Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Now,’ continued Crossman, ‘we’re not going to get near them during the day. So we have to think about night operations. I want you all to put your minds to this one. It’s open house. I know you’ve all had a few gins, or rums, or whatever, but let’s have a smoke on this . . .’

  Crossman took some pipe tobacco from his pocket and handed it round. They took out their various clay pipes and filled them. Crossman and Ali had their chibouques. Bowls were filled and tamped down. A taper was lit from the oil lamp and the pipes were soon glowing. Men settled back comfortably. Woman less so. Crossman sucked in the smoke and filled his lungs. He could not envisage being able to devise plans without the assistance of tobacco.

  The atmosphere was perfect, except for Wynter’s snores.

  Ali got up, put a huge calloused hand over Wynter’s mouth. Wynter stopped breathing, went a strange colour, then coughed in air when Ali let him breathe again. Ali flipped the drunken soldier on to his stomach. The snoring had now given way to a heavy breathing sound. Mercifully, Wynter had not woken during this swift smooth exercise.

  For his part Crossman was glad the snoring had ceased, though for a few seconds there he had thought the Bashi-Bazouk was going to suffocate the sleeping soldier. The Turk was even less fond of Wynter than the sergeant himself. It would not have taken much encouragement for Ali to put an end to Wynter’s complaining for good.

  ‘Now,’ said Crossman, after a lengthy period in which they had all sucked ideas out of their pipes, ‘any thoughts?’

  Yorwarth spoke first. ‘What we could do, sergeant, is sneak up there at night and somehow get a light on the Ruskie sharpshooter. We know Peterson here has tried firing at the flash, when the sharpshooter takes a shot at one of our blokes, but he always jumps away from the spot after firing, and Peterson ends up shootin’ at thin air. If we could give Peterson a light to aim at, why she’d get him right between the eyes, dark or not.’

  Gwilliams snorted. ‘What, walk up with a lamp and say, “Scuse me while I illuminate you for purposes of shooting your damn head off”?’

  ‘No. Not that, but some way – say, toss a lit cigar, or fuse – something like that. It doesn’t need to be a lamp. Just a light of some kind. Get it near him, so’s Peterson can put a hole in his head.’

  Peterson blinked again. She was a brilliant shot. She rejoiced in having this rare skill. But she did not like to dwell on the outcome of her actions. Once the bullet had left the muzzle of the rifle it ceased to be her responsibility. The damage it caused was not her concern. She did not like to consider holes in hearts, heads, or any other part of the human anatomy. Such thoughts were ugly. The less she thought about them the better.

  They pondered on Yorwarth’s words for a while. Getting some Russian uniforms so that they could move amongst the enemy was no problem. There were hundreds to be had, taken from bodies after battles. But Yorwarth’s plan was full of terrible holes. It was too flimsy, too likely to end in a chase across no-man’s-land, the peloton with the Russians on their tails.

  Peterson said, ‘It doesn’t have to be me. Why can’t we go as a group behind their lines. Then we can jump on the sharpshooters and – and—’

  ‘And cut their throats?’ Gwilliams finished for her. ‘I like that.’

  He took out a shaving razor, opened it, studied the gleaming edge for a moment, then replaced it in his pocket. There were no fussy feelings about Gwilliams. He would do before he was done to every time.

  ‘That’s no good,’ Crossman said. ‘I’m sorry lads, but we’d only get to one or two of them before we had the whole Russian army on our tails. It’s got to be like a lit fuse. We’ve got to be out of there before they start missing their sharpshooters . . .’

  At that moment Major Lovelace came through the doorway. He brushed some persistent moths off the shoulders of his uniform. Then he looked up into the faces of Crossman’s men.

  ‘Insects, moths, the air’s full of ’em. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your discussion. You’re planning your mission, of course. I’ve been thinking about that since Hawke spoke to you, sergeant, and something has occurred to me. Lampyridae. You should do something with those flying coleoptera. There are millions of them out there. Got to be useful for something other than flitting about, don’t you think?’

  Crossman nodded slowly. The major smiled and went up the stairs to the room he shared with his sergeant on the first floor of the hovel. Crossman considered his major’s words carefully. Lovelace had a keen brain, that much Crossman knew. He also knew that the major had used the Latin name for the nocturnal luminous insects so that Crossman alone could think about what he had said without involving the rest of the men at this stage. If Crossman thought the idea too wild or unworthy of further consideration, he could abandon it without anyone losing face amongst the men. On the other hand, if he decided it was worth taking further, and he would not be met with a wall of incredulity, he could throw it open to the rest of them and see what came out of it.

  He decided to test the peloton’s ingenuity.

  ‘Fireflies,’ he said, flatly. ‘Any ideas?’

  Gwilliams still looked blank, until Yorwarth told him, ‘Lightning bugs, to you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gwilliams nodded. ‘Them.’

  ‘Well, what about ’em?’ asked a bewildered Peterson. ‘We call them blinkies in Rutland, but I don’t see . . .’

  Crossman and Yusuf Ali were dressed in merchant seamen’s clothes. Crossman was a German sailor. He didn’t particularly like this disguise, since there were parts of him – his hands – which had obviously never hauled on a rope or turned a capstan, but travelling under the guise of army or imperial navy was so much more hazardous than posing as a civilian seaman. Ali was, to the Turk’s great distaste, supposed to be Greek. Both men spoke passable Russian, which was why they were on their own. They wandered through the barracks and work areas of the Russian soldiery attracting very little attention. Mariners of all kinds had been gathered up by Colonel Todleben and put to work on building and repairing the defences of Sebastopol. There were others of a similar kind strolling or hurrying about the place, exciting no military suspicions.

  A sentry was lounging against the wall of a church, guarding the entrance to the crypt. Crossman wondered whether a general or some lesser rank was using the crypt as a headquarters, it being a natural shelter below the ground and relatively safe from the allied bombardment. Not for the first time Crossman envied the Russians their solid lodgings. The sergeant filed this information in his mind for further consideration. For the moment they had to concentrate on the task in hand.

  The sentry’s eyes narrowed as they approached him, but when Crossman gave him a cheery grin, he seemed to relax a little. There was no answering smile, but the wariness had gone from his eyes.

  ‘Corporal,’ said Crossman, ‘forgive us for approaching you like this, while you’re on duty, but we have a question.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re looking for a tavern or drinking hall where the sharpshooters meet to talk over their exploits. Do you know of such an establishment?’

  The soldier shrugged and yawned, before asking, ‘Why do you wish to know this?’

  Ali said, ‘We are great admirers of these sharpshooters. Being seamen we have little to do with firearms. The sharpshooters are the great heroes of this war, wouldn’t you say?’

  The sentry stiffened a little and a scowl appeared on his face.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. I’d say those of us who fought at Alma and Inkerman were bigger heroes. Just because a man’s born with the eyes of a hawk doesn’t make him a hero in my book. He’s just lucky.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Crossman agreed. ‘I mean, they get a soft bed, don’t do picquet or guard duty and get treated like royalty. I know what you mean. Yes indeed.’

  ‘They don’t even eat with the rest of us,’ complained the sentry, who scratched his unshaven chin as he stared at them. ‘They get a mess hall all to themselves. You’d t
hink they shit gold coins the way they’re pampered. I think your admiration is poorly placed.’

  Ali nodded. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe we won’t seek them out, after all. So, you were at Alma, sir. You look as if you’ve seen a battle or two. Was it so bad?’

  ‘Worse than bad. I wasn’t at the Alma, but at Inkerman.’ He lifted his trouser leg to show them a healed gash. ‘Got a bayonet through my calf. I had to crawl half a mile before I got any attention.’

  ‘I hope you blew the brains out of the man who gave you that ugly wound, sir. I see now what you mean about heroes . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ the guard looked a little embarrassed now, ‘I didn’t mean me – I’m no hero, sailor. I simply say that sharpshooters aren’t either – they have it easy. It’s a soft life for them.’

  ‘Sharpshooters don’t have to face bayonets, do they?’ scoffed Ali. ‘I’ll give you that much.’

  ‘They don’t face anything, friend. They have their cosy little killing nest and they simply walk from there to the mess hall . . .’

  Crossman looked around as if the guard were pointing out the establishment in question. He wasn’t of course. But now he did, indicating a large square building which looked like a museum or art gallery.

  Crossman became a little incautious. Having got the information he wanted so smoothly and easily, he reached out to shake the soldier’s hand. Too late he remembered that his hands were soft giveaways. Yet the guard was now feeling good about himself and shook the proffered hand with great enthusiasm. ‘It’s well to know we common soldiers are appreciated,’ he said, ‘and you – you do a fine job, helping to rebuild our poor tortured city.’

  ‘We do what we can,’ said Ali, shrugging. ‘It’s not our city – not even our country – but when you get shelled day in, day out by those devils over there,’ he pointed towards the allied lines with his chin, ‘in the end you take sides, eh? I look forward to the hour when they’re overrun and we can go about our normal lives. A ship is all I want. Even a Black Sea coaster would suit me at the moment . . .’

  A bombardment began with the allies firing into the city and the Russian guns answering them. Crossman put a finger to his forehead by way of salute to the corporal, who now had anxious eyes on the sky. Ali and he walked away, heading for the hall where the sharpshooters messed. One or two more questions found them inside a dusty bare hall, the walls lined with dark oil paintings, mostly figures exuding pomp. There were over a dozen soldiers eating at a long table. One or two of the soldiers – sharpshooters of all ranks who had come from their night holes – glanced up when the two men entered. A cook came hurrying from behind a servery, wiping his hands on a filthy cotton apron, an annoyed expression on his face.

  ‘What do you want here? This is out-of-bounds to ordinary personnel. Didn’t you read the notice outside?’

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand,’ said Ali, smiling. ‘We came to see the sharpshooters – brave men.’

  One of the sharpshooters in question looked up from his soup and said, ‘Are you mocking?’

  Crossman decided to leave all this to Ali and simply stood at his side like one who has agreed to accompany a friend.

  Ali looked shocked. ‘Of course not. I have an older brother who is a sharpshooter in the Greek army. I have always admired his skill with a firelock.’

  ‘What do you want here?’ asked the cook, intervening. ‘You must leave before I – you – get into trouble.’

  ‘Just to give you these.’ Ali took two jars of honey out of his trouser pockets, one from either side. He handed these to the cook with an abashed air. ‘My friend here and I, we have been keeping these. They were part of our cargo, but why should the officers have everything? They eat like kings while the rest of us go hungry. I have more, but I thought, for my brother’s sake, it would be a good gesture to bring these here, for the sharpshooters.’ He let out a little laugh. ‘I’m sure some of them have a sweet tooth.’

  The cook’s eyes bulged a little. He took the jars of honey and nodded. ‘I’m sure they’ll appreciate the gesture, friend. I thank you.’

  One of the men at the table called out, ‘Don’t you go hiding them away, Rolschoff. I want to see them on the table tonight.’

  ‘Enjoy it,’ said Ali. ‘Good to see you, gentlemen.’ He waved towards the sharpshooters, still hunched over the table. ‘Keep up the good work.’

  The pair then left, hurrying out into the city streets.

  The honey had actually come from Lovelace, who had purchased it from a fellow officer. The idea was a wild one, but approved by Lovelace, who had something of the same in mind when he had suggested that fireflies might be the answer. Lovelace, not greatly interested in beetles himself but in contact with a keen collector, had learned that fireflies ate nectar. Honey was not nectar, but it was the closest thing they could get to it. There was the hope that the scent of honey would be enough. Insects were often attracted to sweet sticky substances and honey in particular.

  Ali and Crossman, now used to slipping back and forth between the allied camps and Sebastopol, made their way back to their lines.

  That night Crossman and Ali were in a forward position with Peterson and her new Enfield rifle-musket. Ali and Crossman had spyglasses, not terribly effective in the dark, but certainly they could pick out bunches of fireflies with them. They scoured the skyline for their targets. Crossman was the first to give Peterson’s coat an excited tug as he indicated a small cloud of fireflies, concentrated around a particular spot. The fireflies occasionally exploded into a larger space. The cause for this movement was undoubtedly due to some irritated person flicking at the cloud with his hand, trying to wave them away.

  Peterson took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, shockingly loud. She was rewarded with a cry, then the clatter of a dropped weapon.

  ‘Got him!’ she whispered, excitedly. ‘This new rifle isn’t half bad.’

  They moved from their own hideout quickly, for fear of reprisals from enemy sharpshooters who might have seen the flash from the Enfield’s muzzle. Throughout the night they hunted small clouds of fireflies, firing into their midst. Some of those shots would have been unsuccessful, others, they were certain, had hit their target. Whatever the case, the Russian sharpshooters would be severely shaken. It was not often their numbers were culled with such efficiency. Crossman sometimes wondered, afterwards, whether the the survivors of that night ever guessed that it was the honey they’d eaten for supper which was responsible for the deaths of their comrades.

  The following day, Colonel Hawke sent for Crossman.

  ‘Fancy Jack, my lad,’ said the man with short iron-grey hair, ‘you did very well. Major Lovelace has received reports from his spies in Sebastopol that five – five – Russian sharpshooters were wounded or killed last night. Top men. Crackshots, as some would say. What do you think to that?’

  The colonel leaned back in his creaky, rickety chair, in grave danger of tipping over and falling on his back.

  Crossman cleared his throat. ‘I’m very pleased, sir.’

  ‘Brilliant idea,’ cried the colonel, coming back upright again with a crash as his chest hit the edge of his desk and he slapped both palms on its surface. ‘Absolutely. The honey I mean.’ He gave a little chuckle. ‘Ambrosia! That’ll send the bastards to sleep for a long time. Who thought of it – you?’

  ‘Well, it was a sort of combined effort. Actually it was Major Lovelace who put us on the track. Gwilliams had heard something about honey, insects and the American Indians. Yorwarth was sure the native Aboriginals in Australia used it to attract ants to eat, or something of the sort, so between us all we came up with our little plan.’ Crossman was feeling rather good about himself. He had never seen Hawke in such a good mood before. The colonel was positively merry. His normally storm-clouded face, though not hostile, rarely allowed any sunshine to break through.

  ‘Team effort, eh? Better and better. I don’t like individuals to get too clever, y’know. Mak
es ’em uppity. Much better when the plan comes out of several heads. Well, so? Out again tonight, eh?’

  Crossman’s pleasant thoughts shattered immediately.

  ‘Er, tonight, sir?’

  ‘Yes, bag a few more of the buggers. Maybe not five again, but a brace here, a brace there. Soon mounts up.’ He could have been talking about grouse. ‘I’m told they have about thirty really top sharpshooters all told. Prime riflemen. Probably Siberian bear killers or something. If we can get that down to about ten, we’ll make them spread themselves rather thin, eh?’

  Crossman drew a deep breath. ‘Sir, I don’t think it’s advisable to go out again tonight.’

  Hawke scratched his grey scalp. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, sir, I believe they’ll be waiting for us. Even if they haven’t caught on to the honey trick, they’ll know something’s afoot, won’t they? You don’t lose five sharpshooters in one evening by sheer bad luck. They’ll be sitting there thinking it through, trying to come up with the answer, and they’ll certainly be laying a few traps in case we try it again.’

  ‘Can’t you shoot ’em from here? From the trenches?’

  ‘We can’t see the fireflies at that distance. In the daylight, Peterson could certainly hit a target the size of a man from the trenches, but we need to be closer to see the fireflies.’

  Hawke sucked in his breath and stared at his desk top. Finally his head came up. ‘I understand what you’re saying, sergeant, but I think we have to go at least one more time. You could be wrong, you know. They might be putting it down to a one-time effort by us. I’m sorry, but I have to send you out again tonight. If you meet stiff resistance, then we’ll stop the forays, but until there’s positive proof of such, I want you to continue.’

  Crossman saw it was useless to argue. The colonel had thought it out, there in front of him, and had made his decision. There was nothing for it but to go again when darkness came round. Perhaps the fireflies would not be out. Then there wouldn’t be any point in repeating the exercise.