Red Runs the Helmand. Patrick Mercer

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СКАЧАТЬ officers, lead your men to the front of the brush and take post on Rissaldar Singh – he’s your right marker. Be sharp now.’ Keenan was the only British troop officer, the other two being Indians. Now 1 Troop commander – at thirty-five Singh was the oldest man in the squadron – had been placed to guide the troops as they formed up ready for the attack.

      With the minimum of fuss, Keenan’s troop followed him forward through the stand of trees before fanning out to the left of 3 Troop, Miran pushing and shoving the horses and their riders into two long, thin lines in the middle of the squadron.

      ‘Right, sahib,’ Miran said, which told Keenan that he should trot round to the front of his men and turn about to face them, his back to the enemy. He looked at twenty earnest young faces, every one adorned with a variety of moustache and beard – some full, some scrawny. They could be tricky in barracks, these Pathans of his, but now they looked no more than nervous boys, faces tense in the sun, pink tongues licking at dry lips. Keenan raised his hand to show that his troop was dressed and deployed to his satisfaction, the other two troop officers doing the same at either side of him.

      ‘Squadron, steady!’ came Reynolds’s word of command that brought the officers wheeling about in front of their troopers, allowing Keenan his first proper glimpse of the enemy. Two furlongs down the slope, a wedge of enemy infantry had charged hard into the rear and flanks of the 29th Bombay and was overwhelming them.

      ‘Drop your fodder, men.’ The squadron leader’s order caused every man to fiddle with the hay-net that made his saddle appear so swollen. In an instant the ground was littered with awkward balls of crop, while the horses looked instantly more warlike.

      ‘Carry . . . lances,’ Reynolds shouted, as the sun caught knife blades that were slicing and hacking at the Indian infantry men. Sixty or so long, slender bamboo poles, topped with red and white pennons, dipped and bobbed before coming to rest in their owners’ gauntleted hands. Keenan looked to either side of him: reins were being tightened, fingers flexing on weapons, every man intent on the target to their front.

      ‘They have not noticed us, yet, Daffadar sahib,’ Keenan said, as his sergeant rode up to him, fussing over the men as he came.

      ‘No, sahib, they have not. They’re too busy howling about the Prophet to realise they’re about to meet him. Look there, sahib: one of the officers is helping those monkeys to meet Allah.’ The daffadar pointed with his chin – as Keenan had noticed all natives did – towards a struggling scrum of men right on the edge of the fight. Among the swarthy faces a white one stood out. His helmet gone, a subaltern of the 29th was fighting for his life.

      A strange, savage noise: grunting, sighing, the clash of steel on steel was coming from the throng. Then Keenan heard two revolver shots and saw the young officer hurl his pistol at the nearest Durani before dashing himself against five or more assailants, his sword blade outstretched. In an instant it was over. Two robed figures rolled in the dust before steel flashed and fell, knives stabbing, short swords slicing and cutting the young lieutenant’s fair skin.

      ‘Prepare to advance.’ Reynolds used just his voice rather than the bugle. ‘Walk march, forward!’ The squadron billowed down the hill, over-keen riders being pulled back into line with an NCO’s curse, the horses snorting with anticipation, ears pricked.

      ‘Trot march!’ The line gathered pace at the squadron commander’s next order, the men having to curb their mounts’ eagerness as the slope of the hill added to the speed.

      ‘Prepare to charge!’ Keenan had heard these words so many times before on exercise fields and the maidan, yet never had they thrilled him like this. ‘Charge!’ As Reynolds spoke, the front rank’s lances formed a hedge of wood tipped with steel, level in front of the soldiers’ faces, spurs urging the horses on, a snarl that Keenan had never heard before coming from the men’s lips.

      Then the ecstasy of relief. Keenan found himself yelling inanely, his mount Kala’s ears twitching at her master’s unfamiliar noise. The soldiers became centaurs as the trot turned into a canter, Keenan only having to pull gently on the reins to check his mare and prevent her getting too close to the pounding hoofs of Reynolds and his trumpeter, who rode just in front of him.

      ‘Steady, lads, steady,’ shouted Keenan, pointlessly, as the enemy loomed hugely just paces in front of them. He could see that the Duranis had been intent upon their prey, crowding over the clutch of Bombay soldiers who had survived their first onslaught, but now they were shocked by the appearance of a charging squadron. Contorted faces, whose owners had tasted easy blood, turned in fright towards the hammering hoofs and flashing spear points.

      ‘Mark your targets, men.’ Another needless but self- reassuring order spilled from Keenan’s mouth, as Kala jinked hard to avoid one of the enemy who had dropped to the ground. The Afghan had realised, almost too late, that he’d caught the eye of at least three angry Scinde Horsemen. In the first wave Captain Reynolds had cut at him, doing nothing more than ripping his kurta. Next, Sowar Ram – the trumpeter – sliced the soft, sheepskin cap off his head, but left the man unharmed. Then it was Keenan’s turn. The young officer tried to reach low enough to spit his enemy on the ground, but the Durani had learnt more in the last sixty seconds than in a lifetime of swordplay. First he crouched. Then, as Keenan’s blade came close, he sprang like a cat, took the full force of his attacker’s steel on the boss of his shield and cut up hard with his long Khyber knife. Keenan was past his target, over-exposed, leaning down from the saddle, and had it not been for the lance daffadar riding close behind him, the knife would have taken him squarely in the back. Instead, an issue lance, with twelve stone of cavalryman behind it, entered the Afghan’s left lung, emerged just above his heart and left him dead before he hit the ground.

      ‘Shukria, bahadur,’ gasped Keenan, as the corpse dropped away. The lance daffadar seemed almost as surprised by the perfection of the blow as the officer was to be in one piece.

      The charge slowed and broke, as the horsemen fell upon their enemies, knots of cavalrymen soon surrounded by a sea of Duranis who had quickly recovered from the crashing impact. Keenan found himself in a sandy gully filled with pushing, yelling tribesmen, his own troopers hacking left and right in a desperate attempt to force the enemy swordsmen back.

      ‘More than we thought, sahib,’ said Miran, almost matter-of-factly. ‘I hope the colonel sahib has got those owls in B Squadron ready to come and help.’ The last few words were said with a grunt – the daffadar had abandoned his lance and drawn his sword. Now the blade sickled through a sheepskin poshteen and deep into the shoulder of an older, bearded warrior, who quit the fight with a yelp of pain.

      ‘Aye, Daffadar, but they’ll need to be quick – look to Captain Reynolds, won’t you?’ Keenan saw his squadron leader just a few paces further up the nullah engulfed by a dozen attackers. The trumpeter – who was taught to protect the officer when at close quarters like this – seemed to be down. Keenan thought he’d seen one of the horses roll on to its side as muskets and matchlocks banged all around. Then, at first, Reynolds had slashed all about him, driving the Duranis back, but Keenan saw one bolder than the rest who threw down his shield and musket, drew his knife and scrambled forward. The tribesman had come from the captain’s rear, and the long knife poked hard over Reynolds’s rolled blanket and darted into the small of his back. The blade disappeared and re-emerged, stained red, and, in an instant, the officer had gone from a fighting man to a semi-cripple: he dropped his sword and yelled in pain, gripping the pommel of his saddle as the rest of the foe closed in and tried to drag him to the ground.

      With no further words, the daffadar had dug his spurs into his mount, the pony kicking up the grit as she surged towards the mob. Keenan did the same, Kala barging one man out of her way with her left shoulder before putting her master right among the struggling throng.

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