Jack Windrush Collection - Books 9-12

Chapter 6-1

Jack took a deep breath of air fresh from the Afghan hills and watched the man walking past. He moved with the long stride of a Pashtun hillman, assured, arrogant, not willing to bow his head to anybody, Afghan or Briton. The Pashtun -Jack thought he was a Wazir but was not sure - looked neither to left nor right, ignoring the British column as if it was not there. The long jezail across his back was old-fashioned, but still deadly, while the sun glinted on the n***d blade of the Khyber knife in his belt.

Jack called a greeting, with the harsh Pushto language coming easily to him despite his years away from the Frontier.

“May you never tire.”

The man walked on, saying nothing, with the sun glinting on the brass bands around the barrel of his jezail.

“We"re back on the Frontier,” Jack said.

Captain Singer smiled. “Is everybody as friendly as that?”

“No,” Jack shook his head. “Most are downright hostile.”

“We"re going through the Kurram Valley,” General Roberts, small and neat, said, “over the Peiwar Kotal and on to the Shutargardan Pass, which is only fifty miles from Kabul.” Frederick Roberts was a forty-six-year-old Irishman who had won the VC in the Indian Mutiny but had never commanded an army in the field. He made up for his lack of inches by his forceful personality, confidence, and consideration for his men.

Jack looked at the Kurram Field Force with its mixture of British regulars and Indian sepoys. Of the three British regiments, the 113th and 8th Foot looked very young compared to the sepoys. Indeed, standing next to the Punjabis and Highlanders of the 72nd Foot, the 113th looked like boys beside men.

The 72nd Highlanders with their topees, khaki jackets, and the red Prince Charles Edward Stuart tartan trews, waited in silence, some chewing tobacco, others sharpening their bayonets or cleaning their Martini-Henrys.

“Here we go,” Jack said.

“May God go with us,” Harcourt prayed.

“Amen to that,” Jack replied.

On the 21st November 1878, Roberts" advanced guard began the invasion, following the single track into the Kurram valley, with the dogs of every village barking a sharp greeting. As the column set off, the pipers of the 72nd marched in front with that distinctive swagger that was their exclusive right.

“What"s that tune their playing?” Lieutenant Harcourt asked.

“All the Blue Bonnets go over the Border,” Jack answered at once. “It relates to the Scottish invasion of England in 1640.”

Harcourt laughed. “Did we beat them?”

“No,” Jack said. “They defeated us.” He smiled at Harcourt"s expression. “It"s all right, Lieutenant. We"re on the same side now.”

“It"s a bad time to invade Afghanistan, with winter coming on,” Lieutenant Trent said.

“Is there ever a good time to invade Afghanistan?” Jack asked.

Trent said nothing.

Roberts split his small army into an advanced guard, a first brigade and a second brigade, with the 113th in the second brigade. In between the marching soldiers, the huge pack mules of the mountain guns - the screw-g*n battery – swayed imperiously, with the artillerymen smoking their pipes and talking in a jargon that only gunners understood.

At the rear, the long column of the baggage train plodded on, lines of pack mules all roped together, and camels with bells tinkling and their unarmed Indian drivers huddled beneath blankets. Elephants ambled behind the camels, festooned with heavy equipment. The baggage guard, the most thankless task in the invading force, marched alongside, cursing the luck that brought them to their duty. They knew that if the Afghans attacked, they would hit the baggage first, with a swift attack, a few murderous seconds of slashing blades, and a rapid retreat to their fastnesses in the hills.

At night, the column camped under the stars, with the sounds of elephants and mules loud in the dark. Jack ensured that the duty officer had posted his pickets and then toured the camp to check the mood of the men.

“This isn"t what I thought India was like,” young Private Morriston said. “I thought it was all jungles and temples.”

“That"s because we"re not in India,” Hancock told him. “We"re in Afghanistan.”

“Is that not part of India, then?”

“Only if you"re stupid,” Hancock said.

“Uckeye,” Morriston said – “all right” - trying to sound like an old soldier by using military slang. When the veterans laughed at him, he looked away with the colour rising to his face.

“Get a few years under your belt, Johnny Raw,” Paddy Dunlop said, not unkindly. “You"re not a real soldier until you"ve met Phyllis.”

“Who"s Phyllis?” Morriston looked up hopefully, as the laughter took a cruel twist.

“We"ve all met Phyllis,” Hancock said, “haven"t we boys?”

The section nodded, with even Lawrence, as green as Morriston but six months older, pretending to understand.

“When did you meet her, Lawrence?” Hancock said, blandly unpleasant.

Lawrence looked around at the circle of hard, jeering faces. “Before we left barracks in Worcester,” he said, hopefully.

The older soldiers came closer, with a new victim to torment. “What was she like?” Ahern asked, as innocent as a hunting cat.

Lawrence, aware he was digging himself a deeper pit, tried to bluff his way clear. “None of your b****y business,” he said.

“Describe her,” Hancock said, unbuckling his belt. “What is she like?”

“Yes, what"s Phyllis like?” Ahern repeated as a couple of other men stepped across.

“Leave the lad alone,” Dunlop tried to interfere.

“You bugger off, Paddy,” Hancock said. “This little bastard is lying to us, trying to act the man when he"s just a Johnny Raw, an insignificant thing I scrape off my shoe.”

“He"s just trying to fit in,” Dunlop said. “He means no harm by it. Phyllis is short for s******s, Lawrence. That"s all – it"s a disease, not a person.”

Hancock cuffed Lawrence hard on the back of the head. “I"ll teach you to lie to me, Johnny Raw!”

Jack heard the end of the conversation. He expected the older soldiers to bully the recruits, for that had always been the army"s way, but he stepped in before it became too violent.

“Everything all right, lads?”

The men sprang to attention. “Yes, sir.”

“I thought I heard raised voices here,” Jack swept his eyes across the section. “All sigarno is it?” He used the soldier"s terminology to assure them he was of their ilk. Sigarno was the latest term for “all Sir Garnet”, an allusion to Sir Garnet Wolseley, arguably the most capable soldier in the British Army.

“All sigarno, sir,” Dunlop replied.

“Good. Carry on.” Jack left them and found Sergeant Peebles. “Sergeant, who"s on sentinel duty tonight at the main entrance?”

“O"Reilly and Reynolds, sir,” Peebles answered at once.

“I want that changed, Sergeant. Hancock and Lawrence were arguing. I want them on together. Nothing heals a dispute better than being on picket on the Frontier.”

“Very good, sir,” Peebles said.

Jack walked away. He had been a major for some years now, but still missed the junior officer"s day-to-day contact with the men.

* * *

Roberts" first objective was to capture the fort of Khapianga, a few miles into Afghanistan. It was not a significant obstacle, but it was better to have a friendly garrison than a hostile Afghan presence between the column and India.

Jack experienced mixed emotions as he watched the advance guard and first brigade march. Although he was aware that the 113th was not yet battle-worthy, he still resenting General Roberts keeping them in the rear.

“Now we"ll see if the Afghans will fight.” Captain Singer was a tall, thin man with a permanent twist to his lips and a penchant for Egyptian cigarettes.

Jack lit a cheroot. “Aye, now we"ll see.” He lifted his binoculars and focussed on Khapianga. It was a typical Pashtun fort, square-built with a single tower and battlemented mud-brick walls, easy to defend and hard to capture. Jack could see no movement in the building as sepoys of the advanced guard advanced in short rushes, supported by their companions. They approached the fort cautiously, rifles held ready and pushed inside the gate.

There was not a single shot fired.

“The place is empty,” Jack lowered his binoculars. “The Afghans must have pulled out during the night.”

Roberts nodded. “Better a bloodless victory than a b****y rebuff,” he said and ordered the second brigade to occupy Khapianga. A single goatherd sat in the courtyard playing on a ney, a flute that originated in Persia thousands of years before Christ. When Jack lifted a hand in salute, the goatherd removed the flute from his mouth.

“May you never tire,” Jack said.

“May you never see poverty,” the goatherd replied and continued playing for a few moments before calling to his goats and leaving the fort. Jack watched him go, thinking there was something timeless and almost Biblical about the man.

“Now there"s an interesting character,” Harcourt said.

“He is,” Jack agreed, “but I"ll wager he"ll tell the local Afghan commander how many men we have and where they are positioned.”

The 113th filed into the fort, with Jack organising pickets on the walls and patrols to probe the surrounding area.

“It"s too quiet,” Jack said. “I"ve never known the Pashtuns to be so docile. They must be planning something.”

“The Afghans won"t fight,” Trent said. “They"re already on the run. With three British columns advancing on them, the Afghan army must be wishing Sher Ali had done as we told him.”

“We"ve no right to tell Sher Ali anything,” Jack said. “Afghanistan is a sovereign nation.”

“But we"re British,” Trent sounded amazed.

“And this is Afghanistan,” Jack said and walked away. The arrogance of some of his countrymen annoyed him.

On the 22nd November, the advanced guard marched to the village of Hazard Pir, and Roberts ordered the First Brigade to Ahmed-i-Shama, both deeper into the Kurram valley, while the 113th remained behind, fuming in frustration.

“The war will be over before we even see an angry Afghan.” Trent was becoming bolder the less the chance of danger.

“Maybe so,” Jack said. “I"m going to patrol the local area, Trent, and find out what"s happening to the First Brigade. You can come along.”

“We can use the heliograph,” Trent said.

“Not with this heavy cloud. Come along, Trent. You too, Harcourt and we"ll look for angry Afghans.” Jack raised his voice. “Major Burridge! Take over here.”

Jack expected the look of consternation on Burridge"s face, for campaign life was vastly different from his barrack routine.

Calling Sergeant Peebles and the men of Number One Section, Jack marched them beyond Khapianga"s walls. Most of the men seemed pleased to escape from their confinement, with only Hancock grumbling.

“Double, lads,” Jack said. “We"ll soon catch up with the column.”

Ten minutes later, Jack heard the sharp c***k of a rifle and the more resonant thud of a jezail. He focussed his binoculars ahead, to see the leading unit of the brigade close up and march on.