Farewell To Afghanistan

Chapter One Kandahar, Afghanistan, June 1880“Everyone plays polo out here.” Captain Inkerrow drew on his cheroot. “If you don’t play, the Royal Malverns won’t accept you.” “I’ll bear that in mind,” Major Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot said. “The high season is in cold weather, of course,” Inkerrow gave a well-bred laugh. “This hot weather polo is a low standard affair. One only plays to get exercise, with slow chukkas.” Jack nodded without listening. He was more interested in Inkerrow’s attitude than his opinion. “How many ponies do you have, Major?” Inkerrow raised his eyebrows as he asked the question. “None,” Jack said. Inkerrow looked away in disdain. “I take it the 113th is not a polo regiment.” “No,” Jack said. “The 113th is a fighting regiment." He paused for a moment. “And in the 113th, we address our senior officers as sir.” Inkerrow gave a short laugh. “Yes, sir.” Jack walked his horse away from Inkerrow in an attempt to find some shade. Sweat rolled from his forehead and trickled down his face. It formed a small globule on his chin before finally dripping to stain the hard leather pommel of his saddle. Jack blinked into the distance, hardly noticing the eight players engaged in the fourth chukka of the match. Around him, forming an armed escort for the polo game, a dozen mounted men slowly patrolled the outside edge of the dusty pitch. All the guards were soldiers of the Scinde Horse, the unit whose men made up one of the contending teams. The opposing team was formed of officers from the Royal Malverns, with Second Lieutenant William Windrush, known as Crimea, prominent. Crimea was the son of Colonel Windrush, Jack’s half-brother. He rode easily as he swung his mallet to crack the ball forward to the Scinde’s goalmouth. “Good shot,” Jack murmured as the ball hurtled towards its target. A Scinde rider intervened, using his mallet to deflect the ball. Crimea jabbed in his spurs, trotting forward on the line of the ball, while two opposing players charged alongside, hoping to reach the ball first. As one of the Scinde players hooked Crimea’s mallet to block the shot, the other leaned over from his saddle and passed the ball to a third Scinde rider. From that point, the Scinde horsemen cantered up the pitch, exchanging the ball in a series of short, accurate passes that the Malvern’s team could not intercept. Two of the Malvern riders galloped towards their own goal, shouting as they strove to prevent the Scinde men from scoring, with one fair-haired subaltern thrusting out his mallet to block the shot. “That’s the way, Walter!” Crimea encouraged, kicking in his spurs as his horse’s hooves kicked up dust from the hard ground. Second Lieutenant the Honourable Walter Sarsens laughed as the ball clicked against his mallet and fell crookedly to the ground. Pushing his horse into the Scinde trooper, Sarsens tapped the ball to Crimea, who trapped it forward expertly and passed it back to Sarsens. “Pass!” Crimea yelled, pushing his horse to find a scoring position. “Pass, you Griffin, you blasted Johnny Raw!” Instead of passing, Sarsens tried a long-range shot, with the ball trailing dust as it rose from the ground. A Scinde rider intercepted the ball with a deft movement of his mallet, turned like a centaur and cracked the ball to a wiry team member. “You should have passed!” Crimea criticised, spurring furiously in the direction of the ball. Jack admired the wiry Scinde rider’s skill as he lifted his mallet and hit the ball as it moved. The Malvern riders could only watch as they lost another goal. “That’s five goals to nothing,” the umpire shouted, to the delight of the Scinde players and open dismay of the Royal Malverns. “We’ve still got time to strike back!” Crimea said. “You should have passed, Sarsens. “It was more fun trying the long shot,” Sarsens said. “Calm yourself, Crimea. It’s only a game!” “We want to win!” Crimea roared. “For the honour of the Royals!” Jack smiled. Eighteen months in Afghanistan had physically matured Crimea, adding width to his shoulders and firmness to his face, but he retained his spirit and regimental pride. My brother William should be proud of his son. “There might be trouble, Major Blackwood sahib!” The risaldar in charge of the escort galloped to the umpire. “Riders are approaching from the north. It may be Ayub Khan.” “Ayub Khan is supposed to be north of the Helmand River.” Jack joined the umpire. Ghazi Mohammad Ayub Khan was a late Amir of Afghanistan, Governor of Herat Province and was now tilting for the throne. In the disturbed state of Afghanistan, any dust cloud could mean a lashkar- tribal army- or merely a trading caravan of camels. “That’s where he’s supposed to be, Windrush.” The umpire, Major Henry Blackwood of the Horse Artillery, scanned the landscape, narrowing his eyes against the sun’s glare. “He may be anywhere from Herat to the outskirts of Kandahar. That’s as much trust I place in our spies. They’re all born liars.” He studied the dust clouds to the north, a sure sign of somebody approaching the city. Although they were only a few hundred yards outside Kandahar’s walls, the polo players and their escort were wary of an attack. “We’ll call the match a win for the Scinde Horse,” Blackwood decided. “Best not take chances.” “We can finish the game,” Crimea said. “Yes, sir,” Sarsens urged the umpire. “We still have a chance to score for the honour of the regiment.” “Back inside,” Blackwood repeated. “What do you think, Windrush?” He appealed to Jack for support. Jack pushed his horse closer. “Major Blackwood is correct,” he said. “We don’t know who is under that cloud of dust.” He raised his voice. “Players, change and head for the Shikapur Gate! Don’t dally! Escort, you’re the rearguard!” He waited until the polo players shrugged on their uniforms and headed back towards Kandahar before he joined the escort, nodding to the risaldar in charge. The sowars - Indian cavalry troopers - formed a loose screen, watching the approaching dust cloud while not appearing to retreat. Jack rode forward, touching the butt of his revolver as he approached the dust. He sensed the sowar at his back and knew he might be putting the man in peril. Both men tried to see what the cloud concealed. “What do you think, sowar?” Jack asked in Pashto, the local language. “I think it could be dangerous to linger, sahib,” the sowar said diplomatically. “You could be right, sowar.” Jack accepted the rebuke and pulled his horse away. “We’ll get back to the barracks.” The polo players were safe, and the risaldar had lined his men outside the Shikapur Gate with their swords balanced on their right shoulders. “Thank you, Risaldar,” Jack said as he passed through the arched opening, and the risaldar followed them. The Royal Malvern sentinels at the gate and on the wall above hefted their Martini-henry rifles in expectation. If the officer in charge thought it prudent, he would close the gate; at present, it remained open for merchants and citizens. “Keep alert, men,” Jack advised. The corporal in charge saluted. “Yes, sir.” Unlike most British regiments in Afghanistan, the Royals still wore their traditional scarlet, with gleaming white sun helmets decorated with the Royal Malvern’s badge. They were red-faced and hot but as immaculate as if they guarded Buckingham Palace rather than a city in southern Afghanistan. Once inside the city walls, Kandahar closed around them with its narrow streets, clamorous population, and myriad smells. Jack glanced over the polo players, frowning as he noted that one of the Royal Malverns rode without his sword. Second lieutenant Sarsens newly joined from England. My brother will have to tighten up his discipline, Jack thought. An unarmed British soldier in Afghanistan is only a target. The Kandahar people watched the horsemen ride past. One or two men muttered curses under their breath while one heavily veiled woman turned away as if scared the infidels might contaminate her. Her husband, a bearded Pashtun with a jezail slung across his back, glared at the horsemen. “We’re not wanted here, sir,” Blackwood said. “No, we’re not.” Jack shook his head. “I know the powers-that-be hope to extend the borders of British India to include Kandahar, but it will take some work to persuade the locals to accept us. This city is as different from India as India is from London.” They rode on, ignoring a gaggle of small boys who threw stones at them as they traversed the city to reach the citadel at the opposite side, beyond Topkhana Square and next to the Eedgah Gate. The sentries at the citadel gate slammed to attention once they recognised the ranks of the riders. Dismounting at the stables, Jack threw the reins to a waiting servant, gave orders in fluent Pashtu, and walked straight to the officers’ mess. “How was the game, Windrush?” Major Baxter of the Royal Malverns asked, snapping his finger for a khitmagar – a waiter. The man came at once, soft-footed, and efficient. “Two brandy and sodas,” Baxter ordered. “Jildi!” “The Scinde Horse were far too strong for your boys,” Jack accepted the brandy and sipped at his glass, “and the game was interrupted by a dust cloud. We weren’t sure if it was a raiding lashkar or the viceroy come to visit.” “Better safe than sorry out here,” Baxter said. “I heard that a young ghazi attacked two men of the 66th in the bazaar only last week. The ghazi was only about ten years old. He pulled a knife and ran at them from nowhere and stabbed one man in the forehead before the swaddies subdued him.” “We’re certainly not popular in Kandahar,” Jack agreed. “Was the soldier badly hurt?” Baxter shook his head. “No. It was only a superficial cut.” “What happened to the youngster?” “The provost marshal has him.” Baxter finished his brandy and signalled for another. “I’ve no idea what will happen to the little reptile. We can’t hang a child, although God knows he deserves it.” “I’ve only arrived in Kandahar recently,” Jack said. “Are such attacks normal?” Baxter nodded. “The Royals have been in garrison here for a month, as you know, Windrush. We don’t know what’s happening. One day the politicians say we’ll evacuate Afghanistan, and the next, we’re keeping Kandahar to ourselves.” He sipped at his fresh brandy. “I’d say there has been one such incident every week, with ghazis attacking lone soldiers or unprotected servants. We’re not under siege as such, but we’re certainly not popular with the locals.” Jack looked around the officers’ mess. As he would expect from the Royal Malverns, everything was in impeccable taste, with numerous khitmagars and the best selection of wines and spirits between Calcutta and Valetta. “You’re here for the durbar, I believe,” Baxter said. “We’re all hoping the local tribes will support Sher Ali,” he raised his voice and glass. “Sher Ali Khan, Wali of Kandahar, God bless him!” Two other officers joined in the toast, with Inkerrow downing a chota peg – a single whisky - in one swallow and demanding another from the khitmagar. Jack smiled. “We’ll see what happens.” Baxter leaned back in his chair. “We have a choice, Windrush. Either we reinforce the garrison in Kandahar and come down hard on the tribes and ghazis here, or we withdraw completely and hand the entire country over to Abdur Rahman Khan, the soon-to-be new Amir. Having Sher Ali in charge is inviting disaster.” Jack agreed but allowed Baxter to continue. “Do you think Sher Ali is that bad?” Baxter smiled. “He is the veriest puppet that ever danced to political music, and I read that in The Times of India, so others share my opinion. If we leave Kandahar, Sher Ali won’t last a day or half a day. He is a marionette, without power or influence. Rahman will be a martinet, of course, a despot of the worst kind, but he’ll keep his house in order and not allow the Ruskis to intervene.” Jack nodded. The British in India had constant nightmares about a Russian presence in Afghanistan. Baxter signalled for another drink. “You’re new in Kandahar, Windrush, so let me tell you the local news. Some ghazi fires at Captain Garrett and wounds him. Sher Ali makes big promises to find the assailant. Nothing happens.” Jack nodded. “A well-known troublemaking mullah encourages a band of famous badmashes – evilly disposed fellows - to murder Major Wandby. Sher Ali fails to capture a single one but instead hangs three wretched brutes who were probably miles away at the time. Now, Windrush, how will such a man hold Kandahar if we return to India and the people rise against our placemen, as they will?” “He won’t,” Jack said softly. “It takes a hard man to control this country.” “Exactly,” Baxter agreed. “Sher Ali will either join Ayub Khan, flee, or somebody will find his body in a ditch, minus the head. Walis or Amirs here must rule by fear. The people are semi-human savages, and the British papers tell us they love us and welcome our presence.” Baxter finished his brandy. “And by that principle of bunkum, the deluded British public believes we will hold Afghanistan.” Jack understood the bitterness. “If we divide the country,” Baxter said, “we’ll invite a civil war, which seems the natural state in Afghanistan anyway.” He eyed Jack shrewdly. “If I recall correctly, you’re a friend of that Afridi fellow, Batoor Khan.” “That’s correct,” Jack agreed. “Batoor’s taking a risk coming here, well out of his tribal territory.” Baxter grunted. “We all take a risk every time we step out of doors in this blasted country.” Jack finished his brandy and turned down another. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d better get ready for the durbar. There’s an informal gathering first, then the durbar in the evening.” “Good luck, Windrush,” Baxter said, lifting his glass for another refill. He sighed as Sarsens and Crimea Windrush entered the mess. “That’s an end to our peace and quiet. Sarsens arrived from England last week and thinks he’s a veteran. He teamed up with the colonel’s arrogant young pup, treats the natives like slaves and swaggers around as if he’s a sixth form prefect.” Baxter shook his head. “I don’t know why young Crimea has latched into him. He should know better.” Jack nodded. “I know the type. A few weeks in Afghanistan will teach Sarsens manners. We all have to learn.” Jack stood erect as an efficient private of the Royal Malverns made the final adjustments to his dress uniform. Private Pawcett stepped back to inspect his handiwork, then took a small brush and removed a minuscule speck of dust from Jack’s collar. “There you are, sir,” Pawcett said. “Thank you, Pawcett.” Uncomfortable in the tight scarlet, Jack turned to look at himself in the long, free-standing mirror. The brilliant scarlet of the 113th full dress uniform showed his slim figure to perfection, while the array of medals on his left breast told the story of his experience. “You’re looking fine, sir,” Pawcett said, applying his brush once more. “You look very impressive, if I may say so.” “You may not say so,” Jack growled. He knew his comment was unfair to a man who could not retaliate, but he hated wearing full dress and wished that Donnelly, his long-time servant, was with him. Pawcett retreated into silence. Jack immediately apologised. “You’ve done a good job with most unprepossessing material,” he said. “Thank you, Pawcett.” “Thank you, sir.” “What were you in civilian life, Pawcett?” “I was a valet, sir.” “A very good one, I would imagine,” Jack said, wondering why any man would throw up such an excellent position to enlist in the army. No doubt Pawcett had fiddled his master’s books or got a servant girl pregnant. It was unlikely Pawcett had enlisted for any love of queen and country. Jack grunted; although the army was more selective than it used to be, a fair selection of ne’er-do-wells still joined the ranks. “Thank you, sir.” Reading his officer, Pawcett relapsed into silence and stepped back. Both men looked around when the door opened, and Helen Windrush walked in. Jack sighed. Helen was the wife of William Windrush, Colonel of the Royal Malverns and Jack’s half-brother. “Good afternoon, Jack.” Helen gave a mock curtsey. “Good afternoon, Helen. Should you not be with your husband?” Jack replied. As usual, Helen was impeccably dressed. Her sweeping dark blue skirt nearly touched the floor while her light blue top opened at the neck to reveal a gold chain, from which hung a single emerald that reflected the light. “Oh, William’s too busy to talk to me.” Helen perched herself elegantly on one of Jack’s chairs and examined him. “Besides, you have more medals than he has.” Jack nodded. Knowledgeable people could read half a soldier’s life by the medals he displayed. “Perhaps so, but he has a higher rank.” Helen smiled. “I always thought that was unfair. The army should have promoted you years ago. What are all these medals for?” Jack glanced down at his chest and shrugged. “Twenty-odd years of undetected crime.” “What’s this one? I don’t think William has this one.” Helen touched a dark blue and red ribbon. “I’m sure he has. That’s the Indian General Service medal,” Jack said. “You have two clasps.” Helen was persistent, examining every detail. “Pegu 1852 and Umbeyla 1863.” “I know,” Jack said. The Burmese War of 1851-2 had been his first campaign when he was a very raw subaltern, and the Umbeyla campaign his first visit to the North-West Frontier between India and Afghanistan. “They were years ago.” “William has this one.” Helen slid her finger along the row of ribbons. Beside the Indian General Service lay the pale blue and yellow Crimean ribbon, with claps for Inkerman and Sebastopol. Jack’s 113th Foot had found their soul at Inkerman, facing the massed Russian battalions. There was no clasp for the Redan, for that had been a defeat. “I know William fought in the Crimea,” Jack said. “I met you there, too.” Helen smiled. “These were stirring times, Jack. If things had been different, who knows what might have happened.” “Who knows indeed,” Jack said. “But you married my half-brother, and I married Mary,” he reminded her of their respective positions. Helen looked away. “I’d have liked to be married to a good man,” she said quietly. Jack ignored her words. He and William were not close, but he refused to discuss his half-brother. “I think William has this one, too.” Helen realised she could not draw Jack. Next to the Crimean ribbon was the scarlet and white Indian Mutiny medal, which Jack considered the most bitter war he fought. His two clasps for Lucknow and the Defence of Lucknow could not convey the savagery of the fighting or the sense of tragedy and loss when he fought British-trained Sepoys. “That’s where I first met Mary,” Jack’s eyes darkened with memory. “The only good thing to come out of that bloody war.” He remembered the horror of the Mutineers’ attack on Gondabad when the world turned upside-down, and certainties altered to betrayal and suspicion. “Sorry, Jack.” Helen realised she was stirring old feelings. “I don’t know this one.” Her finger rested on the yellow and black ribbon. “Ashantiland,” Jack told her. “My only campaign in Africa.” The single clasp was for the capture of Kumasi, deep in the forest. Jack touched the coloured silk, remembering the blood, sweat, and horror of each campaign, as well as the courage and bravery of the British and Indian soldiers and their adversaries. Helen appeared quite settled on Jack’s chair, watching as Pawcett buckled on Jack’s sword belt with the hilt of the Wilkinson’s Sword blade appearing worn in comparison to the splendour of his uniform. “It’s time you got a new sword,” Helen said. “This one has served me well for years,” Jack told her. “We are old friends, and I prefer a blade with which I am familiar.” “Maybe for fighting,” Helen said. “You won’t be fighting today. You should be wearing a sword of honour, complete with a gold hilt and scrollwork on the scabbard.” Jack grunted as Pawcett made minute adjustments to his belt. “We’re in Afghanistan,” he said. “We could be fighting at any time.” “We’re in the citadel of Kandahar, surrounded by the British Army.” Helen stood up and strolled to the window. “General Primrose knows what he’s doing.” She paused for a significant moment and glanced at Pawcett. “I hope.” “I would wish you were elsewhere.” Jack had not been in Kandahar sufficiently long to comment on General Primrose. “Oh, Jack.” Helen faced him. “Don’t you like me anymore?” “Afghanistan is not safe for women.” “Afghanistan is not safe for men, either,” Helen pointed out, “yet you are here.” “I must do my duty.” Jack knew he sounded pompous. “So must I,” Helen said softly. “I am the Colonel’s Lady, and I must look after my women and men.” Jack could not think of a suitable reply. “That’s me set.” He grasped the hilt of his sword. “I’d better attend this nonsense, and I’d advise you do likewise, Mrs Colonel’s Lady.” “You wish I were elsewhere, Jack, and I wish you and William were better friends. You’ve been in the Royals’ barracks for two days, and you and he have not exchanged a word.” Jack nodded. The rift between the two Windrush half-brothers was nearly three decades old and showed no sign of easing. “If it keeps you happy, Helen, I will send him a note inviting him to visit my quarters.” “Would you, Jack?” Helen put a hand on Jack’s sleeve. “Any sign of conciliation would help. I’d like my husband and my best friend to act as brothers again.” “I will,” Jack promised, “although I doubt it will do any good.” Helen rubbed his arm. “You were watching Crimea play polo today, Jack. I saw you.” She smiled. “He’s a good boy.” “He’s a promising young officer,” Jack said and relented. “You’ve got a fine son there, Helen. I can see a lot of you in him.” Dropping into a curtsey, Helen smiled. “It was good to see you again, Jack.” She left in a swirl of satin and silk, leaving a lingering scent of her perfume in the room. “Will you require me again, sir?” Pawcett had been a mute observer to the meeting between Jack and Helen. “No, thank you, Pawcett. You are dismissed.” Jack watched as Pawcett withdrew. Within the hour, half the Royal Malverns would know every detail of his conversation with his sister-in-law. Garrison life was like living in a small village, with everybody aware of everybody else’s business. It was tedious, and one had to be careful. Touching the hilt of his sword, Jack had a last glance in the mirror and left the room.