Red Runs the Helmand. Patrick Mercer

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СКАЧАТЬ it was all too clear when he had you drawn up drill-yard style, booted and spurred yet trying to loll over fucking cocktails or whatever fancy nonsense they were. I’ve not seen plunging like that since the Crimea . . .’ Sam was looking blank ‘. . . yes, you know, plungers – don’t you use that word any more? Horrible ambitious types – usually tradesmen’s sons – who think that licking round their superiors and trying to give themselves airs and graces will somehow give them a foot up the ladder. What does he think he commands – the bloody Life Guards? It’s a regiment of native irregulars, ain’t it?’ I saw a slight shadow pass over my son’s face. Without thinking, I’d suggested he might have been consigned to something second rate. ‘And bloody good in the field it is too – we depended heavily on your lot back in the Mutiny, you know.’ I tried to redeem myself. ‘I can see he’s an arse socially, Sam, but Malcolmson’s done well enough on campaign so far, ain’t he? The regiment’s got a good name.’

      ‘I think we’ve done pretty well, Father, but we’ve only had one serious brush with the enemy and the commanding officer was fine, as far as I could see. Is this your mess?’ replied Sam, changing the subject as he ran an approving eye over the single-storey building that stood at the end of the courtyard.

      ‘Yes, it is. Henry Brooke – you know him and his family, Protestant folk from up Tyrone way . . .’ Oh, damn it, there it was again: I’d reminded Sam of the differences between us once more when I was trying to find common ground. ‘As you know, he’s the other infantry brigadier and we’ve been pals for years. Well, he found the place when he arrived in Kandahar a little after you did. Now he’s converted it into a joint mess for both of us and our staff. But you don’t have to be over-loyal in front of me, lad. I’ve seen men like Malcolmson before – a veneer of efficiency that usually hides something much less savoury. Anyway, enough of that. You’ll soon know if I’m right or wrong – and I wasn’t pumping you up in front of Malcolmson earlier. I really do need to know about this country and the folk we’ve got to fight. Sam Browne and Roberts have been poked in the eye a couple of times but seem to have come through it, and you tell me that your lot have crossed swords with ’em, so what are they like?’

      As Sam started to reply I knew I must concentrate, but my mind kept wandering away. I thought how little I knew the young warrior who had so impressed me during today’s hunt. Why, the last occasion we’d spent any time together had been in Ireland and I’d been daft enough to criticise his skill in the saddle. Yet today he’d been like a satyr while the big cat had spat and scratched around the three of us.

      No, I hardly knew him. I seemed to have lavished all my time and attention on his half-brother, William. I had packed Sam off to India as soon as I could into a cheap, but good, native cavalry gang while his brother got the best of schools and a commission in a decent English regiment that nearly broke the bank. Yet, looking at the man, I could see myself a quarter of a century before.

      ‘They’re damn good, Father. They’ll come at you out of nowhere, exploit every mistake you make, carve you up, and are away like the wind. They nearly gave us a hiding at Khusk-i-Nakud – I thought I’d finished before I’d started when we had to charge fifteen hundred tribesmen who had got into our rear.’

      We’d had word of that smart little skirmish when it happened more than a year ago, and I’d been both thrilled and worried when I heard that the 3rd Scinde Horse had been involved. I’d written to Sam immediately, but his reply had been brisk and modestly uninformative and, until now, I’d had no chance to talk to him about his first time in action. ‘Tell me about it, Sam. I want to hear every last detail.’

      ‘Take your squadron up to that bit of scrub yonder, Reynolds. I’ll hold B and C Squadrons and the 29th Balochi lads down here while you move.’ Colonel Malcolmson, commanding officer of the 3rd Scinde Horse, was in charge of the rearguard. ‘Then, when you hear my signal, be prepared to fall back behind that handful of buildings over there.’

      This looks a damn sight more promising than anything we’ve seen so far, thought Lieutenant Sam Keenan. I’ve been here for three months and done nothing but watch other men’s battles, picket till I’m blue in the face and freeze my balls off. I wonder if this’ll develop into anything more than all the other disappointments? He could hear the colonel’s orders to Reynolds, his squadron commander, quite clearly, as could every man in his troop. The sixty or so horsemen of A Squadron waited with the rest of the rearguard in the bottom of the shallow valley, watching the first enemy that they had seen in any numbers since their arrival in Afghanistan. In the low hills above them, dark groups of tribesmen could be seen trotting from cover to cover, firing a random shot or two at the distant British.

      Now the men stood by their mounts, lances resting on the ground, easing girths and harness, as they waited with the prospect of action gnawing at their guts. The horses could feel it as well. Just handy little ponies, really, carrying nets full of fodder across their saddles that made them look more like farm beasts than chargers. They whinnied and threw their heads, shook the flies from their eyes and flicked their tails while their riders talked soft Pashto to them, gently pulled their ears and tried to impart a calm they did not feel.

      ‘Squadron . . . mount.’ Reynolds’s voice carried clearly on the cool, still air as his mostly Pathan troopers swung easily into the saddle, the lance points sparkling in the sun. ‘Prepare to advance by troops.’ Keenan spurred his horse to the front of his twenty men. ‘Right wheel, walk march.’ The whole khaki-turbaned column divided into three neat little blocks, immediately throwing up a cloud of choking dust as the hoofs cut the ground.

      ‘Daffadar sahib.’ Keenan turned to his troop sergeant, a swarthy, heavily bearded ancient of two previous campaigns and at least thirty summers. ‘I guess we’ll be dismounting once we get into that bit of cover and moving forward with our carbines. Warn the horse holders, please and let’s be sharper than the other troops.’

      Daffadar Sayed Miran, one of the only NCOs in the regiment whose English was fluent, nodded and spoke to the men, having to raise his voice above the thump of horseshoes and the metallic jingle of bits, weapons and harness. The ground was dry for February – the snows around the banks of the Helmand had been unusually light that year – but there was still a bite in the wind that made Keenan glad of the sheepskin poshteen in which he and all of the men had wrapped themselves. It had been an uneventful few weeks of foraging and inconclusive reconnaissance while Major General Biddulph had scattered his troops up to Gereshk and beyond, trying to find both supplies and the enemy. But the latter had hardly shown themselves – until now.

      ‘Well, the weather’s improving and it’s clear that the column has done all it usefully can,’ had been the verdict of Colonel Malcolmson at the start of the fifty-mile march back to Kandahar. Things had begun quietly enough, with every unit that took its turn on rearguard duty hardly expecting to see the foe. Then, about four days ago, just as the column had entered the gritty valley of the Khakrez, the sniping had started. They were trespassing in Durani country, land that belonged to the people of Ahmed Shah’s Pearl Throne, proud and doughty warriors.

      At first, Keenan and everyone else would duck as odd bullets whined over the column fired by invisible not-so-sharpshooters. Then, a couple more badmashes had taken up the challenge and a steady drip of casualties had begun. The first violent death that Keenan had seen had been that of a sowar from the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry, whose pierced body had been carried past his own men on a dhoolie two days ago. Even his Pathans had pretended to look away while sneaking little peeps at the inert form whose blanket had come away from its cooling contents. Keenan had seen what had been a husky youth lying on his face, head turned to one side, eyes open with flies feasting at the corners. The wind caught the corpse’s moustache, lifting the hair to show stained yellow teeth set in a jaw that had been smashed by a bullet. Blood had spread over the man’s khaki collar and soaked, brown, into the grey issue blanket. Keenan had been repelled but fascinated by the sight.

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