Jack Windrush Collection - Books 9-12

Chapter 6-2

“Are the Afghans fighting back?” Trent asked.

“No,” Jack shook his head. “That was only a villager having a c***k. It"s like a hobby of theirs.”

“When is it our turn to join the advance guard?” Lieutenant Harcourt asked.

“Why don"t you ask the general?” Jack suggested. “Here, he comes now.”

Roberts reined in beside them. “You"re Fighting Jack Windrush,” he said.

“Some call me that,” Jack said.

“You know the Frontier,” Roberts said.

“I"ve served here before, sir,” Jack said.

“You know that the Afghans will fight, then,” Roberts said.

Jack nodded. “Nothing is more certain.”

Roberts looked him up and down. “You have a fine record, Windrush, yet you are only a major. Why is that?”

Jack looked around him. “I have not been in the right place at the right time, sir.”

“Oh.” Roberts understood. In the British Army, connections mattered as much as experience or merit for promotion. “Take a company of your 113th and join the First Brigade. I expect the Afghans to make a stand soon.”

“Yes, sir. Major Burridge will take over at the fort. I"ll take A Company, sir, with Captain Singer.” That was an easy decision to make. Jack did not entirely trust Trent, and Harcourt was in A Company, a man Jack thought showed potential.

The sound of the first couple of shots must have encouraged the local tribes, for they began to snipe in earnest, hiding behind rocks and trees to fire at the invaders.

“Now this is more like the Frontier I know,” Jack said as he led A Company deeper into the Kurram valley.

“Is this the Frontier, sir, or is it Afghanistan?” Harcourt asked.

“That depends who you ask,” Jack viewed the mountainous country around them, wondering when the tribes would strike. “The Pashtun tribes may call this area Pakhtunkwa, although Sher Ali will say it"s part of Afghanistan.”

The Kurram Valley was barren, desolate, and cold, scattered with boulders under a bleak grey sky. The people huddled in small villages yet turned out to watch the arrival of Roberts" column. They stood in silent groups, neither applauding nor protesting the presence of British troops.

“Are you staying here?” A village headman asked Jack hopefully.

“Do you want us to?”

“Yes,” the headman said. “The Waziris attack us. If the British established a garrison here, the tribes might leave us alone.”

Jack nodded. “I"m glad somebody appreciates us,” he said, looking at the mountains of Afghanistan that loomed ahead. “I don"t know the answer yet, headman.”

They marched on, with the clouds glowering and emitting short showers.

“This place reminds me of Glencoe,” Jack said. “Ugly, stark and dismal.”

As the road worsened, the infantrymen had to help haul the guns and encourage the mules. The showers coalesced into a thin rain that made the ground slippery and shortened the men"s temper.

“b****y Afghanistan!” Hancock grumbled. “Who would b****y want it, anyway?”

“Keep it up, lads,” Jack encouraged. “You"re showing the flag and earning your pay.”

On the 23rd November, Roberts" column crossed the Kurram River, with the sky cold above them and the Highland pipes blaring their challenge. Despite his misgivings about the morality of the war, Jack felt the old, familiar surge of excitement as he led his horse through the bitter water of the river.

“It"s more than a decade since I was last in this part of the world,” he said, feeling for his revolver.

“I"ve never been here,” Harcourt said eagerly. “I thought the Afghans would attack us the second we crossed the border.”

“I didn"t think they would wait that long,” Jack said, with a smile. “We"ve had an amazingly smooth passage so far.” He knew by the sound of the jezail that it was out of range and did not flinch. Standing at his side, Harcourt ducked.

“I"m not scared, sir,” Harcourt said. “It was just instinct.”

“I know,” Jack said. “You"ll soon learn when to duck and when to stand straight.”

“Don"t we fire back, sir?”

Jack shook his head. “Not unless we have to. The Afghans are testing our nerves, you see. If we retaliate, they have won. General Roberts" standing orders say don"t respond to sharpshooters unless we have a clear target.”

“Yes, sir,” Harcourt said.

That night Jack saw a figure flitting among the rocks, just beyond the forward pickets. It was little more than a glimpse, a deeper shadow among the shadows, yet Jack sensed there was somebody there.

“Any trouble, Dunlop?” Jack asked the nearest sentry.

“No, sir,” Dunlop said. “All uckeye, sir.”

“How about you, Ahern?”

“All uckeye, sir.”

“There"s a man out there, beyond that ruined house,” Jack said. “Keep your eyes open.” He loosened the revolver in its holster and continued with his rounds. A bird screeched somewhere, the sound sinister in the dark. Jack shivered, turned around and stared into the night.

Nothing. He could see nothing. Yet Jack knew there was somebody out there, watching the camp, waiting for an opportunity. He shivered, feeling the menace in these hills.

“Come on, if you"re coming,” Jack said, fingering his revolver. The bird called again, as harsh and unforgiving as this land.

On the 25th November, the British advanced guard reached Kurram Fort, without firing a single shot.

“Windrush, have a look inside,” Roberts ordered.

Jack entered cautiously, with Second-Lieutenant Gifford and six men at his back.

“Stay alert, lads,” Jack said, holding his revolver in his hand. The gate opened at Jack"s first push, revealing an empty fort, except for a single stray dog that snarled at them from behind an abandoned pot.

“Either the Afghans are luring us into an ambush,” Jack said, “or they"re losing their skill. A few years ago, the Afridis or Orakzai, even the Waziri would have liked nothing better than a juicy British column to attack.”

“They"re scared of us,” Gifford said. “All these stories about the Paythans being good warriors is nonsense. They"ve had one sight of the British Army, and they"re already on the run.”

“Maybe,” Jack said doubtfully. “But I don"t think so.” He sent his men to investigate every corner of the fort, in case of hidden sharpshooters.

“Work in pairs,” Jack ordered, “guard each other"s backs.”

The previous garrison had abandoned the fort, leaving nothing except their rubbish. Even the dog ran out when Hancock aimed a kick at it.

“We"ll win this war before Christmas,” Gifford crowed.

“Don"t tempt fate,” Jack said.

Leaving a section to garrison the small fort, Jack reported to the general.

Roberts nodded. “That fits the pattern so far,” he said. “One of our scouts tells me that all the Afghan forces in the area are retreating over the Peiwar Kotal.”

Jack nodded. A kotal was a pass, and the Peiwar Kotal was the main route out of the Kurram valley. The pass led into a tangle of mountains and valleys, with the high Shutargardan Pass the next strategic target. After the Shutargardan, there were only fifty miles to Kabul.

“The Afghans might be vulnerable as they scale the Peiwar,” Jack said. “Do you wish me to ride ahead and check?”

Roberts gave Jack a sidelong look. “You are no longer a young lieutenant, Windrush. You"re a major in his forties. Imagine how much the Afghans would crow if they captured you.” He smiled. “No, Major, you remain with your men.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roberts grunted. “We"ll take the Peiwar Kotal and occupy the next village before the winter closes in. I"ll send a couple of sepoy battalions ahead to capture the pass. They move faster than the British battalions.” He grinned and touched his moustache. “My Punjabis will take the kotal.”

“Yes, sir.” Now that he was at war, Jack wanted action. He knew he would hate the blood, agony, and s*******r, but he was a soldier, and soldiers had to continually prove themselves.

Roberts stroked his moustache, evidently well pleased with himself. “Once the sepoys have secured the pass, we"ll move on and achieve our objectives.” He rode away, barking orders.

Jack returned to the 113th, informed his officers what was happening and checked the pickets. Although the Afghans had not seriously troubled the column yet, Jack insisted the 113th were always prepared. The memory of that lone man in the dark remained with him.

“The Afghans won"t fight,” Trent said, not knowing that Jack had returned. “Old Jack"s nerves have got the better of him.”

Jack moved on. Is that what they called him now? Old Jack? Only a few years ago he had been Fighting Jack. He walked around the lines, acknowledging the salutes as his thoughts troubled him. Maybe Trent was correct. Perhaps the average age of the men had not changed; perhaps maybe he only thought they were younger because he was so much older. Was he too old to fight?

The sound of musketry floated down the valley, interspersed with the more resounding boom of artillery.

“Here we go,” Jack said. “That"s the Afghanistan I expected.”

“Did the general send the guns up with the sepoys?” Trent asked.

“Not that I saw,” Captain Singer replied. “That must be Afghan artillery.”

“Check that every man is ready to march,” Jack ordered. “Eighty rounds of ammunition and a full water bottle.”

“Are we under orders, sir?” Trent asked.

“You"re under my orders,” Jack said. “Mr Gifford, ride forward and see what"s happening. Don"t get involved in any fighting. Your job is to gather information and report back to me.” He wondered how often a senior officer had sent him on such missions.

The firing rose in volume, and Roberts sent forward the 5th Hazara Gurkhas. The little men in the green uniforms trotted ahead, laughing and joking, as nonchalant as if they were on a field day.

“Form the men up in column,” Jack ordered, “but have them stand easy. I want every company to have skirmishers ready to advance in front, both flanks and on the rear.”

Now that the possibility of action was imminent, Jack felt more himself. His soldiering instincts took over. He looked over his men.

“You old soldiers look after the youngsters. You, youngsters, do as your NCOs tell you.”

“Yes, sir!” some of the men replied.

Gifford reined up, sweat coursing down the dust on his face. “The Afghans have beaten back the sepoys, sir,” he reported. “They"re entrenched on Peiwar Kotal with infantry and artillery.”

“How many men?”

“I heard they had eighteen thousand, sir, but that"s unconfirmed.”

“Nearly three times our number,” Jack said. “This could get interesting. Thank you, Gifford. Get back to your men. Major Burridge! Take over here. Lieutenant Harcourt, come with me.” He rode forward towards the guns, feeling the old, familiar mixture of tension, apprehension, and excitement as he approached the battle.

The Peiwar Kotal rose ahead. Despite the g*n smoke, Jack could see what had happened. The two Punjabi battalions had advanced into prepared and strong Afghan positions. When the resulting firefight stopped the sepoys in their tracks, Roberts had sent forward the Gurkhas to cover their withdrawal.

After days of inaction, the Afghans had shown their teeth. Rather than defending small forts that were bound to fall, they had positioned themselves on the Peiwar Kotal, with heights on either flank and dared the British to come up to them.

“First blood to the Afghans,” Jack said to Harcourt. “General Roberts has a choice now. He can either fight or withdraw. The Afghans hold all the aces.” He scanned the kotal with his binoculars, seeing the strength of the position, with regular soldiers and artillery holding lines of sangars – stone redoubts - along the pass, and more guns and men on the flanking heights.

“Will we be attacking, sir?” Harcourt asked.

“That"s the general"s decision, not mine,” Jack said. He saw men bobbing about behind the sangars and the flash of sun on glass and knew the Afghans were studying the British positions.

When Jack rode back to camp, a Pashtun was standing beside his tent with a British Enfield rifle over his shoulder, a dirty red turban twisted on his head and a Khyber knife thrust through his belt. Donnelly, Jack"s servant, greeted Jack with a salute.

“This fellow turned up asking for you, sir,” Donnelly said. “I was going to boot his backside for him, but he was right insistent.”

Donnelly was one of the few old soldiers in the 113th. Jack remembered him as a baby, for he had been born into the regiment and grew up knowing nothing except the 113th. Now he was only twenty, but more of a soldier than men ten years his senior.

“Thank you, Donnelly,” Jack said, and Donnelly withdrew a single step, watching the Pashtun closely.

“Who are you, fellow?” Jack asked in Pushto.

“Awalmir Khan,” the man replied, meeting Jack"s gaze in a manner few British other ranks could.

“You"re an Afridi,” Jack recognised the characteristics and accent.

“Yes, Windrush Sahib.”

“Are you spying on us?” Jack asked.

“Yes, Windrush Sahib,” Awalmir replied, with one hand on the hilt of his Khyber knife.

“Have you been spying on us since we entered the Kurram Valley?”

“No, Windrush Sahib. I have been spying on you since the 113th marched into Gondabad.”

Jack remembered the figure he had seen outside the British cantonment.

“For who? For the Afghan general?”

“For Karim Khan?” Awalmir shook his head. “No, Windrush sahib.”

Karim Khan. That was the first time Jack had heard the name of the opposing Afghan commander. He filed that away to pass on to General Roberts.

“If not him, then who?”

“Bacha Khan,” Awalmir said.

Jack frowned. “I don"t know that fellow.”

“He knows you, Major Windrush.” Awalmir was smiling.

“So why are you here?”

“To serve you, Windrush Sahib.”

Jack became aware that Donnelly was still listening, with a frown across his ugly face. “Do you want for me to chuck him out, sir?” Donnelly stepped forward. Half a head shorter than the Afridi, he was broad and fit, while growing up in the regiment had given him vast experience in brawling.

“No, thank you, Donnelly,” Jack said.

“Awalmir, why follow me halfway across India to ask to serve me?”

“On Bacha Khan"s orders, Sahib.” Awalmir looked as innocent as an Afridi possibly could.

“I don"t remember the name,” Jack said. “I must have met him when I last served in Pakhtunkhwa. Will you serve me as honestly as you serve Bacha Khan?”

“Yes, sahib,” Awalmir said.

“Come along then,” Jack said. “You can swear loyalty to me on the blade of my sword. I"ll inform the regiment that you are with us.”

Watching from the open flap of Jack"s tent, Donnelly kept his face impassive, although Jack knew he disapproved.

“Keep an eye on him for me,” Jack murmured. “I don"t want a Pashtun blade between my ribs in the night.”

“I"ll do that, sir,” Donnelly said. He lowered his voice. “Trust a snake before a woman, and a woman before a Pashtun.”

“Who the devil is Bacha Khan?” Jack asked himself. “He can"t bear me any ill-will or that Awalmir fellow would have cut my throat. Well, I"ll just have to wait and see.”