CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE SIRDAR’S REVENGE

Our march, in battle formation, from the camp of the night before had brought us on the morning of the 1st September through the Kerreri hills, which ran east-west almost from the left bank of the Nile, to a large open, sandy plain. Between us and Omdurman, our ultimate destination a few miles south, there rose a tit-shaped hill with sloping shoulders called the Jabal Surgham. As with the previous marches, Kitchener had deployed the cavalry forward of the main force in a wide arc that swept from the left bank of the Nile via the Jabal Surgham back to the Kerreri Hills, with the Lancers spread between the river and the west slope of the tit as I’ve already related.

Out in front of the main body of the Expeditionary Force, as we advanced south-westwards across the sand, rode Kitchener, ramrod straight in the saddle, his purple-cheeked and gotch-eyed face looking neither to the left nor the right. He was followed a couple of lengths behind by his personal Staff – including me and Fahran – and the flags of the United Kingdom and Egypt. We were about mid-way across the open plain when, to the south, I spotted a plume of dust rising into the air as a lone horseman approached at a hand canter from the direction of the Jabal Surgham. As this rider got closer, Kitchener – who must have seen him - kept his horse at the walk and continued to stare straight ahead. The rest of us, however, all edged our ponies closer to the Sirdar, for the jockey could only be a galloper from the cavalry screen with news of the Dervishes.

As the messenger approached us he slowed to a trot, wheeled around behind our group and then approached the Commander-in-Chief on Kitchener’s offside. There was something about the cavalryman’s seat which reminded me of someone I knew but, as he trotted past me and then saluted the Sirdar, I couldn’t make out who was the owner of the dust-caked face under a low-fitting pith helmet, beyond the fact that he was a Second Lieutenant and in Paget’s Irregulars. I did, however, hear what he said and I then knew on the instant to whom the voice belonged: it was Churchill, although what the hell he was doing in the Soudan against the explicit orders of the C-in-C was, at that point, a mystery.

“Sir, I have come from the 21st Lancers with a report.” Kitchener nodded his head as a signal for Churchill to continue. “The enemy are in sight and in large numbers. Their main body is about seven miles away, on the other side of that hill,” he said pointing to the Jabal Surgham. “Up until eleven o’clock they had remained stationary, but at five minutes past eleven they started to move forward. When I left forty minutes ago they were still on the move.”

“You say the Dervish Army is advancing. How long do you think I’ve got?” asked Kitchener. Without hesitating Churchill gave his answer:

“You have got at least an hour – probably an hour and a half, sir, even if they come on at their present rate.”

Kitchener tossed his head in a way that might have signified acceptance or rejection of this assessment: it was impossible to tell. Then he gave Churchill a stiff little bow which the bumptious tick took correctly as his dismissal. The boy saluted, reined up and let the rest of us pass him. I had assumed that there would be an eruption when Kitchener realised that the fruit of Lady Randy’s much abused loins had somehow managed to defy his ban, but there wasn’t. Instead, Kitchener growled for his Chief of Staff and issued a string of orders, which resulted in the whole Expeditionary Force halting and taking up a defensive position with its back to the Nile, whilst the Flotilla chugged off south in the direction of Omdurman. With the sun at its highest and hottest (and it was bloody hot, let me tell you), I was about to wheel away from the Sirdar’s cavalcade to join Reggie Wingate and his Intelligence wallahs for some luncheon, when Kitchener barked my name.

“Colonel Speedicut,” he said when I pulled up next to him, “am I right in thinking that the officer who brought me the message from the 21st was Churchill?”

“I believe that is correct, General.”

“Despite my specific instructions to you that he was not to join this expedition?”

“Instructions to me, General? I was aware of your views but that was from third parties, never from yourself.”

“Be that as it may, Speedicut, he is here and I don’t trust the blighter an inch. Before we know it, he’ll have written a critique of my leadership that will be front page of the dratted Telegraph or whichever damned rag he’s writing for. I won’t have it, d’you hear?”

“I shall, of course, censor anythin’ he may write in the field, General – but once back home there will be nothin’ I can do to stop him.”

“Hmm,” he harrumphed, “we’ll see about that. In the meantime, you are to find him and not let the bloody fellow out of your sight for one minute until this campaign is over or he returns to England. Is that clear?”

“Yes, General.”

“Good. Well, you’d better go and find him now – but you can leave your orderly with me…”

That last order was, I supposed, a punishment for my apparent failings and a reward for his. But I had no choice except to comply. So I told Fahran to stick with Kitchener whilst, as the Expeditionary Force assumed a defensive position with its back to the Nile, I rode off to find Churchill. I eventually caught up with him at the makeshift HQ Staff Mess on the edge of a deserted village by the river bank. Under the command of a rather superior Staff Corporal in the 2nd Battalion called Digney, an army of Mess waiters had assembled a line of biscuit boxes, covered them with white oil-cloth on which they were laying platters of crudely cut sandwiches and a plentiful supply of what looked like hock in cooler buckets (it was lemonade: on the Sirdar’s orders).

“What’s on the menu today, Corporal Major?” I called over as, at the same time, I signed to an orderly to take my horse.

“Boeuf à la Kitchener or Boeuf à la Khalifa, Colonel,” he replied rather pompously.

“What’s the difference?”

“Boeuf à la Kitchener includes some of my mother’s pickle, Colonel.”

I was reasonably certain that Digney’s mother was a beefy matron with mottled cheeks and a moustache, so this seemed altogether appropriate. An orderly ran forward to take my pony, I dismounted and strode over to Churchill who was deep in conversation with Wingate.

“… and, you know, I’m sure he didn’t recognise me,” I heard Churchill say.

“What in God’s name are you doin’ here?” I demanded without any preliminaries. He ignored my question and, in the manner of a damned politico, parried it with one of his own.

“Oh, Colonel Speedicut, how nice to see you. I had no idea you were with the Expeditionary Force. What brings you to this jolly spot?”

“I’m here on the orders of Lord Salisbury to ensure that people like you don’t abuse Queen’s Regulations by publishin’ un-licenced tittle-tattle in the gutter press. So how the hell did you get out here?” This time he did answer my question.

“Quite simple really: Lord William Beresford introduced me to Lady St Helier,150 who in turn pleaded my cause with the Adjutant General,151 who she knew was of the view that the composition of the British Division on this expedition was a matter for the War Office not the Sirdar. Accordingly, on Sir Evelyn’s orders - and on the strict understanding that I was to cover my own expenses and that no charge would fall to the Exchequer if I am wounded or killed – I have been attached to the 21st Lancers for the duration of the campaign.”

Then I remembered Bill Beresford saying in Pratt’s that Churchill had two routes to the Soudan and we’d never heard the second one. From what Churchill had said, it was apparent that, for the first time in his short career, his mother had not had to spread her legs to get her son his heart’s desire. At least not directly, anyway.

“Take a pew, Speed,” said Wingate cheerily and with a familiarity that I didn’t expect from a mere Major, “it’s all water down the Canal. Winston’s here, as a combatant, so that’s that.”

“You’re not writin’ for anyone, then?” I asked.

“Only for myself,” said Churchill, “… and the Morning Post.”

“In which case, Mr Churchill,” I said with some vigour, “let me remind you that - as Head of Propaganda - all communications with the outside world MUST first be vetted by me.”

“It will be my pleasure,” replied Churchill, looking subservient but sounding truculent. “Have a bully beef and pickle sandwich, Colonel.”

Realising that there was nothing more to be done, I sat down and took the proffered food. Next to me was a shaven headed Junker who introduced himself as Baron von Tiedermann. He was, so he said, representing (for that read spying for) the Imperial German Staff.

“Ze first of September, gentlemen – our great day and now your great day,” he said raising a glass of lemon barley water.

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Wingate.

“Sedan and now Soudan!” replied the Kraut, laughing immoderately at his own appalling joke.

As this impromptu luncheon-before-the-battle got underway, somewhat bizarrely it started to assume the characteristics of a race day picnic. Whilst the British and Egyptian Divisions erected a zeriba and deployed into their positions, the artillery loaded shrapnel or canister, and the Maxims were rolled into place to await the slaughter of the (yet to appear from behind the hill) fifty-thousand screaming fuzzy-wuzzies armed only with spears, swords and muskets, we all had – as Churchill would have said - a rather jolly time of it. Then the Flotilla, which had earlier sailed up the Nile to a position by Tuti Island opposite Omdurman, opened up a rolling cannonade in the distance.

“Time to get back the 21st, I think,” opined Churchill getting up. I too rose. “Please don’t let me interrupt your meal, Colonel,” he added with aristocratic politeness.

“You’re not,” I said. “You may not think it, but your presence has not passed un-noticed by the Sirdar, who’s ordered me to accompany you until you’re on a steamer headed for home.”

“How splendid. It will be quite like old times with General Blood and the Malakand Field Force,” chuckled Churchill. “Let’s hope you can keep up with me, Colonel.”

Forty minutes later, with me puffing and sweating somewhat, we cantered up the side of the Jabal Surgham to re-join Churchill’s Troop. As I outranked Roly Martin, I decided it would be polite to make my presence known to him, so I left Winston and trotted over to make my mark.

“Hello, Colonel,” said the Lancers’ Commanding Officer politely, “what are you doing here?” I explained and told him to treat me as a supernumerary. “Well, in that case, you’d better do as the Sirdar has ordered and stick with young Churchill. I’m sure that he, or more likely his Troop, will benefit from your years of experience.”

Back on the crest of the hill, the advancing line of Dervishes was plainly visible through field glasses. I’d only been watching them for a few minutes when something quite extraordinary happened: the Dervish advance stopped with a precision that would have been applauded on Horse Guards Parade. This halt was followed, without warning, by all fifty thousand of the buggers raising their weapons in the air whilst those with muskets pulled the trigger: it was a sort of wog feu de joie. None of us knew what to expect next, although it was with considerable surprise that we gradually realised the Dervishes appeared to be bedding down for the night. This development was heliographed back to Kitchener, who sent orders by return that the cavalry screen was to remain in place and observe until sunset, when – if the enemy hadn’t stirred – we were to withdraw within the zeriba.

In order to understand what happened next, I need to explain the disposition of the Expeditionary Force at that point relative to Omdurman and the Nile. The core of our position for the night of the 1st/2nd September was the deserted mud dump near which we’d picnicked earlier; someone said it was called Egeiga. Anyway, it clung precariously to the west bank of the Nile and was a mere ten miles or so north of Omdurman. The Flotilla, which had returned from battering The Mahdi’s tomb and demolishing the walls of Omdurman, was anchored up - or whatever it is that the matelots do when they park their tubs for the night - alongside the eastern edge of the village. The village itself and the surrounding country had already been fenced in with a thorn hedge, inside of which were located all the animals, the Egyptian Division, the cavalry, the artillery and Kitchener’s HQ. Outside the zeriba, the Sirdar deployed the British infantry in a double line which stretched in a great crescent from a point on the Nile to the north of the village to a point below it to the south. Facing this arc of steel to the west was the empty star-lit plain we’d been on during the day, framed to the north by the dark outline of the Kerreri Hills and to the south by the Jabal Surgham behind which – so it was hoped – still lurked the Dervish Army.

Assuming that the fuzzy-wuzzies didn’t launch a surprise night attack, which without the cavalry screen to give advanced warning was what Kitchener most feared, or a dawn attack on the 2nd, our line of march to the rebels’ position behind the full-titted feature would have to be across the plain, followed by a left wheel around the west end of the Surgham hill and then south-east towards the Dervish Army – or if they’d fled overnight - what remained of the walls of Omdurman.

The mood inside the zeriba was tense, but some of the younger Lancers - led by Churchill and with me in dutiful tow - decided to make contact with the Senior Service to see if they could cadge a bottle of two of the booze which was banned in camp. So, after we’d eaten what Corporal Major Digney announced as ‘dinner’ (more corned beef and his mother’s pickle), we headed through the tattered remains of Egeiga to the river’s edge.

“Ahoy there!” cried Lady Randy’s boy to a gunboat anchored thirty feet or so off shore.

“Ahoy yourselves,” shouted back a voice, which I thought I recognised. “What can I do for you poor, benighted foot sloggers?”

“We’re Lancers, I’ll have you know,” bellowed Churchill, “and we’re badly in need of a proper drink.”

“I see,” said the naval type, “and whom do I have the honour of addressing on this vitally important matter?” Then the penny splashed into the Nile: it was Beatty. Before Churchill could reply I broke in.

“Look here, Beatty old chap, be a sport and send a parched and agein’ old shipmate a bottle of your best fizz.”

“Speedicut? Colonel Speedicut?”

“The same,” I replied.

“I told you not to mix with the pongos – you should have joined me on board.”

“Too late for that now: be a good fellow and help a human bein’ in distress.”

“Can you catch?”

“I’m damned sure Churchill can.”

“Excellent. Wait there a moment.” We did as instructed and a couple of minutes later Beatty’s voice sounded again. “Load! Ready! Fire!” and with that a magnum of fizz came flying through the air and landed with a great splash about ten feet away from us.

“In you go!” I said, giving Churchill a great shove between the shoulder blades. He pitched forward then waded out into the shallows, bent down and, from the mud below the rippling surface, extracted our gift from the Royal Navy. Dripping wet, he carried it back to the Lancers’ Mess where it disappeared down a dozen throats – mine included – in less time than it takes to tell. And that was the highlight of the evening, if you discount the appearance of Fahran with my bedroll and the information that he’d been ordered by Kitchener to bed him down too. I feared for Fahran’s virtue, but what could I do?

“I’ll wake you in the morning, huzoor. Tea as usual?”

“That would be splendid, Fahran. Sleep well, if you can.”

“Fear not, huzoor, I know how to look after myself. My father didn’t only teach me conjuring tricks.” I do hope so, I thought, as I wrapped myself up for the night.

Long before the sun was up on the 2nd – my fob showed it was four-thirty - the buglers sounded Reveille and Fahran appeared with a steaming mug of brew, which I laced with the last drops of brandy in my hipflask. I decided not to quiz him about his sleeping arrangements, but he was in a cheery mood so I assumed he’d had an uninterrupted night. By the time the sun was rising on the other side of the Nile, I was in the saddle and trailing Churchill.

“De Montmorency’s Troop,”152 said Churchill to me as I edged my pony towards him, “has already gone back up the Surgham hill. If the Dervishes are still on the other side he’s almost bound to see some action. Honestly, it’s not fair: some people have all the luck.”

“Wingate told me a short while ago over breakfast,” I replied, “that, as they didn’t attack us during the night, the buggers are bound to have withdrawn to the relative safety of Omdurman – what’s left of it – or they may be half-way to Kordofan by now.”

“Oh, God, I do hope not. I came out here to take part in a proper battle. If they’ve all sloped off I’ll have been wasting my time, my mama’s money and the patience of the Post.”

“Indeed,” I responded. “Well, only time will tell.”

At that moment Martin’s trumpeter sounded the March and, whilst the Gyppo cavalry and the Camel Corps jogged off to their positions on the right flank in front of the Kerreri Hills, the 21st Lancers trotted out of the zeriba in the direction of the left flank and the ridge of the Jabal Surgham. By the time we got there it was five forty-five. Within five minutes the gradually strengthening dawn revealed that, far from hoofing off to their festering mud huts and evil-smelling wives in Kordofan, the Dervishes were exactly where we’d left them the night before. Actually, that was not quite true, for it was quickly evident that - as rapidly as the rising sun - the fuzzies were advancing across the whole of their frontage, which must have been a good five miles long and stretched from the Nile to the Kerreri Hills.

The Khalifa’s strategy – or so I thought at the time - was as clear as the beard on his ugly phiz: to pivot his right wing on the Nile then, like a gate being swung slowly on its hinges, in a long straight line breast the Jabal Surgham with his centre, whilst his left wing marched through the wide gap between the two ranges of hills. Once all his forces were in the plain, the Khalifa would then sweep on the broadest possible frontage onto our infantry’s position, overwhelm it by sheer weight of numbers and drive the Expeditionary Force into the Nile. Actually, as it emerged, his plan was a tadge more sophisticated than that. However, before that could be discerned, the Dervishes emitted a mighty roar as they advanced: it was not unlike the bloody Zulus of profane memory. Wingate told me later that it was clearly audible even in Egeiga, around which the two infantry Divisions - with the Gunners, the Maxims and the Flotilla in deadly support - were at Stand To even though the tribesmen were not yet in view.

Back on the Jabal Surgham, Martin ordered his Lancers (and me) forward over the crest and to a position in the foothills on the enemy side. For my money, even if the wogs didn’t have much range with their muskets, this move took us too damned close for comfort to the surging mass of fifty-odd thousand blood thirsty fuzzy-wuzzies. So close were we, in fact, that even without my field glasses I could clearly make out the emblems of the Emirs. On our extreme left front was a bright green flag, the next formation along was led by a rather darker one and in the middle fluttered the vast black banner of the Khalifa; beyond this was a whole mass of white flags covered in Arabic scribbles with a blood red banner waving at their centre.153 I was about to trot forward and suggest to – no, pull rank and order - Martin to withdraw, when he must have realised that the advancing Dervish right flank under Emir Bright Green Banner was about to envelop the Nile side of our hill and cut off our line of retreat that way, whilst the fuzzies under Emir Dark Green Banner were headed straight for us. Common sense prevailed before I had to demand it and we were soon headed back over the crest and into a more secure position mid-way between the Jabal Surgham and the zeriba. Here we sat our horses, Squadrons-in-Line, and waited. Whilst the 21st were executing this manoeuvre, the Dervishes’ broad frontage had continued to surge forward and had appeared over the west end of our recently vacated hill and across the broad mouth of the plain. Up to that point hardly a shot had been fired by either side.

Then, as the Dervishes closed the distance between the two Armies, something rather unexpected happened: two old field guns were wheeled from the Dervishes’ centre and loosed off a brace of shells which fell (in the best tradition of ‘drop-shorts’ of all Armies) fifty yards short of the zeriba. Kitchener clearly thought that this was an affront to his dignity and ordered all the Batteries and the gunboats to open fire. As the ranges had already been established the previous day by a party of diligent Woolwich-trained Gunners, the result was carnage. Dead, dying and dismembered Dervishes flew in all directions and, even at three thousand yards, we could see that the sand of the plain was turning red – and it wasn’t ‘the blood of the square that broke’.

“This is no place for us to be,” muttered Churchill, more to himself than anyone else.

“I agree,” I said with some feeling. “If we stay here much longer we’ll be the Maxims’ first casualties.”

“The Twenty First Lancers will move to the Right in Column-of-Troops,” yelled Martin, as though he’d been eves-dropping our exchange, “Right About Wheel - March!”

We trotted off back to the zeriba where a pair of kilted Seaforth Highlanders, with hairy knees and the sort of gormless expressions that are the commonplace in North Britain, let us through. From there we rode on to the river bank whilst the Maxims and sustained volley fire wreaked havoc on the advancing ranks of the Khalifa’s Army. Despite the carnage, they continued a frontal attack across the plain and, for good measure, added a flanking attack from the north.

With nothing better to do, we dismounted, watered the horses and awaited further orders. My guess was that, once the Dervishes had got it into their woolly pates that bravery and the promise of umpteen virgins in Paradise was no protection against a magazine-loaded Lee Metford rifle and the latest in modern machine guns, they would tell the Emirs to stick the promised virgins where the sun doesn’t shine and stream back to Kordofan. That would be our chance for some risk-free lance and sword practice on live targets.

For reasons that I will never comprehend, this state of affairs took rather a long time not to happen. So long, in fact, that the Maxims ran out of cooling water and had to be replenished from the Cameron Highlanders’ water bottles and, for many infantrymen on our front line, their rifles fired so many rounds they became too hot to hold. Besides which, Kitchener was not having it all his own way. I’ve already mentioned that the Khalifa had launched both a frontal and a left flanking attack. The former was relatively easy to halt and the fuzzies never got close to the zeriba, but on the northern flank the Camel Corps and the Egyptian Cavalry – who had been withdrawing in some disarray eastwards from the lower slopes of the Kerreri Hills towards the Nile – had got into a frightful pickle, as Wingate, who had little to do now that the battle had commenced, trotted over and told us.

“Broadwood’s Egyptian cavalry and Tudway’s cameleers were bloody nearly cut off from the rest of the Army by the flanking attack,” said Wingate, who then went on to tell us that they were only saved by the intervention of the Royal Navy whose guns, Maxims and Marines - firing at almost point blank range - tore great swathes of destruction into the ranks of fifteen thousand Dervishes.

“Broadwood has somewhat redeemed himself by drawing the buggers off north, but not before they got damned close to eliminating a large chunk of the Gyppo Army and, thereby, spoiling Kitchener’s chances of donning the ermine.” he ended with a wry smile. I had the distinct impression that Wingate didn’t care much for Kitchener: sound man.

By eight o’clock, however, these two Dervish attacks were spent, at a cost to them of more than two thousand killed. The northern attackers were, thanks to Broadwood, dispersed amongst the Kerreri Hills and the main Dervish Army – which was still about thirty thousand strong - was pinned down on the open plain. Fahran told me later that the received wisdom around Kitchener was that Omdurman had to be seized immediately. The fear was that the Khalifa would withdraw all his forces back to the city, regroup and launch another offensive. After all, if he could have achieved that he would have had more than forty-five thousand men still under his command. This, then, was the reason why our idyll beside the Nile was interrupted by Gatacre and his Staff who cantered up to Martin.

“The Sirdar’s complements, Roly. He would be obliged if you would move your Regiment back to the Jabal Surgham, reconnoitre the ground to its south, heliograph a situation report and then – all being well - clear the land between the hill and the city.”

“But we won’t be able to hold either the country or Omdurman – that’s not the role of cavalry,” said Martin quite reasonably.

“I know that, Roly, and so does the Sirdar. As soon as you send back the ‘all clear’ from the ridge, my Division will be on your horses’ tails with eight thousand bayonets.”

“Very good, General.” Martin saluted and within minutes the 21st Lancers (and me) were trotting out of the zeriba back towards the ridge of the Jabal Surgham half-a-mile away. When we got there, we found – to my considerable relief – that it was unoccupied. What followed next is best described by Churchill’s dispatch for the Morning Post, which he submitted to me for censorship, from which I have now pruned ruthlessly his more purple prose, of which there was a nauseating excess:

The rocky mass of the Jurgham hill obstructed our view of the main Dervish body with the Khalifa’s black banner at its centre. But southwards, between us and Omdurman, the whole plain was exposed. It was infested with small parties of Dervishes, moving about, mounted and on foot, in tens and twenties. Three miles or so away, a broad stream of refugees, wounded and deserters flowed from the enemy’s position to the city. This was a sight to excite the fiercest instincts of cavalry, for only the scattered parties of Dervishes in the plain appeared to prevent a glorious pursuit. A report was heliographed back to the Sirdar and we waited for a reply. Meanwhile, Dervish skirmishers, concealed among the rocks on the south slope of the Jabal Surgham, started to fire at us, so we sheltered among the mounds of sands whilst two Troops were ordered to supress the rebel fire with their carbines. Then I saw the heliograph in the zeriba blink a reply: ‘Advance and clear the left flank, and use every effort to prevent the enemy re-entering Omdurman.’ We remounted, but Colonel Martin – well versed in the adage that ‘time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted’ - sent forward two patrols. The first returned and reported that the plain looked safe. At this moment the second patrol returned with the information that, between the Regiment and the line fleeing to Omdurman, there was a body of about a thousand Dervishes concealed in a dry water course about three-quarters of a mile to the south-west. Colonel Martin decided on this information to advance and attack this force which alone interposed between us and Omdurman. Unbeknownst to the gallant Colonel, the Khalifa’s scouts had reported that we were moving to cut off his line of retreat. He ordered that the force, which our patrol had seen, was to be reinforced with a further two thousand warriors, who made their way undetected – using the cover of a spur of the Surgham hill - to join their comrades. The Khalifa himself, riding on a donkey and with a scanty escort, followed at a distance behind to watch the impending action…154

Whilst this was going on – and, of course, at the time we were wholly unaware that the odds of two-to-one had changed to ten-to-one – the 21st Lancers advanced in Column-of-Squadrons at the Walk. This appeared to have a sobering effect on several small parties of Dervish stragglers who melted away at our approach. However, a group of about a hundred of the buggers didn’t. Instead, they stood silently – a thin blue and doubtless smelly line - about three hundred yards off to our right front. Beyond them in the distance we could see the dim outline of the walls of Omdurman. There was total silence, broken only by Churchill who opined that the thin blue line would make a fine target for a charge. Silly bugger. Martin, who was not in hearing range, clearly shared my view for he ignored the Dervishes and must have decided to press on. To confirm this, at that moment his trumpeter sounded Trot.

The lead Troop was just passing the far end of the Dervishes when the warriors, with the precision of well-drilled Woodentops, dropped to their knees and let rip a volley at us followed by individual fire. At that range they couldn’t miss and, as my breakfast threatened to evacuate itself into my boots, men and horses dropped all along our column. Martin ordered ‘Right Wheel into Line’ and all eight Troops of the 21st Lancers turned into Line-of-Regiment. Christ, I thought as Martin ordered ‘Draw Swords’, we’re actually going to charge. However, before I could haul my blade from its scabbard, the whole Regiment surged forward in two lines, lances couched and swords outstretched. I never did hear the call to Charge – but it was superfluous for the whole Regiment, with me on Churchill’s near side, were already galloping straight at the damned Dervishes.

As I wrote those words, I suddenly realised that, despite having been a cavalryman all my adult life, I’d only once before been in a proper cavalry charge which was that moonlight affair with the Tins at Kassassin.155 Of course, I’d witnessed – albeit from the Russian side – both the charge of the Heavies and Cardigan’s cock-up at Balaclava, but I hadn’t taken part in them, and I didn’t count the time when I’d unwillingly galloped through a line of infantry in Persia.156 As I may have mentioned before, a proper charge is up there, but not quite on a par, with one’s first fuck…

Somewhat to my surprise, instead of turning tail and heading for home at our thundering approach, the Dervishes stood fast and continued to fire at us as we galloped towards them. This was a distinctly sub-optimal situation. Worse still was the fact that, as we closed rapidly the distance to their position, it became horrifyingly evident that behind the thin blue line was a deep fold in the ground, not previously visible, and that within it were the massed ranks – now swollen by reinforcements – of the Dervishes who had been reported earlier. With only a hundred yards to go, these men sprang forward to join their comrades so that, instead of charging a single line, we were now committed to engaging with one twelve deep.

As the gap between the opposing forces grew shorter, men and horse were being felled behind me and I was still struggling to draw my sword. For some reason I glanced over at Churchill and saw that he had returned his and, instead, was unholstering his Mauser. Well, what was good enough for the heir of the victor of Blenheim was good enough for me, so I followed suit. It was a judicious decision on both of our parts and I had my weapon cocked and ready by the time the dreadful impact occurred, as Churchill’s report went on to describe in florid detail and over-blown syntax:

The Lancers acknowledged the unexpected appearance of so many of the enemy only by an increase of pace. Each man wanted sufficient momentum to drive through such a solid line. The flank troops, seeing that they overlapped, curved inwards like the horns of a bull. The actual collision of cavalry and infantry was prodigious, marked by a great shout and over in seconds. The Dervishes, who never stopped firing, were swept head over heels backwards into the dry watercourse to be followed by the horsemen. Almost thirty Lancers, men and horses, and at least two hundred Dervishes fell. The shock was so stunning to both sides that, for perhaps ten seconds, no man heeded his foe. Terrified horses wedged in the crowd, bruised and shaken men, sprawling in heaps, struggled, dazed and stupid, to their feet, panted and looked about them. Several fallen Lancers even had time to remount. Meanwhile, the impetus of the cavalry carried them on. As a rider tears through a brush fence, the officers forced their way through the press; and, as a garden rake might be drawn through a pile of leaves, so the Regiment followed. They shattered the Dervish array, and, their pace reduced to a walk, scrambled out of the watercourse on the further side. Then and only then did the killing begin…

Actually, I can’t go on with Churchill’s portentous prose and will resume the narrative in my own words: anyway, what happened next was particular to me and so best described by me.

Churchill was nowhere to be seen but Dervishes were very much in evidence all round me and were busy - rather un-sportingly - hamstringing horses, cutting reins and stirrup leathers, slashing at our men with their heavy swords, flinging their spears and, for those who still had loaded pieces, firing at a few inches range. This was clearly not a spot on which to linger, so I dug in my spurs and galloped for what I prayed would be safety. Ahead of me I caught sight of Churchill’s and several other Troops, which had re-formed and were preparing to charge back towards the enemy. I was about to yell at them to stop when my pony tripped over something on the ground and went arse over tip. I was flung from the saddle and described an elegant arc through the air, landing on my back in the sand. I was winded but, as far as I could tell, unhurt for the sand was soft. However, the Mauser had slipped from my grasp – although it was still attached to me by a lanyard - and lying buried in yellow stuff next to me. I instinctively grabbed for it as a brace of revolting looking fuzzies bore down on me with spears raised.

Praying that I wouldn’t miss, I raised the pistol, aimed at the chest of the nearest native and squeezed the trigger. He dropped on the instant: one down and one to go, I thought, as I drew a bead on the second Dervish. Again I squeezed the trigger but, this time, nothing happened. The dratted firearm was jammed, possibly by the sand that had recently enveloped it. The man had paused in mid-throw when I’d switched my aim, but now – instead of throwing his oversized and razor-sharp toothpick - he bore down on me with a toothless grin on his evil-looking face and murder clearly in his heart.

Holy fuck, I thought, this is the end.