall with great relief in a heap and thank my God he has held my hand.’

  ‘You fill me with terror.’

  ‘It’s what we’re here for, Jane. Nothing else. I don’t mean to frighten you. I’m merely trying to say that when the fighting starts I am no giant.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘But don’t worry, I have the utmost confidence in myself. I am getting remarkably quick at dodging cannon balls, and I’m rather too thin to be hit by a musket ball, so there you are. I shall be back to play another game of poker, with you, Lavinia and Rupert before nightfall.’

  She placed a slim pale hand on his arm and looked intensely into his face. ‘Please, please do that,’ she whispered. Then in a normal voice, ‘We are no longer children, Alex, which is a pity in some ways. In those days we could express our feelings freely. Any silly thing said then would be forgotten in an hour and we would be friends again. Now we are constrained by adult conventions and mores – and – and other things.’

  ‘Like opening ourselves to wounds.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I understand,’ he replied, tenderly. ‘Believe me, I shall do nothing heroic. I have every desire to stay alive, Jane.’

  He then escorted her back to the cottage and went in briefly to tell Lieutenant Pirce-Smith of the coming scrap. The lieutenant’s reaction to the news was much the same as that of Crossman. If anything he was little more excited. Crossman could see Jane shaking her head. Then he left and went back to the hovel where his men were ready to take a tot
with him.

  He was eager to know the details.

  ‘Who’s going?’ he asked. ‘How many.’

  Peterson, excited, replied, ‘Of the 88th? One hundred men, we’re told. And another hundred from the 7th Fusiliers along with two hundred from the 49th, but we’ll be leading the charge, won’t we, sergeant? The 88th will be at the front.’

  ‘They will if Colonel Shirley is the acting general officer, I’m damn sure of that!’ Crossman said.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ cried Peterson, unable to contain the exhilaration, which was mingled with a large dose of fear. Like the others, she wanted to be there, had to be there, but at the same time was dreading the charge. Storming a position, any position, like the Quarries was a frightening prospect. ‘That’s what I told Wynter, isn’t it, Wynter?’

  ‘That’s what you told me,’ muttered Wynter, somehow managing to look both awed and bored.

  ‘So,’ said Crossman, wistfully, as he broke open a bottle. ‘Only a hundred of us?’

  ‘And another hundred with the attack on the rifle pits,’ Yorwarth explained. ‘That’s two hundred.’

  ‘Well, we’ve lost most of the battalion since we left England,’ said Crossman, ‘so it’s not surprising there’s so few left, is it? Listen men, you remember when we were out after the deserters. It was winter and the land was barren then. I heard an officer who was out riding today say that the Balaclava valleys are now covered in long grass, and that wild flowers fill the place in great swathes of colour. I want you to remember that. I’ll take you there after the battle, and show you something to live for.’

  At that moment Major Lovelace entered the room and all went quiet.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing at the bottle. ‘A party?’

  ‘We’re going into battle tomorrow, sir,’ said the still excited Peterson. ‘A grand charge!’

  Lovelace, dressed in a fur-lined shell-jacket worn over a tweed coat, revolver on one side and field glass on the other, nodded. His face, under his forage cap, was expressionless as he said, ‘I wish you all good luck, gentlemen.’ Then he left the room and climbed the stairs to his bed.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Wynter said. ‘He called us gentlemen.’

  Crossman poured the rum into such containers as there were and raised his glass, saying gravely, ‘To the 88th!’

  ‘To the 88th!’ they cried, and downed the fiery drink in one.

  10

  On the 6th of June, 1855, just as the clock struck three in the afternoon, over 500 allied guns suddenly exploded into action, filling the air with metal missiles. Around 400 men taken from the Light and 2nd Divisions, commanded by Colonel Shirley of the 88th Connaught Rangers, were waiting in the wings ready to storm an area of diggings which the British called the Quarries. Crossman was there with them, as was Wynter, Yorwarth and Peterson. The Quarries were heavily defended, being an ideal place from which sharpshooters could operate, picking off allied soldiers when they showed themselves above the trenches. Capturing the Quarries would put the allies one step closer to the seizure of Sebastopol.

  The hail of metal fell with murderous effect on the Russian positions. Great clouds of sharp-smelling smoke began to billow across no-man’s-land, obscuring the vision of the soldiers waiting to charge. Crossman knew that they would not go up until the French had assaulted the Mamelon, which overlooked the Quarries, or any taking of the latter would be futile. With the Mamelon still in Russian hands the Quarries, even if captured, could not be held. Crossman waited in vain for the bombardment to cease, so that the French could attack, but it seemed the gunners had been told to give the Russians a real pounding.

  The thunder of the guns continued up until twilight, when the shells could be seen bursting against a reddened sky. Then when darkness came, the guns fell silent, and only the mortars continued to be pumped up into the heavens. Their trajectories could be plainly followed, as the mortar shells left a trail of sparks across the night sky. When they eventually fell to earth, on or over the Russian defences, a brilliant flash accompanied their explosion. It might have been beautiful, if it were not so deadly and high, terrified screams sometimes followed immediately in the wake of an explosion.

  After one such blast Crossman could hear a Russian soldier screaming to his comrades that he had been hit – that there was a jagged hole in his chest – and to help him, help him, please help him. The man’s terrified yelling continued for quite a while, punctuated by several more mortar explosions, until finally the wounded soldier fell silent.

  Curses and oaths came floating across the night from those receiving the shower of deadly metal. These meant little to most British soldiers, but Crossman understood them and in a way he could sympathize with the callers. Hell’s rain was falling on them and naturally they believed that it came from those who were in partnership with the Devil. Their priests had told them as much.

  ‘How long are we goin’ to wait here?’ whispered Wynter, whose legs were shaking. ‘Better to get it over and done.’

  ‘The French won’t attack in the dark,’ replied Crossman. ‘I’d settle down for the night. Nothing will happen before dawn.’

  ‘I hate waiting,’ grumbled Peterson.

  Crossman said, ‘There isn’t a soldier alive who doesn’t, and perhaps some of the dead are not too keen on it. Here, take one of these blankets each. Wrap up warm. You don’t want your muscles to stiffen up.’

  ‘So long as we don’t get the cramp when we die tomorrow,’ said a man next to Wynter. ‘Cramp is a painful business.’

  Someone brought some hot soup along the line. They sipped it, listening to the clatter and clink of the French not far away. They would have the worst of it. The Russians weren’t going to let go of the Mamelon easily. It was too valuable to them. Both positions – the Quarries and the Mamelon – were stepping stones towards the vastly more important Malakoff and the Redan. Once these latter two fell, Sebastopol would fall. It all depended on the French attack now.

  ‘I hear tell there’s mines out there,’ said the same soldier who had attempted humour with Wynter. ‘The ground’s bin planted with nice neat rows of fougasses – ’cept they’re not so neat, really. I had a friend who lost his leg to one of those things. Blew it right up into the air. We all saw it spinning, before it came down boot first and gave a little sideways hop, as if it was tryin’ to stand again without the help of the man what owned it.’

  ‘Thank you for that bit o’ knowledge,’ replied Wynter, sarcastically. ‘I’ll be able to sleep the better for it.’

  ‘Just thought you ought to know, see. There’s dozens of ’em, maybe hundreds. The Russ is quite liberal with his fougasse.’

  ‘You finished?’

  The soldier shrugged and turned away to talk to his companion on the other side.

  They tried to sleep, but it was virtually impossible. All that Crossman could manage was a doze every now and then. When grey morning came, the guns began again. This time it was not so intense. As the day wore on spectators began to gather on the Heights: civilians, families and other camp followers. Everyone knew, including the Russians, that an attack was about to take place. It merely remained to discover how great. While the Rifle Brigade band played some light music for the entertainment of the spectators and military observers, Crossman and the rest of the stormers were moved forward, into a trench closer to the battleground. To their right four brigades of French soldiers prepared to charge the Mamelon, just over a quarter of a mile from their most forward position. Crossman was amused to see the French soldiers tossing away empty wine bottles, having fortified themselves with their national drink for the coming ordeal.

  Peterson was not so impressed. ‘Huh!’ she said. ‘Can’t they go into battle without getting drunk?’

  Crossman smiled. ‘The French do love their wine. It’s not really the need for false courage. Even last night they looked as keen as foxes ready to go after prey. They just love the grape, that’s all.’

  Once aga
in the guns began their loud crashing cacophony with much more earnestness than earlier in the day. Crossman knew this was the prelude to the attack. Sure enough, a quarter of an hour later the guns stopped suddenly and a cheering and yelling came from the French as their colonel jumped from the banquette and ran towards the Mamelon, followed by a horde of scrambling eager blue soldiers.

  The bugles and drums sounded as the French swarmed over the ground to the walls of the Mamelon. Their colonel was killed in that first rush. Up and over the walls went the brave French. Not long after, the French flag flapped from the battlements and cheers went through the spectators on the mounts.

  Having taken the fortification, some of the Zouaves continued on in a eager rush towards the Malakoff itself.

  Damn fools, thought Crossman. They should have dug in. Now they had crazily let their feeling of triumph overwhelm them. Having overrun the Mamelon they had lost their heads and were chasing the retreating Russians to a much stronger, better defended and more fortified position. It was an old mistake. One of the oldest. To believe that because the first obstacle had been surmounted, the second would be just as easy. The Zouaves had let their hearts rule their heads. Flush with the first victory, they thirsted for more, and Crossman shook his head in disappointment for them.

  They’re all going to die, he told himself.

  At the much more heavily-defended Malakoff the over-zealous Zouaves were repulsed with great force, and were now driven back towards the Mamelon. Now the Russians were flush with victory. They had the French on the run. They stormed the Mamelon, retook it from French hands, and drove the blue soldiers back to their own trenches.

  ‘My God,’ said Wynter, disgustedly, ‘the Frogs held that for a good few seconds, didn’t they.’

  ‘Look,’ Yorwarth replied, ‘there’s a counter-attack.’

  They watched enthralled as French reserves surged forwards, but they were not permitted spectator status any longer. The order was given to the British to charge the Quarries. ‘Come on lads,’ said Crossman, a hard lump in his throat, ‘time to go . . .’ He climbed out of the trench himself and began his stumbling run towards the objective. The air was humming with metal birds which darted through tufts of dry grass and flew singing from stones and rocks. Just in front of him an unfortunate lance-corporal stepped on a fougasse which blew up between his legs. The man spun, his eyes bugging and he clutched at his genitals, before dropping like a felled tree at the feet of Crossman, where he lay twitching and jerking. Crossman stared appalled at the fellow’s distress. Then he felt a hard thump in the back from someone behind him, urging him on, and he stepped over the body.