Farewell To Afghanistan

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Jack heard the noise before he realised the reason. William’s voice was raised in anger.

What’s annoyed my brother? I must find out.

Jack pushed William’s door open with his foot and waited outside, peering through the crack. William stood behind his desk, shaking his fist at Second Lieutenant Sarsens.

“You’re in Afghanistan, not bloody Aldershot!”

“Yes, sir,” Sarsens said.

Colonel Windrush took a deep breath and increased the volume of his rebuke. “Have you read the standing orders? If you had, you’d be aware they state, and I quote, anywhere from Peshawar westward, British officers will not move without carrying arms.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarsens said again. “But we’re inside a British garrison.”

“You were outside the citadel and outside Kandahar, damnit!” William lifted his fist again so that Jack thought he might strike the young Second Lieutenant.

“We had an escort, sir,” Sarsens said. “A dozen sowars of the Scinde Horse.”

William lowered his fist and his voice. “I’ll tell you what it is, young man. You may go without your breeches, but dammit, sir, you shall carry your sword!”

“Yes, sir,” the subaltern said.

“You’re now the duty officer, damn your impudence, and the first chance I get, I’ll send you on active service to introduce you to the reality of life in Afghanistan. That’s all. Dismissed!”

Jack moved away from the door before the subaltern escaped. For once, he agreed with William. Any British officer, and any British soldier, who took chances on the North-West Frontier or in Afghanistan, was seeking trouble. Of all the enemies Jack had faced, he considered the Pashtun warriors the most consistently dangerous. Courageous in attack, tenacious in defence, they had all the patience and skill of a hunting cat and more dexterity with sword and jezail than any warriors Jack had known. Young fools of subalterns, fresh from Sandhurst or Eton, were fair game for a Pashtun warrior.

Smiling as he remembered his impetuous youth, Jack walked on with his opinion of William heightened.

“I hear the ghazis were causing trouble again.” Baxter sipped at his brandy and pointed to an article in the Kandahar News. “Four of them running amuck in the bazaar. They wounded General Tytler, no less, and a few rank and file.”

“What happened to them?” Jack asked.

Baxter shrugged. “Some of the 66th got them with the bayonet. Neat work, but it’s a bit worrying. One never knows who’s going to turn ghazi next. One cannot trust anything these people say or do.”

“They’re not all like that,” Jack said. “The Pashtun have a unique code, Pashtunwali, and they abide by it rigidly.”

“Is that so?” Baxter said. “I heard that there is only one Afghan who never told a lie, and he was deaf and dumb from birth.”

“Every Pashtun is a warrior, a theologian and a politician,” Jack contended. “I think most have family feuds.” He sipped at his whisky. “My wife, who knows such things, compares them to the Scottish Borderers as portrayed by Sir Walter Scott.”

“I’ve read Scott,” Baxter said. “Lay of the Last Minstrel. I can’t remember him writing of ghazis, though, or of men running amuck.”

“Nor can I,” Jack agreed. “I think amuck is a Javanese word. It means to kill.”

“Lovely people.” Baxter waved his glass in the air. “It’s time that Deen Mahomed took things in hand. He’s the chief of police here. I heard he did catch a few thieves in the Sudder Bazaar, but I’d prefer him to stop the ghazis.” He nodded to a large plate of apricots on the adjacent table. “Or stop the natives selling these damned things so cheaply. Half the men have diarrhoea.”

“Better an upset stomach than the clap,” Jack said. “It’s more easily cured.”

“Little chance of the clap here,” Baxter said. “Touch one of the Kandahari women, and half the men will be her cousins and hunt you down with their dirty great pulwars.” Both men looked up as the door opened, and two people stepped in.

“Guest in the mess!” Major Bryant, the regimental adjutant, was ten years younger than Jack and infinitely better connected. He spoke with the confidence of a man sure of his position in the world. And why not? Jack thought. Bryant was a senior officer in one of the best regiments in the British army, a scion of Eton and Sandhurst. Despite all Bryant’s advantages, Jack could not dislike him. Bryant was a friendly, open-faced man, popular in the ranks.

Jack looked up as Helen walked in at Bryant’s side. Elegant as always, she greeted the officers with a smile and accepted Bryant’s invitation to a drink.

“The Malverns have long had a tradition of hospitality,” Bryant explained. “We allow in female guests to the Mess, as long as they are announced, and insist that they do not part with a farthing.”

Helen nodded solemnly. “That is a good tradition,” she agreed. “I promise not to spend even an anna in your mess.”

“And the colonel’s lady is always welcome,” Bryant continued.

Helen sat on one of the padded seats, keeping her back straight and her knees pressed together. Noticing Jack sitting alone at a table, she raised her glass in salute. Jack acknowledged and sat back, wondering when he could return to the 113th in Kabul.

This journey has been a waste of time and effort. Batoor will do as he pleases, whatever I said or didn’t say.

“What the devil?” Major Bryant nearly dropped his glass as the mess door opened again, and Second Lieutenant Sarsens entered. He wore his undress tunic with a sword buckled around his waist, with no trousers, so he was naked down to his boots. A second later, the door opened again, and Crimea Windrush followed, similarly attired.

“Good God!” Baxter said, then smiled and looked away.

Jack half rose from his seat, then settled back down. He was not a member of the Royals’ mess and had no right to interfere with what happened.

The two subalterns settled in a seat and ordered their morning drinks, seemingly oblivious to their state of half nudity. Helen glanced in their direction, let her eyes slowly drift over each man, smiled, raised her eyebrows to her son, and shifted her attention back to Bryant.

You did not turn a hair, Helen. Full marks to you.

The subalterns spoke together for half an hour before Sarsens broke into a popular song.

“We don’t want to fight

But by Jingo, if we do,

We’ve got the ships,

We’ve got the men,

And got the money, too.”

“Enough of that!” Major Baxter shouted with an apologetic glance at Helen. “This is the officer’s mess, not a blasted infant’s school. Get out and make yourselves decent!”

He glowered as the subalterns hurried away. Helen ignored them, lifted her eyebrows in Jack’s direction, shook her head, and continued her conversation with Bryant.

“Major Windrush sahib?” A soft-footed Indian servant approached Jack.

“That’s me,” Jack confirmed.

“Brigadier General Burrows sends his compliments, Sahib, and requests your presence at your earliest convenience.”

Jack nodded. “Thank you, please convey my regards to General Burrows sahib, and inform him, no, hang it.” Jack stood up. “I’ll come right away.” Placing his empty glass on the table, Jack said his farewell to Baxter, lifted a hand to Helen, and left the mess.

I’ve never met General Burrows, but I’d better attend directly, although it will be some trivial detail, no doubt.

Burrows was in his quarters, issuing orders to senior officers. “Ah, Major Windrush!” He looked tired, a middle-aged soldier, more used to administrative posts than active command in the field.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you heard the latest news?”

“I’ve heard that Ayub Khan is causing trouble up by Herat, sir,” Jack said.

“He was causing trouble up by Herat,” Burrows said. “He has since marched south and is approaching the Helmand River.”

“Are we doing anything about it, sir?”

“The Wali has ordered a mixed force of some twelve hundred men to Grishk,” Burrows said, “and he’s preparing a larger force of regulars, with artillery we handed to him.”

Jack nodded. From what he had heard of the Wali, Sher Ali, he would need a great deal more than 1200 men to challenge Ayub Khan.

“If Ayub Khan crosses the Helmand,” Burrows said shortly, “he’ll be within a few days’ march of Kandahar.” He looked worried. “According to our spies, he has eleven regiments of infantry, thirty-six guns and a powerful cavalry force, plus a lashkar of unknown numbers of Durrani tribesmen.”

Jack calculated figures. “Depending how many soldiers are in each regiment, that could be five thousand men or more, plus the lashkar.”

Burrows gave a weak smile. “That was what I thought. A fellow named Luinob commands the advance force. I don’t know much about him, but I’m told he was once Governor of Turkistan. Do you know him?”

Jack shook his head. “No. I’ve never heard of the man.”

“A pity.” Burrows sighed. “My people say that Ayub Khan is encouraging his warriors by telling them they can have all the loot and women in Kandahar once they have driven out the British.” He shuffled some of the papers on his desk. “I know the Afghan mind, Windrush. Ayub won’t trust his troops not to mutiny unless he keeps them occupied and attacking the infidels will be well received.”

“That is so, sir,” Jack agreed. He waited to see why Burrows wished to see him, although he already guessed the answer.

Burrows removed his revolver from its holster, checked the chambers and replaced it before he returned to the matter in hand. “The closer Ayub Khan comes to Kandahar, the more he’ll unsettle the ghazis in the city and the tribesmen around.”

Jack nodded. “That is true, sir.”

“General Primrose has ordered me to take a brigade out to teach Ayub Khan a lesson. As you have a great deal of experience fighting the Afghans, Windrush, I want you with us.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t have any men with me. I came with an escort of Guides for the Durbar, and my regiment is still in Kabul.”

“I am well aware of that, Windrush,” Burrows said. “Gather what you need and join my column.”

“Yes, sir. When are we leaving?”

“General Primrose gave me my orders this morning, Windrush. I intend to march the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack stood up. He was too experienced in Afghan conditions to expect peace to last long. As soon as he had heard about Ayub Khan’s advance from Herat, Jack guessed the British would have to fight him, for he had little faith in Sher Ali’s ability to defeat Ayub Khan. “How large a force will you command, sir?”

“It’s not fully decided yet, Windrush, but we’ll advance in coordination with the Wali. Probably a battery of Horse Artillery, a couple of regiments of native cavalry and two regiments of native infantry, plus a British battalion.”

Jack nodded. “About three thousand men, sir.”

Burrows continued. “We’ll march to Grishk, about sixty miles to the west, push Ayub Khan back to the Helmand River, and guard the fords. In the event Ayub has not yet reached the Helmand, we’ll wait for him at the river.”

Jack nodded. “Yes, sir. Ayub Khan will outnumber us, but if the men are steady, that should not be a problem.”

I don’t think any of the units in Kandahar have much recent experience of fighting. I hope Burrows is a better general than he appears.

“Dismissed, Windrush,” Burrows said and returned to the paperwork on his desk.

The moment Jack left Burrows, he found himself struggling to picture the general’s face. He was a man devoid of personality. Jack sighed. That was another lesson; a military leader needed to create an image, something distinctive for the men to follow.

Now I’m going back to the war. In Afghanistan, the war never seems to end. It alters its shape, and a friend today can be a foe tomorrow. It’s like draining a swamp with a sieve.

Jack looked along the bleak stone corridor to the window at the far end and listened to the sounds of Kandahar.

We should never have entered Afghanistan, but now we are here, we’ll have to show we are strong, or half the tribes on the Frontier will rise.