Author's Notes:
Warnings: Depictions of war
Certain liberties have been taken with actual history.
The characters mentioned herein are fictional.
.oOOo.
March 15, 1885.
London.
In the Officer's Club, three newly commissioned lieutenants sat around a low table in animated discussion about historical battles. When the topic shifted to the Maiwand Disaster, these officers had plenty to say regarding the failures of their earlier counterparts and how they themselves would have fared much better.
Overhearing their discussion, some well-dressed toff dropped, uninvited, into the empty fourth chair.
"I know the Maiwand scenario, and will share my insight, if you will hear it," said he. "But first, which one of you is the bravest?"
"Undoubtedly it is Godsoe here," offered the handsome one as his friend sat a little straighter in his chair.
"And who is the luckiest?"
"That would be Williams," replied Godsoe, indicating the handsome one.
"So, that just leaves you," he said to the last man. "Who are you, then?"
"I… I… don't understand, sir."
"Are you clever, or humourous, or gifted in any way? What do you bring to this party?"
"Nothing of note, especially, sir," he replied.
"So then, what is the quality of this man?" asked the stranger, addressing the others.
After some serious contemplation, Godsoe said "It's loyalty, Talbot. You're a good man to have around. You back me up whenever there is trouble. Do not discount yourself!"
"There you have it, then: bravery, luck, and loyalty. Let us begin,"
.oOOo.
"Well gentlemen, you are correct to refer to Maiwand as a "Disaster". It is nothing short of arrogance to engage a force nearly ten times your number and expect a successful outcome. Those who refer to it as the "Battle of Maiwand" are either naive, or charitable, or propagandists.
"Did you know that the survival rate for infantrymen like yourself was one-in-three? No? Well, there are three of you here. Let me tell you a story."
The gentleman's initial geniality had subtly waned and he turned to face Williams directly.
"So Williams, you are considered lucky? Well, at Maiwand there is no such thing. The enemy's artillery is far more accomplished than your commanders ever gave them credit for. They have their guns in place and firing before you can give the order to take cover. You are one of the first to fall; your handsome features are obliterated beyond recognition as shot and shrapnel rip through your body. Those comrades who rush to your aid end up retching at the sight of your corpse, while others fight to possess your leaking canteen before all its water drains away."
The gentleman's attention then shifted to Talbot and Godsoe as his story continued.
"Those poor bastards of the 30th Bombay Native Infantry, Jacob's Rifles, whose courage and dependability you were so recently deriding, do manage to hold their positions even though they are taking the brunt of the artillery fire. They lose their commanders and more than half of their men before their morale gives out and they turn to the 66th Berkshires for support. Unfortunately this gives the Afghani cavalry the opening they have been waiting for and they attack the gap left by the 30th. Your own cavalry has been conspicuously absent from battle so far. Retreat is sounded, but the 66th is cut off. They have no choice but to make a stand; to buy time for others to retreat in safety.
"You both try to organise your own men but by this time the retreat has become a full-blown rout. It is every man for himself. In the dust and chaos you see men running in all directions, including straight into the enemy lines. The Afghani cavalry pass through your fleeing ranks, targeting any identifiable officer. This is easily accomplished since most of the officers are still horsed. Talbot's horse is shot out from under him and they both crash to the ground. The frantic and dying animal kicks and rolls, crushing Talbot's leg and shattering his pelvis."
The gentleman's attention then shifted from Talbot to Godsoe; his voice becoming grimmer as his story unfolded.
.oOOo.
"Godsoe, you witnesses Talbot's fall and hasten to his side. He is in shock and hasn't started screaming yet. You haul him into a shallow nullah which offers some small protection against the enemy.
"Suddenly you are joined by another British soldier who stumbles in beside you, the remains of his uniform are covered in blood. The poor bastard, who is all but done in, reassures you that he is a doctor and that the blood is not his own. Any doubts about the young man's capacity as a field surgeon are dispelled as he efficiently immobilises the crushed leg by using Talbot's good one as a splint. Despite the threat of internal injuries, Talbot will have to be moved. The doctor warns Talbot that the pain will be excruciating and apologises for the lack of pain-killers, but reassures him that you, his best friend, will be able to get him to safety. He then helps position Talbot on your back and points you in the direction of the relative protection of the retreating British line.
"The Afghani cavalry has moved on but sporadic fire from Jezail rifles follows your hasty retreat. Civilians appear in the field too and it is incongruous with what you have been told of the enemy to see their women armed with weapons. You witness with horror that their role is to butcher any wounded they find.
"The uneven terrain is rough going and with all the jerking, shuddering motion Talbot starts to scream and scream. This draws the attention of the enemy. You have to set him down. You have to gag him, or maybe even concuss him, but you have to make him stop. Ahead is shallow ditch and you dive in, dumping Talbot hastily behind some rocks. But this place is too exposed for both of you. Bullets strike too closely and you scurry for better cover a few yards away, leaving Talbot where he is. At least his screaming has subsided into sobs and gasps.
"The Afghanis are so close you can hear them calling out to each other. A bullet finds Talbot's elbow as he tries to pull himself into a safer position. With fear in his eyes he begs you not to leave him. But you abandon him anyway. The kindest thing to do would be to shoot him, but your revolver has only one round left and you may need that bullet for your own self soon enough.
"Poor loyal, faithful Talbot; deserted by someone he considered closer than a brother. Left alone and helpless as the Afghani womenfolk descend on him with their clubs and knives. His screaming soon resumes."
Godsoe was utterly transfixed in horror by the man's sharpening glare and his hardening voice as his narrative continued.
"You run. Not far ahead is a deeper nullah containing large boulders which provide excellent cover. You find refuge there. This spot is protected on all sides. You have time to catch your breath and figure out what to do next. From beyond your shelter, Talbot's screams finally fade and shortly later come the cheers of the Afghani women.
"The next thing you hear are the stumbling sounds of someone approaching from the upstream direction of the nullah so you pick up a good size rock to defend yourself with. There is no need. It is the field surgeon again and he is half leading and half carrying a wounded artilleryman. A bullet strikes the doctor's leg and they both pitch to the ground in front of you. A Pashtun cry of triumph from the nearby shooter is heard. No! No! No! No! The damned fool has led the Ghazis directly to your hiding spot. They will come after him and you will be exposed! The doctor pushes the artilleryman behind a boulder then is thrown back to the ground clutching his shoulder. This time the blood is his own.
"You latch on to his braces and drag him out of range of direct fire. He mouths words of gratitude, smiles faintly in recognition, and looks around for Talbot. Not finding him, he stiffens with the recollection of the recent screaming and the sounds of the jeering women. You find you cannot meet his accusatory eyes.
"In his deteriorating condition, the doctor's hand slips from his wounded shoulder. Bright red blood wells to the surface with each sluggish heartbeat and soaks his filthy uniform. More Pashtun cries are heard. It is only a matter of time before either the Ghazis or the women and their knives locate your tiny sanctuary.
"You promise you will send back help, but the doctor pleads with you to take the injured gunner with you; although blinded, he is still mobile. Again, you repeat your promise to bring back aid. The doctor's weakening pleas go unheeded because you are already on your way; feeling his eyes follow your retreating back as you flee further down the nullah.
"Off in the distance you see a cluster of your troops. A cavalry captain of the Scind Horse has managed to organise a defensive position around a hastily repaired cart. Several rifles protect this location and are firing at will. You've come too far just to be shot by your own troops so you scream for them to hold their fire. Your voice breaks and no sound issues from your throat. Fortunately, your uniform is recognised and you make it safely through to the cart.
"Since you are virtually unscathed the captain deploys you as a stretcher-bearer. You and another man are assigned to carry a young cavalryman back to the retreating main lines. You plod wearily through the night with nothing but fear and your conscience for company. When sniper fire fells the man ahead of you, you numbly step around him and continue your march. You curse the weight of the wounded man in the stretcher, but he stubbornly clings to life. Before noon the next day you reach the safety of Khandahar and collapse with exhaustion.
"Three days later, in a brief ceremony, you are awarded a medal for bravery, but you can barely stand the sight of it. To your dying day, your nightly dreams are filled with visions of death and the echoes of Talbot's screams."
The narrator then turned his full attention back to Williams with an ironic smile.
"So Williams, it seems that you were lucky after all."
The three lieutenants regarded each other; their faces pale. None of them could find words to respond to their narrator. So rapt was their attention that they had failed to notice the small audience of officers who had gathered around them. Nobody spoke. Nobody even moved. The long uncomfortable silence was finally broken by Major Preston, one of the senior officers present.
"Doctor, you are out of uniform again," he said quietly, offering his hand to the seated gentleman.
At these words, the man's expression softened and some measure of warmth returned to his hazel eyes. He acknowledged the three young men with a nod, wished them good luck in their deployment to the Sudan, unclenched his hands from the arms of the chair he unconsciously clutched, and rose to take his former commander's hand.
.oOOo.
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