Farewell To Afghanistan (Jack Windrush Book 10) - Malcolm Archibald

Historical War Fiction Set In Afghanistan

Farewell To Afghanistan (Jack Windrush Book 10) by Malcolm Archibald

Book excerpt

At half-past six the following morning, the 27th of July 1880, Burrow’s brigade struck camp. Jack watched as the usual organised confusion prevailed, the NCOs giving harassed orders, the recruits stumbling in the half-dark as they forgot items of kit, and the camels wandering in the wrong direction. A single camel could carry a day’s supply for 160 sepoys, but even a brigade column also needed fodder and ammunition, water and tents, so there were hundreds of baggage animals. Eventually, after sergeants had roared themselves hoarse, all 2,600 fighting men were on the march, with the trail of camp followers wandering behind, all under the unforgiving sky of Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

“Well, Windrush.” St John lit his first cheroot of the day, “here we go.”

“Here we go, sir,” Jack agreed.

“It’s only twelve miles to Maiwand.” St John wanted to talk that morning. “A single day’s march, even with half of India in tow,” he indicated the mob of camp followers that accompanied every army in India.

Jack nodded. For some reason, he remembered the march to the Alma in the Crimean War, when the British Army had set out in pomp and glory and left a trail of exhausted and diseased men before they reached halfway.

With the cavalry in front and on the flanks, the infantry marched steadily, soon sweltering under the sun. However, after only a couple of hours, Burrows ordered a halt.

“What the devil?” St John asked.

“We’re allowing the baggage to catch up,” Jack explained. “The Afghans love to swoop on baggage trains. They would massacre the camel drivers, grab the women and steal anything and everything before our rearguard even knew they had arrived.”

“The general should have posted a strong baggage guard,” St John said.

“We’ve only two and a half thousand men,” Jack reminded. “And we don’t know how large Ayub Khan’s force is. I don’t think the general can afford to weaken his column.” He nodded upwards, where a pair of vultures circled the column. “These birds are hoping for food. They sense that something will happen today.”

After half an hour, the column set off again. Jack noted that some of the infantry were already resorting to their water bottles.

“The men are feeling the heat, sir,” he said.

St John grimaced. “It’s going to be a long day.”

As the sun rose and the heat increased, the march slowed and halted, waiting again for the baggage to catch up.

They marched in a fog of dust, with men choking, coughing, and recovering, spitting out dust, rubbing at irritated eyes and noses. Each infantryman could only see the back of the man in front, as his Martini, forty-nine inches long and nearly nine pounds in weight, seemed to grow heavier by the minute. The sun warmed the barrel and every metal part as the men stumbled on, cursing Afghanistan, cursing the army yet paradoxically hoping to meet and defeat Ayub Khan’s men so they could return to India. Only Bobbie seemed unaffected as the dog barked and gambolled around the legs of Sergeant Kelly.

Jack glanced ahead, where the cavalry seemed to float on a sea of dust, with only their top halves visible. The landscape around was hazed, so the marching men saw everything through a yellow-brown film. The supply column followed behind the fighting men, with nearly two thousand camels, each with its little tinkling bell, plus ponies, lumbering bullocks, donkeys, mules, and horses. An army travelling through India or Afghanistan was slow-moving and encumbered, Jack thought.

“The advance guard won’t see much in this stuff,” St John said.

“Damned right they won’t, and we’re raising enough dust to alert anybody for ten miles.” Jack touched the revolver in his holster.

Something doesn’t feel right. I’ve been a soldier long enough to sense danger. I wish I had my 113th with me now. I’m cut off from these men, however good they are.

Burrows called another halt at Karezah, eight miles up the road and only four from Maiwand. Men lay on the ground, ignoring the dust that soon settled on them. The camp followers toiled up, humans and animals together.

A trio of cavalrymen galloped to Burrows while the dust began to settle. Jack removed his sun helmet, wiped the sweat from his forehead and raised his eyebrows to St John.

“Something is developing,” he said.

“Come with me, Windrush,” St John ordered. “I must know what’s happening. I’m meant to be the intelligence officer, after all.”

A jemadar was talking to Burrows when Jack approached.

“The spy told us that Ayub Khan is approaching, sahib,” the jemadar said. “He is on the left front, thousands strong, and marching towards Maiwand.”

“Nonsense!” Burrows said. “Ayub Khan is miles to the north. The spy is trying to lead us astray, jemadar. We’ve heard all these rumours before.”

St John reined closer to the general. “This jemadar is a good man, sir, and he’s familiar with the country. Maybe it’s best to listen to his intelligence.”

Burrows drew back slightly. “Thank you for your advice, Colonel, but I know these people. The Afghans are natural liars.”

The column continued, slogging with heads down.

“Jemadar!” St John summoned the jemadar to him. “Did you see Ayub Khan’s army yourself?”

“No, sahib.” The jemadar was a man of about forty, with grey hair in his beard and wisdom in his brown eyes. “One of your spies told me.”

“Very good, Jemadar. Take your men and patrol in the direction the spy indicated. See what you find and report back directly to me.”

“Yes, sahib.”

“And jemadar,” St John called the man back. “Be careful. Don’t get yourself killed.”

“Yes, sahib.” The jemadar kicked in his spurs and trotted to his men.

Jack stood in his stirrups to peer over the heads of the column. They marched on, deeper into Helmand with Burrows seemingly oblivious to the danger. Behind them, the supply column trudged through the dust in a motley collection of men and animals. Bare-footed bearers and servants mingled with the wagons and carts while the camel bells tinkled, less musical than tiresome.

The jemadar returned within twenty minutes, galloping past the marching men to find St John.

“Colonel Sahib!” He reined up in a cloud of dust. “Ayub Khan is here, sahib. I saw large bodies of cavalry on our left front, heading towards Maiwand.”

“How many, Jemadar?”

The jemadar pondered for a moment. “I am not sure, sahib. The dust is thick.”

“Make a guess, man!” St John ordered.

“Thousands, sahib,” the jemadar said. “As many cavalry as we have men and more.”

“Only cavalry?” Jack asked. “Or are they acting as a screen for infantry as well?”

Again, the jemadar considered his reply. “I don’t know, sahib. The haze conceals the numbers.”

St John spoke next. “Thank you, Jemadar. Watch them, would you? Keep me posted if there are any developments.”

As the jemadar rode away, Jack took a deep breath. “I can’t see Ayub Khan moving so many cavalry unless he also has infantry and possible artillery. I’d hazard that he has his entire army here.”

“So would I, Windrush.” St John sounded worried. “We’d better report to the general, although God knows what good that will do.”

Burrows looked agitated when St John brought him the news. “Cavalry, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Thousands of horsemen, and maybe infantry as well.”

Burrows pounced on the hesitation. “Maybe? Are you not certain?”

St John shook his head. “No, sir. Our cavalry patrol could not see through the haze. Between the heat and the dust, visibility is abysmal.”

Burrows glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly ten o’clock,” he announced. “There’s a village up ahead.”

“Mundabad,” St John murmured.

“Quite so. We’ll halt there for a while and see how many of Ayub’s force is ahead. I hope to prevent his main force from joining the cavalry.”

“I believe Ayub Khan’s whole army is waiting, sir,” St John said.

Burrows frowned. “You’re not sure. The cavalry patrols only guessed what was there.”

As the British advanced guard occupied Mundabad, the rest of Burrow’s brigade, with its extended supply column, marched slowly forward. Once again, Jack checked his surroundings. The most noticeable feature was a deep gulley that ran north and south.

“Best watch that ravine,” Jack said. “The Pashtuns would love to gather there and rush out in the dark.”

On the far side of the gulley, the land stretched in a level plain, slowly rising to low hills. Fields of grain and fruit trees sagged sadly under the lash of the sun. Jack saw the haze in the east and lifted his binoculars.

“Dear God. Colonel!”

St John was already examining the plain. “I see them, Windrush. I wish I didn’t, but I see them.”

Even with binoculars, penetrating the haze was difficult, but Jack saw the twinkle of the sun on accoutrements and a host of disciplined men. They marched in rank after rank, their numbers impossible to judge but far exceeding the British brigade.

“Go and check,” St John ordered. “Don’t get close, but we need to know if that’s only a part of Ayub Khan’s army or if it’s the whole thing.”

Negotiating the gully took time, and Jack had to climb his horse up the far side and push it across the plain. He had only gone halfway when he saw a plume of dust advancing towards him.

They’ve seen me. How much further can I go?

Jack estimated he was eight hundred yards from Ayub Khan’s army, and the cavalry patrol was only a hundred yards from the flank.

Another two minutes.

Jack spurred on, halted on a slight rise, and lifted the binoculars that hung around his neck. He focussed, trying to ignore the onrushing cavalry patrol.

Even at this distance, the haze shielded Ayub Khan’s numbers, but Jack heard the rumble of wheels on the ground.

Transport wagon wheels? Or the wheels of artillery? I cannot tell. But this is a large army, not only the advance guard.

The Afghan cavalry was closer now and moving too fast for Jack’s peace of mind. Dropping the binoculars, he turned around and spurred for the gulley.

I’ve left it too late. The Afghans’ horses are fresher than mine, and they’re gaining fast.

The Afghans were galloping, still riding in formation with the sun reflecting on swords and steel helmets. They covered five yards to every four of Jack’s, with one man breaking formation to come at him in the flank. Jack cursed himself for being so foolhardy.

I should have turned back the instant I saw the Afghan patrol. I didn’t learn anything worth knowing anyway.

The Afghan rider drew his sword and shouted something, with the words meaningless in the hammer of hooves on the hard ground. He snarled at Jack, with his teeth bared, drew close and slashed. Jack drew his sword and parried, feeling the jarring thrill of contact as the two blades met.

The Afghan drew away, turned his horse in a complete circle and attacked again with a sweeping overarm swing that would have parted Jack’s head from his shoulders if it had connected.

Jack parried again, and this time he followed through, trying to slice at the Afghan’s head. Jack swore as the point of his sabre tangled in his opponent’s turban, and he only succeeded in raking the man’s face. The glancing blow was sufficient to make the Afghan draw back, but he had slowed Jack down, and the other patrol members were nearly in touching distance.

How stupid it would be to die in a pointless skirmish in Afghanistan. For a second, Jack remembered his boyhood dreams of leading the Royal Malverns in a glorious attack on a French position, winning everlasting fame by planting the Colours in enemy positions in a Waterloo-style battle. The reality would be different, killed by half a dozen illiterate badmashes in central Asia.

“Come on, then!” Jack turned his horse towards the riders. At least I’ll die like a man, facing my enemy, not running away. He flourished his sword, the old, familiar Wilkinson Sword blade he had carried as long as he could remember.

The Afghans galloped towards him, fierce men fighting for what they believed to be true, all determined to drive the feringhees and infidels out of their country.

Six of them. Six must be the standard size of Ayub Khan’s patrols. I won’t last a minute. Sorry, Mary, I’d like to see you one more time to say goodbye, but that’s all part of the soldier’s bargain. Arthur Elliot will take care of you. I hope David does well at Sandhurst.

The thoughts crowded through Jack’s head without cohesion or sense as he instinctively slashed at the first man. And then the whoosh sounded, and the explosion as the shell landed a bare ten yards away, raising a fifteen-foot-high fountain of dirt and stones. A second explosion occurred moments later, and one of the Afghan riders fell back with his horse kicking and plunging on the ground.

What the devil?

Jack looked towards the British lines. Two of the Horse Artillery guns stood on his side of the gulley, with the gunners concentrating on what they saw as a body of Afghan cavalry.

Kicking in his spurs, Jack headed for the guns while the Afghans scattered across the plain.

“I’m British!” Jack shouted as he came close to the Horse Artillery. “Major Windrush of the 113th!” He knew that the dust would have covered his uniform, making him appear as wild and savage as any Afghan swordsman. “I’m British!”

“Well, damn me for a Frenchman!” one of the gunners shouted. “What the hang are you doing out here?”

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Malcolm Archibald

BOOK TITLE: Farewell To Afghanistan (Jack Windrush Book 10)

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: War Fiction / Military Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 338