CHAPTER TWELVE: STEADY THE BUFFS

It took Churchill, Fahran and me several hours to make our way carefully the ten or so miles back to the 2nd Brigade. I say ‘carefully’, because the terrain though which we moved for the first five miles was ideal ambush country with the track winding its way through steep-sided ravines and then the length of a deep nullah or dry watercourse. We saw several armed tribesmen on the rocks above us, but they seemed content simply to watch us ride by whilst picking lice from their filthy turbans. Eventually, we reached the start of the Nawagai plain, at the end of which was Jeffrey’s camp and the entrance to the Mamund Valley.

“Look!” Churchill cried out, rising in his stirrups and pointing.

I took out my field glasses and focussed them in the general direction he was indicating. All I could see was a long brown streak behind which were five or so columns of smoke, ‘blue against the mountains and brown against the sky’ as Churchill later wrote rather floridly in his first dispatch which I had to censor on my bed of pain.

“It’s the Brigade,” he shouted with a whoop, “they haven’t waited for the GOC’s orders and are already on the march. Those columns of smoke behind them must be burning villages. Come on, chaps, or we’ll miss all the fun!”

With that he dug in his spurs and cantered past the lead file of our escort, who had no choice but to follow; nor did I, in my Blood-appointed role as the bumptious tick’s nanny. An hour later we reined-up at the Brigade and reported to Jeffreys. He took Blood’s orders from the Bengal Lancer and read it, only then did he turn to us.

“Colonel Speedicut, Mr Churchill, what the devil are you doing here?” Before I could answer, Churchill blurted out somewhat mendaciously that Blood had sent us to cover the action. “I see. Well, you were well out of it last night,” Jeffreys said wearily. “None of us got a wink of sleep. We’re going to create a fortified base camp here and tomorrow – in pursuit of the GOC’s orders - we’ll enter the valley. It will be up to you whether you stay here or go in with us.”

Before Churchill could announce his choice, a blood-stained Troop of Bengal Lancers, under the command of a young Captain called Cole,118 galloped up – the Bengalis do everything at the gallop – and Cole reported that they had killed two dozen Mamunds.

“That’s a start,” said Jeffreys.

“I hope they’ve left some for us,” said Churchill.

“I don’t think you need to worry on that score, Mr Churchill” said Jeffreys, “there’ll be plenty more tribesmen where they’ve come from,” he said indicating the Lancers, “and, judging by last night, the Mamunds are full of fight.”

The Brigade spent the rest of the day building a three-foot high wall to create a fortified position and, within it, the men dug ‘shell holes’ to give themselves some additional protection. In the event, this proved to be largely unnecessary as the Mamunds had, so we were informed by the local Khan, decided to have a rest day. Nonetheless, as The Buffs marched in from their lookout at the top of the Rambat Pass, there was sporadic sniping at our camp. After a light dinner, and with the aid of a large map, Jeffreys’ issued his orders for the next day. To judge from the thinly marked piece of paper, the Mamund Valley was veined by nullahs that converged from the surrounding mountains like the stems of a leaf towards a central nullah that ran past our camp:

“Gentlemen, tomorrow the Brigade will enter the Mamund Valley in three columns to execute General Blood’s orders, which are to destroy everything we find.

“The right hand column, under Colonel Vivian’s command,119 will consist of the 38th Dogras and a section of Sappers. Your objective is the village of Domodoloh, here,” he pointed to a spot on the east side of the map about a third of the way up the valley, “which you will destroy before returning to this camp.

“Colonel Goldney,120 you will lead the centre column. You will have six Companies of The Buffs, six Companies of the 35th Sikhs, two Sections of Sappers, four gun teams from No 8 Mountain Battery and our Squadron of the 11th Bengal Lancers. You will advance to the north-east end of the valley where you will swing right and then seize and destroy the villages of Badelai, here, and Shytungy above it - here. Once you have completed this task, you too will return to this camp.

“Major Campbell,121 you will command the left hand column to which I am assigning the five Companies of the Guides Infantry and a section of Sappers. You will destroy any villages that you find at the north-western end of the valley before returning.

“Brigade Headquarters will take up a position here,” he indicated a small village on a knoll about half-way down the valley in the centre, “with a Company of the Guides Infantry – and our War Correspondents.”

Our deployment with Brigade HQ had been at my earlier suggestion in the interests (privately) of my own personal safety and (publicly) on the grounds that Churchill and I would only get an overall picture of the action if we were located with the Brigade command.

“The remaining Sappers, Gunners and two Companies from each of the infantry Battalions will hold this camp. Any questions, gentlemen?” There was only one: Churchill stuck his paw in the air.

“May I have your permission, General, to be attached to the central column?”

“As you please, Mr Churchill.” Well, if that’s what the brat wanted then – Blood and Lady C notwithstanding - I wasn’t going to risk my hide with him, so I kept quiet. “No other questions? Thank you, gentlemen,” said Jeffreys, “we move out at first light tomorrow.”

No sooner had he finished than, divining perhaps what was to happen to them on the morrow, the tribesmen intensified their fire and Jeffreys ordered that the tents be struck and we all retired to our trenches where, despite Fahran’s loud snoring next to me, I soon dropped off to sleep. It seemed to be only five minutes later that a bugler was sounding Reveille on the morning of 16th September. I looked at my fob and saw that it was half-past five. There was barely enough time for Fahran to make me a cup of tea before we were in the saddle and the columns, followed by Brigade HQ, were on their way.

What followed next proved, ‘in spades’ as C-G’s bridge-playing cronies are wont to say (God alone knows what bloody shovels have got to do with anything), the old maxim that a plan of attack rarely survives the first encounter with the enemy. For a start, Vivian’s right column marched the six miles to Domodoloh, where he found the Mamunds well dug-in and in considerable strength. As he didn’t have any artillery assigned to him, he took the sensible decision to call it a day and was back at the base camp in time for a late luncheon having suffered two casualties. Meanwhile, Campbell’s left column were midway to their objective when reports arrived at Brigade HQ that Goldney’s Sikhs attacking Shytungy were being hard pressed by about two thousand tribesmen, which was double the total Anglo-Indian force in all three columns. To support them, Jeffreys ordered Campbell and his Guides Infantry to break off from their objectives in the north-west and march the five miles east across the valley to give Goldney much needed support.

It later emerged that what had happened to the central column was this: instead of taking his objectives in succession, Goldney had split his force (never a good idea) and sent The Buffs to destroy Badelai whilst he deployed the 35th Sikhs (to whom Churchill had attached himself) to take-out Shytungy. The Mamunds, by contrast, had concentrated their forces on defending Shytungy and easily pushed the Sikhs back down the hill. Rather too late, Goldney had ordered The Buffs to break off their attack on Badelai and support his turbaned troops. Both might well have been overwhelmed, had it not been for the timely arrival of Campbell’s Guides and a desperate charge by the Bengal Lancers, who managed to halt the Mamunds rolling advance.

At this point, Jeffreys should have ordered a general withdrawal, re-grouped at the base camp and concentrated his entire force the following day in a single punitive column. I assumed that is what he would do and said as much to him. He might have done the sensible thing had a runner not arrived at that moment bearing the news that the Adjutant of the 35th Sikhs, one Victor Hughes,122 had been killed and his body, perforce, left behind in the retreat from Shytungy.

“I think not, Colonel Speedicut. We have tried and failed to take Shytungy and, in the course of that action, the body of a British officer has been left behind. Britain’s honour demands that the village is taken and Mr Hughes’ remains recovered.”

Bugger Britannia’s honour, was my first thought. But when it became clear that Brigade HQ would continue to occupy its elevated and semi-fortified position, a safe distance from the muck ’n bullets, I said ‘of course – no other course open to a gentlemen, etc etc…’ So it was that, with the Guides Infantry holding the left flank, the Gunners on a ridge to the right and with the infantry reinforcements ordered-up from the base camp, at one o’clock The Buffs and the Sikhs toiled their way back up the mountainside towards the village to recapture Britannia’s tattered reputation and Hughes’ even more tattered corpse.

It took three hours for the objective to be reached and thirty minutes for the nation’s honour and the sliced ’n diced remnants of Hughes to be restored. Jeffreys then ordered a fighting withdrawal to the early morning start line. But, as with the advance, Jeffreys underestimated the ferocity and numbers of the Mamunds. It wasn’t long before Captain Ryder and his Sikhs,123 now two miles away on the extreme right, were in danger of being overwhelmed. Once again the Guides Infantry were ordered to the rescue and, having started the morning on the left of the valley ended up, sixteen miles and eight hours later, on the right.

Only once the Guides had reinforced Ryder was Jeffreys able to order a general withdrawal. The Lancers held the left flank and the Guides the right. In between were sandwiched The Buffs and the Sikhs. From our elevated position at Brigade HQ, which now included the Gunners, the Sappers and three more infantry Companies from the rear echelon who hadn’t arrived in time to join the front line, we were able to see the entire frontage of our force as it withdrew, although it was itself divided by the nullahs. These dry watercourses made for slow work, made slower still by the fact that, as the 2nd Brigade pulled back, the mountains seemed to spew up thousands of gun-toting tribesmen.

By five o’clock the Brigade was out of the foothills and fighting a rear-guard action back down the valley. Our frontage was about two-and-a-half miles across, but the Mamunds bore down on it in a great crescent-shaped formation that overlapped both our flanks. From our vantage point, it looked more like a Napoleonic battle than a modern punitive expedition except that the enemy, a bare few hundred yards from our retreating troops, were not massed in battalions – they were just massed.

Someone once told me that the Iron Duke had been heard to mutter at Waterloo ‘would to God that night or Blücher were come’. In our case night did arrive, quickly, and on its heels not Blücher but donner und blitz. There was no moon and the stars were hidden by impenetrable thunder clouds; it was literally as black as pitch. At this point Jeffreys lost control of his command for, except momentarily when the lightning struck, he couldn’t see a damned thing. He turned to me and said quietly:

“What would you advise, Speedicut?”

I thought for a moment. It seemed to me that, by a miracle and the guts of the Guides, Jeffreys had narrowly avoided a minor Imperial disaster earlier that afternoon. It would not do for him, therefore, to arrive in camp before his own troops. So – I reasoned to myself - he should first send off our infantry then, with the remaining Gunners and the Sappers, join the main body of the Brigade as it passed our position. I said as much. Jeffreys agreed and he dispatched the footsloggers whilst we waited – and waited.

Meanwhile, the lightning, which might have helped us, had been replaced by torrential rain which further reduced visibility to just a few yards. By the time we realised that the Brigade had swept past us and that we were now an isolated command comprising a Battery of Gunners and some assorted Sappers we were surrounded by thousands of murderous Mamunds and it was too late. Why, oh why, I kept asking myself, had I told Jeffreys to wait – and why had I advised him to release four Companies of good Indian bayonets? Had I not long since set my face against regret, I would have wept at my own stupidity. Then, from out of nowhere, as I calculated my prospects of survival and assessed them at zero, Fahran appeared with a mug of sugar-laced tea. During the day he’d stuck close by me, but at no point, thus far, had he had anything to do other than keep me fed and watered.

“We’re not in a very good position, are we, huzoor?” he said.

“That about sums it up,” I replied. “Unless the tribesmen draw stumps or Goldney sends back a relief column, I’d say that before dawn we’ll be shakin’ hands with your father.” Jeffreys must have heard me for he chimed in:

“Worry not, Speedicut. After they’ve re-grouped, Goldney will certainly send his fitter men to our rescue.”

But he didn’t. Churchill, who’d had his own adventures during the day and had lost most of his infantile bravado along the way, later told me that although The Buffs were dead beat, the Sikhs had been decimated and the Guides were shagged out from all the marching they’d done, the 38th Dogras were fresh and that Goldney ordered four of their Companies to parade and march to our relief. Cole of the Bengal Lancers offered to guide them, the horses were saddled – then the order was countermanded. Why? No one knows.

Before I tell you what happened at Brigade HQ during that awful night, I’m going to quote from Churchill’s uncensored dispatch, which I still have, as it gives a first-hand account of the following morning:

Half an hour before dawn on 17th, Captain Cole’s Bengal Lancers were again mounted and, as soon as the light was strong enough to negotiate a way through the broken ground, he led the Squadron in search of the missing General and his Headquarters. Brigadier General Jeffreys’ guns had ceased firing at around two o’clock in the morning and we had concluded that they must have beaten off the enemy. There was, of course, an alternative explanation. As we drew close to Brigade Headquarters’ location it was possible to make out the figures of men moving about the houses and the walls. The gallant Captain Cole rode cautiously forward, realised that they were the survivors and called his Squadron to join him at the gallop. At a signal from Cole, his men started to cheer; but there was no response. Nor was this strange, for the village was a shambles. In an angle of the outside wall, protected on the third side by a shallow trench, were the survivors. All around lay the corpses of men and mules. Eighteen wounded men lay side by side in a roofless house; two officers, one with his left hand smashed, the other shot through both legs, were waiting patiently for medical relief; the Brigade Commander, his khaki coat stained with blood from a head wound, was talking to his only remaining Staff officer, whose helmet displayed a bullet hole and whose face was streaked with gore.124

That Staff officer was me. So what had happened?

The answer is that, when it became apparent that we had been left behind, Jeffreys ordered the Sappers and the Gunners to create the best defensive position in the shortest possible time. This involved choosing an area in which to make a stand – the one that Churchill described - digging some trenches, loop-holing the walls, positioning the guns and loading them with canister. We were helped by the rain for, fearful – I suspect - that they would get their powder (or it may have been their feet) wet, the Mamunds didn’t at first attack us head-on. Then, as the rain started to slacken, we were unexpectedly joined by a stray party of thirteen Buffs who stumbled on our position in the darkness.

At around ten o’clock the rain ceased altogether and was replaced by a more deadly hail comprising Mamund fire balls, stones and bullets. Fairly early on Jeffreys took a head wound, the Battery Commander was shot through both legs, whilst the rest of us crouched behind the growing mounds of dead mules firing with rifle and cannon at the muzzle flashes of our assailants. It was an absolutely desperate situation – and desperate situations call for desperate measures.

The desperate measure that I had been contemplating was to ride for our base camp and to hell with the consequences if I turned out to be the sole survivor of a massacre. Then common sense prevailed. What if the position held out? I would, at the very least, be accused of desertion in the face of the enemy. And even if Jeffreys and the rest of his small command were killed and I survived, who was to say that I had ridden for reinforcements rather than to save my own skin. Either way I would be disgraced, ostracised from Society, probably Court Martialled and possibly shot. My only hope was to obtain a written order from Jeffreys. With Fahran shadowing me, I crawled over to where he was being bandaged.

“General,” I said, “I’m willin’, if you will so order me, to ride for reinforcements.

“What’s that you say?” he mumbled.

“I’m goin’ for reinforcements…”

“Why would I want three-and-fourpence?” The wound to his head had clearly deranged the idiot.

“Give me a written order, General,” I said with as much patience as I could muster, “to ride back to camp to fetch more troops.”

This seemed to get through to him, he took out a note book, scribbled a couple of lines and handed it to me. It read: ‘having a lovely time, wish you were here.’ I threw it on the ground in disgust and crawled back to my firing position with Fahran behind me.

“Huzoor?”

“What is it Fahran?”

“If you order me, I will go.”

“No, no, Fahran, I can’t ask you to do that. It’s far too risky.”

“But you were willing to go, huzoor.”

“Yes, but…”

“It’s what my father would have done, huzoor – and it’s what he would expect me to do.”

“Possibly.”

“No, huzoor: certainly. Give me a written order and the use of your pony, which is fresher than mine, and I will return with help.”

With the greatest reluctance I did as he asked, wrote a note to Goldney and bade him God speed and a safe arrival. If he rode hard and wasn’t intercepted it was possible that he could be back within three to four hours. It was a big ‘if’. An even bigger ‘if’ was whether or not we could, in the meantime, hold out.