[3] The River War, vol. ii. p. 141.
CHAPTER XXV.
V.C. HEROES OF THE INDIAN FRONTIER.
The closing years of the eighties and the opening years of the nineties saw a good deal of fighting at different places on our Indian frontier. Through internal dissensions or the interference of some foreign power, some of the turbulent hill tribes were in a state of continual ferment, and order had to be restored within their boundaries by force of arms.
In 1888 there was trouble in Upper Burmah. The Karen-ni, or Red Karens, who form a group of semi-independent tribes down by the Siamese border, took to dacoiting again in a bold manner. An expedition was accordingly sent into their district, with the result that the disturbances were quickly quelled. This “little war” comes within the scope of this book for a notable display of devotion on the part of an Army doctor which gained him a V.C.
With the Indian troops that went into action against the Karens near Lwekaw on New Year’s Day, in 1889, was Surgeon (now Lieutenant-Colonel) John Crimmin, of the Bombay Medical Service. He soon had an opportunity for putting his skill to some use, for several of the Bombay infantrymen were bowled over by the dacoits. Regardless of his own danger, the surgeon proceeded to kneel by the fallen men’s sides and dress their wounds.
In the bamboo clumps very near to him the Karens were being chased and cut down by the troops, but now and then a red-turbaned, red-robed figure would peep out of a patch and take a flying shot at the doctor. Luckily for him and his patients, they were poor marksmen.
Having joined the firing line again, Crimmin made himself useful with his revolver. Not for long, however; the Red Karens are savage fighters, and our sepoys had to pay for their victory dearly. The surgeon was very soon busy once more, bandaging shot wounds and knife cuts.
A mounted sepoy had been told off to stand by him, but he was slight protection. At one time the surgeon was set upon by nearly a dozen of the enemy, who leapt out of the bamboos upon his right with wild yells. Dropping his lint and bandages, Crimmin whipped out his sword, ran the first man through, and was hard at work with another while the sepoy dropped a third. This warm reception disheartened the Karens, and with a parting shot or two they disappeared as quickly as they came. Then the surgeon coolly went on with his work, the wounded men murmuring many a “God bless you, doctor sahib,” as he bent over them.
The winter of 1891 is memorable for the brilliant little Hunza-Nagar campaign, which was brought about by Russian intrigues with the rulers of some petty states on the northern frontier of Cashmere. In the storming of the mountain strongholds in Hunza and Nagar three V.C.’s were won, by Lieutenant Guy Boisragon, Lieutenant John Manners Smith, and Captain Fenton John Aylmer, while many more were earned.
The most striking event in Indian history of that year, however, was the revolt in Manipur, where the British Resident, Mr. Frank St. Clair Grimwood, and other Europeans in the capital were brutally murdered. In connection with this tragedy a young officer attached to the 2nd Burmah Battalion of the Punjab Infantry, Lieutenant Charles J. W. Grant, performed a dashing deed which made him talked of far and wide as “the hero of Manipur,” and added his name to the list of those decorated “for Valour.”
The state of Manipur lies up among the hills between India and Burma. It is semi-independent, like many of its neighbours, the Maharajah being subjected to the control of a British Resident. In 1890 a family quarrel in the Maharajah’s own household led to his deposition, his brother the Senaputty (commander-in-chief of the army) placing another brother on the throne as Regent.
This turn of affairs was tacitly acquiesced in by the Indian Government, who recognised that the change was for the better, but on the late Maharajah, Soor Chandra Singh, complaining to the authorities of the bad treatment he had received (and deserved, by the way), some notice of it had to be taken. So Mr. Quinton, Chief Commissioner of Assam, was despatched to Manipur with instructions to arrest the head and front of the offending, the Senaputty.
This gentleman, however, firmly declined to comply with the request that he should surrender himself. An attempt was then made to seize him in the palace, but without success, and diplomacy was again resorted to. A meeting was arranged for the discussion of the matter, and one evening Quinton, Grimwood, and several of the British officers had an interview with the Regent and the Senaputty. Not one of them was ever seen again alive. On their refusal to accept the terms proposed by the Manipuri chiefs they were all massacred.
Mrs. St. Clair Grimwood, who was one of those who escaped from the besieged Residency immediately after the tragedy, has given us a graphic account of her experiences. She was ignorant of the real facts when forced to flee by her companions, the first news being that her husband had been taken prisoner with the others. Only at the end of her journey did she learn the awful truth.
Down in the cellar of the house Mrs. Grimwood, like the brave lady she was, carefully tended the wounded amid the crackle of musketry and the crash of bursting shells. She was hit in the arm, though fortunately not seriously, and only desisted from her task when it became evident that they must all leave the place. The rebels had set the Residency on fire.
With the wounded and an escort of sepoys, Mrs. Grimwood and the officers who had survived made a dash for the road, reaching it in safety. “I had not even a hat,” she remarks, “and only very thin house-shoes on. One of these dropped off in the river, where I got wet up to the shoulders. We were fired at all the way. I lay down in a ditch about twenty times that night while they were firing, to try and escape bullets.”
After ten days’ marching through the jungle-covered country, fording rivers and scrambling through swamps, not to mention a sharp encounter with their enemies, the little party reached British territory. They had just two cartridges left by that time; one of them being reserved, it is noted, to save Mrs. Grimwood from falling alive into the hands of the Manipuris!
One is tempted to dwell at greater length on the story of that dramatic flight from the Residency, but it is with Lieutenant Grant that we are mainly concerned.
Grant was at Tammu, a Burma village station some distance to the south, when word arrived of the outbreak in Manipur. No details of the massacre or the escape were known, but in the hope of being able to effect a rescue the young officer obtained permission to lead a small force up to Manipur. He took with him eighty men in all, Punjabis and Ghurkas, with three elephants as carriers.
Through the teak forests they marched steadily though slowly towards their goal, having to constantly beat off the Manipuris as they approached nearer. At Palel a sharp engagement took place, in which the gallant eighty dispersed a large number of the enemy. From prisoners that were captured here Grant learned for the first time of how Quinton and Grimwood had been murdered.
Believing still that Mrs. Grimwood and several others were besieged in the Residency, he pushed on with all speed, and at last reached the town of Thobal, about half-way between Tammu and the capital. At this place the Manipuris, a thousand or more strong, offered a stout resistance to his progress, but a furious charge at the head of his followers cleared the entrenchments by the river-side, leaving them free to be occupied by him.
These trenches the lieutenant at once strengthened, building up the walls with mud, rice-baskets, ration-sacks and everything that would answer the purpose, even using his own pillow-case as a sandbag. Provisions were fortunately to be had with little difficulty, for behind them, on the other side of the river, were some paddy fields.
The siege of his fortified position soon began, and the enemy’s guns threw shell after shell into the trenches before the Ghurkas could drive them off. A brief halt was made in the hostilities while Grant, as he records, had a lively correspondence with the Regent and the Senaputty anent certain prisoners whom they threatened to murder unless he retired. Negotiations fell through eventually, and the attack was renewed.
In all the fighting Grant played a heroic part, making sallies with a few of his Ghurkas, and striking terror into the hearts of the Manipuris. “Found myself in a bit of a hole,” he writes at one place in his journal; “for thirty or forty were in a corner behind a wall, six feet high, over which they were firing at us.” This wall had to be cleared, so Grant and seven men charged down on it headlong, and had “the hottest three minutes on record.”
The Ghurkas had a very proper appreciation of their leader’s bravery. “How could we be beaten under Grant Sahib?” they asked, when questioned about this and similar exploits. “He is a tiger in fight!”
The struggle at Thobal lasted a week. At the end of that time, just as Grant was noting with dismay that ammunition was running very short, a summons came to him from Burma to retire.
The little force, without any further interference from the enemy, who had suffered pretty severely, left their entrenchments one evening during a terrible thunderstorm, and set off on their return journey. An advance party of a hundred and eighty men met them near Palel, at which place some hours later they fought another brisk action with the Manipuris.
In all this fighting Grant had escaped unhurt, but a few weeks afterwards, while again under fire at Palel, he had a very narrow shave, a bullet passing through the back of his neck. As he said himself, his luck all through was marvellous: “Everything turned up all right.”
At the same time, making full allowance for the element of luck, there is much, very much, to be placed to his credit on the score of pluck and skill. The difficulties before him when he set out for Manipur on his gallant attempt at rescue were tremendous, and only his undaunted courage and resourcefulness carried him successfully through.
The young lieutenant is now Major Grant, V.C., having been gazetted two months after his dashing exploit; and it is pleasing to note that every one of his men who survived the march were also decorated, receiving the Indian Order of Merit for their devotion and heroism.
CHAPTER XXVI.
HOW SURGEON-CAPTAIN WHITCHURCH WON FAME.
There was some consternation in the quaint-looking, five-towered fort at Chitral on the evening of the 3rd of March 1895. Sher Afzul, the usurping chief of the little mountainous state in the north-west of India, was approaching with a large force, and some two hundred of the 4th Cashmere Rifles had gone out under Captain Townshend to try conclusions with the rebels. After several hours’ brisk fighting in the villages nestling at the foot of the hills, the troops had withdrawn to the fort, but some men of one section still remained to be accounted for.
Captain Baird, with about a dozen Ghurkhas, had not returned. He was lying somewhere out in the darkness, on the hillside, where the white-robed Chitralis were still firing. And with him was Surgeon-Captain Whitchurch, who had bravely hastened to his assistance on hearing that the captain was wounded.
“Where is Whitchurch? Where is Baird?” Captain Gurdon and the other members of the little garrison asked the question of each other anxiously from time to time, hoping that the missing men had found their way into the fort. The surgeon especially was needed, for Captain Townshend’s reconnoitring party had brought many wounded back with them. But the answer still came, with an ominous shake of the head, “Not in yet.”
In the meantime, while the occupants of the fort set about preparing for the expected siege, the few stars that were beginning to peep out of the clouded sky looked down upon a strange scene in a little orchard nearly two miles away from the fort. There, under the trees, a wounded officer was being bandaged by the skilful hands of another who bent over him, a dozen sepoys and four stretcher-bearers standing patiently by.
The operation finished, the sufferer was lifted tenderly into a dhoolie. Then two bearers raised it from the ground, the escort ranged itself alongside, and the little party started out for the road leading to the fort.
“Feel any easier now, old chap?” asked the surgeon, who was striding by the dhoolie.
“Yes, thanks, Whitchurch; much easier,” replied Captain Baird, suppressing a groan as one of the bearers stumbled over a stone.
Contrary to the general opinion expressed at the fort, neither of the two missing men had been killed or captured by the enemy. When Baird had fallen with a bullet in his side, his men had carried him quickly to the shelter of an orchard close at hand, and here they had escaped notice. All around them, however, lurked the Chitralis, on the look-out to cut off any stragglers from the retreating force.
In a few minutes Whitchurch’s party had filed down the hillside and reached the road, but a cry of warning from the native officer in front pulled them up short.
“We’re cut off, sahib,” he exclaimed, as the surgeon hastened to his side. “The enemy have got in front of us!”
It was, alas! too true. Although he could see nothing through the gloom, the shouts and occasional shots that reached his ears told Whitchurch plainly that the Chitralis were on the road ahead. What was to be done?
A sudden thought occurred to him. “Isn’t there a way round to the fort by the river, Bidrina Singh?” he asked of the officer.
The other nodded affirmatively. There was a track along the river bank, he said, but it would take them a mile out of their way and across some very difficult ground.
“Never mind,” said the surgeon briskly. “We’ve got to get to the fort to-night. So pull your men together, Bidrina Singh, and make for the river at once.”
From his dhoolie Captain Baird called Whitchurch over to him, and begged that he would consider his own safety first. “I’m badly hit, old chap,” he said; “I know I’m done for——” But Whitchurch shut him up quickly. While there was breath in his body he meant to stick to his comrade; there was to be no talk of running away. So, picking up the wounded man again, the native bearers took their place in the middle of the escort, the latter closed up, and on they moved across the polo ground towards the river on their left.
Thanks to the dense darkness, they made good progress on their way for a quarter of an hour or so. Then a scouting party of Sher Afzul’s followers suddenly appeared in front, and with a joyful shout gathered round them. At Whitchurch’s quick word of command the sturdy little Ghurkas closed in and fired a volley into the midst of their foes. There were yells of pain which told that some of the shots had taken effect, but the yells drew other Chitralis who were prowling near, and the answering shots of the enemy became more frequent.
Whitchurch’s revolver spoke more than once with good effect, and his “Steady, men! Aim low,” rang out encouragingly above the din. The Chitralis, thank goodness, were firing somewhat at random, not knowing the strength of those opposed to them; but one bullet at last found its mark. A bearer dropped his end of the stretcher with a cry, and tumbled over backwards, dead. The jolt of the fall wrung a groan from poor Baird, in spite of his iron nerve. Then another stretcher-bearer stepped forward and lifted the dhoolie, and on the little party pressed again.
Firing steadily in volleys, the gallant Ghurkas gradually cleared the way before them. The Chitralis had no wish to stand in the way of those deadly levelled barrels, preferring to circle round their prey and drop in a shot as opportunity offered. Two more bearers were killed, together with two or three sepoys, and the surgeon now took one end of the dhoolie himself.
They had gone nearly half the distance when the enemy rallied in stronger force and barred the track ahead. Things were beginning to look serious. “Fix bayonets!” Whitchurch called out, and there was a rattle of steel in the sockets. “Charge!” And with a cheer the Ghurkas dashed at the cluster of white-robed figures, sending them scattering right and left, while a few lay writhing on the ground.
That charge taught the Chitralis to keep at a more respectful distance, but a little later some daring spirits ventured nearer, and the last of the bearers fell shot through the body. Whitchurch put the dhoolie down and lifted up the wounded man in his strong arms. The Ghurkas were wanted, every man of them, to protect Baird with their rifles; not one could be spared for bearer-work.
Again, it is said, the captain implored Whitchurch to leave him and make a run for it to the fort. Perhaps he felt already that his wound was mortal. But again the brave surgeon refused to hear a word. With Baird in his embrace, he struggled gamely after the sepoys.
Along the rough, rock-strewn path the party stumbled, working their way ever nearer and nearer to the fort. A low wall confronted them thrice, a wall behind which the enemy were quick to post themselves. But jumping over with the surgeon to lead them, the nimble Ghurkas swept the way clear each time, and Whitchurch, having returned to pick up Baird, half carried and half dragged his weighty burden to the more open ground.
At last, after another fifteen minutes’ struggle, a dark mass of trees loomed up ahead. It was the grove of cedars by the eastern wall of the fort. They were within sight of safety now. Still the Chitralis hovered round, however, and a chance shot hit Baird as he hung limp in the surgeon’s arms.
“Make for the garden entrance!” cried Whitchurch; and the Ghurkas turned to pass through the grove. On their right, by the main gates, was a confused sound of shouting and firing. The enemy had already gathered in force there.
As they neared the entrance in the garden and gave a ringing cheer, the sentries saw them. In a minute the gate was unbolted, and the little party scrambled through, but not before Baird was yet a third time hit—on this occasion in the face, as his head rested on Whitchurch’s shoulder. How often has it happened in similar rescues, that the wounded has been the target for the enemy’s bullets, while the rescuer has escaped scot free! It was the story of “Dhoolie Square” repeated again, the story of McManus, Ryan, and Captain Arnold.
Inside the fort enclosure the officers gathered quickly round Whitchurch as the glad cry went up, “They’ve brought Baird in!” And tenderly, very tenderly, for he was suffering greatly from his hurts, the wounded officer was carried to the hospital, where without any loss of time the surgeon followed to save, if possible, the life that was so dear to them all.
I should much like to add that he was successful; but fate willed otherwise. Captain Baird lived only a few hours, and the fort that he had helped to defend so gallantly served as his grave.
Chitral was relieved about the middle of April, when a British column succeeded in fighting its way to the fort through the mountain passes. Three months later the London Gazette contained the welcome announcement that the Victoria Cross had been awarded to Surgeon-Captain Harry Frederick Whitchurch, of the Indian Medical Service.
Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself pinned the Cross on the brave surgeon’s breast at Osborne, with warm words of praise that were echoed by every one who had heard the story of that plucky night-rescue in far-off Chitral.
CHAPTER XXVII.
WHEN THE AFRIDIS WERE UP.
One hundred and forty miles south of Chitral, as the crow flies, is the border city of Peshawar, standing like a sentinel on the north-western frontier of India. It is, indeed, the guardian of the gate, for before it winds westward the famous Khyber Pass, which links Afghanistan with our great Eastern Empire.
Peshawar stands almost in the heart of the Afridi country, surrounded with the hill tribes of Mohmunds, Swats, Buners, Khels, Afridis and Orakzais. Fierce warlike races are these, with whom from the beginning of things we have had trouble. At one time we thought we had tamed them, and we gave them the rifles they had hitherto stolen, put them into khaki, and made them wardens of the passes. But the wild tribesmen cannot live without fighting; disputes over boundaries arose, and these eventually culminated in a rising that threatened to weaken our grip on these frontier posts. Whence came the Malakand, Swat, and Tirah campaigns of 1897-98.
When in 1897 Sir William Lockhart, Commander-in-Chief in India, moved towards the rebellious tribes with an army numbering 35,000 men, it was evident that there was a powerful combination between the Mohammedan clans in the hills north, west, and south of Peshawar, against British rule. It was, in a sense, a Holy War, with Mad Mullahs as instigators, though behind them was the sinister influence of the Amir of Afghanistan.
The campaigns were comparatively brief, but they must ever rank as among the most difficult in modern history. The fighting was never in the open. Our soldiers—Highlanders, Dorsets, and Ghurkas alike—had to scale precipitous cliffs, worm their way up tortuous hillside paths, and storm the stone “sangars” behind which their enemies were strongly posted.
In the tangle of hills in which the engagements took place the agile Afridis and their brother-clansmen were perfectly at home. Rocks, caves, and bushes afforded them ample shelter, and from the heights that lined the passes they poured a deadly fire upon the British troops. The work of dislodging them, of driving them from their strongholds, taxed the powers of our men to the utmost.
Of the several V.C.’s won in this arduous mountain warfare the first fell to Lieutenant Edward Costello, of the Indian Staff Corps, for a gallant rescue of a native lance-havildar at Malakand. The wounded havildar lay out in the open, exposed to the enemy’s fire, when the lieutenant saw him, on a piece of ground, too, that was overrun with swordsmen. But the young officer with a couple of sepoys ran out to his assistance, and brought him into the hospital.
A month later, in the Swat valley beyond the Malakand Pass, three Crosses were earned for a very brilliant action. At Landikai, on August 17th, 1897, the advance guard of Sir Bindon Blood’s brigade shelled the enemy from their position and drove them out into the plain. Across this the Swatis retreated at top speed, making for the shelter of the hills on the other side.
In pursuit of the flying tribesmen went Colonel Robert Bellew Adams, Captain Palmer, Lieutenant Greaves, and Viscount Fincastle, the latter being present in the capacity of Times correspondent. Palmer’s horse was soon hit, its rider being saved by some of his men who galloped after him. Greaves’ horse, becoming restive under the din of the firing, suddenly bolted, and away went the lieutenant careering among the enemy.
Seeing him alone among the Swatis, Colonel Adams and Viscount Fincastle spurred hastily to his rescue, but before they could reach him the hapless lieutenant had been struck down by a swordsman. In the hope that he was not killed they pushed on, and with a furious charge swept the ground clear around his body.
A well-aimed shot now brought down Fincastle’s horse, leaving the young war-correspondent to meet his enemies on foot. He at once endeavoured to raise Greaves on to Adams’ saddle, but the wounded man slipped off again, and a rush of Ghazis prevented a second attempt for the time. Standing over the lieutenant’s body, Fincastle bravely kept the enemy at bay, being well aided by Colonel Adams. Then two sowars rode up to them, and another attempt was made to lift Greaves to the saddle. They succeeded in their object, but another bullet hit the poor fellow again as they raised him and killed him.
By this time Lieutenant MacLean of the same squadron had led the rest of the troopers to the cover of some trees. Leaving them here, he dashed out with three sowars to the others’ help. Shots fell thickly among them from the Ghazis on the hillside, but together they managed to get Greaves’ body on to a trooper’s horse, and at once made off for shelter. Fincastle and MacLean were on foot, the latter’s horse having also been shot; and as they went along the young lieutenant was hit in both thighs and mortally wounded. Colonel Adams escaped with a sword-cut in his right hand.
Both Adams and Fincastle received the V.C. for their brave attempt to rescue Greaves, while Lieutenant Hector Lachlan Stewart MacLean was gazetted at the same time as one who would have been awarded the decoration had he lived.
There was a sharp piece of fighting in the Mamund Valley some weeks later, where two young Engineer officers, Lieutenants Watson and Colvin, distinguished themselves in driving the enemy from the burning village of Bilot, and added V.C. to their names. But I must pass on to tell of the famous storming of the heights of Dargai and of how the “gay Gordons” there covered themselves with fresh glory.
In the advance of the British troops from Shinwari towards Karappa a large portion of the division under Major-General Yeatman-Biggs was ordered to take the route through the Chagru Kotal. As soon as this movement was commenced, however, the Afridis posted themselves in great force in the Samana Hills along the Khanki Valley, giving them the command of the track along which the army must necessarily pass.
The working parties on the Chagru Kotal were so harassed by the Afridi sharpshooters that it became important that the Dargai and other hills in the vicinity should be cleared. On October 18th, Sir Power Palmer, who was entrusted with the conduct of the operations in place of General Yeatman-Biggs, who had fallen ill, made a sweeping attack on the Dargai position. The 3rd Ghurkas, led by Lieutenant Beynon with a revolver in one hand and an alpenstock in the other, led the dash up the cliff-side, and successfully dislodged the enemy.
Unfortunately, for several reasons, the heights could not be held. The water-supply was difficult of access, and to have placed a detachment alone on Dargai while the Afridis were masters of the Khanki Valley would have been to risk a serious disaster. Under orders from the Commander-in-Chief, the troops therefore retired from the position.
As soon as this retreat was accomplished, the enemy, who had been greatly reinforced, reoccupied the heights and set about constructing stone “sangars,” in anticipation of another assault. This followed two days later, after fresh preparations had been made. General Yeatman-Biggs had proposed another route avoiding the Chagru defile, but Sir William Lockhart determined to adhere to his original plan, viz. to force the passage of the Chagru Kotal.
On Wednesday, October 20th, in the early morning, the troops, strengthened by the addition of two battalions and a battery from the first division, left the Shinwari camp. The honour of carrying the Dargai heights, which had to be stormed immediately the Chagru Kotal was reached, was given to the 1st Battalion of the 2nd Ghurkas, with the Dorset and Derbyshire Regiments in the second and third lines respectively. Behind these came the 1st Battalion of the Gordon Highlanders (the old 75th).
To understand properly the difficult nature of the task set them, something must be said about Dargai itself. I cannot do better than quote the description given by Captain Shadwell in his excellent book on the campaign.
“The village of Dargai lies on the northern side of a small plateau. The eastern edge of this tableland breaks off, at first, in an almost abrupt cliff; but some distance lower down the ground, though very steep, shelves away less precipitously. This slope is thrown out from the bottom of the cliff in the form of a narrow and razor-like spur, with the path or track lying along its northern side, well within view and range of the cliff-head. But by climbing along the southern side of this spur, troops can move from Chagru Kotal, or certainly from Mama Khan, a village half-way between the former place and the plateau, unseen by the enemy.
“Connecting the crest of the spur, however, and the foot of the cliff, there is a narrow neck or saddle one hundred yards long by thirty broad, whose sides are far too precipitous to allow of any movement along them. Though devoid of all cover and completely exposed to the heights above, this ridge had to be crossed, so as to reach the path ascending to the summit; and here it was that the casualties in the attack by Brigadier-General Westmacott’s Brigade (on the 18th) and the heavier losses of the 20th occurred.”
This, then, was the dangerous passage to be “rushed” by our troops. In addition to its exposure to the enemy’s fire, it may be added that the ground was thickly strewn with rocks and boulders which greatly impeded progress.
As on the first assault, the post of honour was allotted to those game little fighters, the Ghurkas. The 1st Battalion of the 2nd Ghurkas, with a party of specially trained scouts from the 3rd, under Lieutenant Tillard, swarmed up the slope at the word of command and dashed headlong across the zone of fire. In the rush through the pitiless rain of bullets that at once descended two officers fell, one shot dead and the other mortally wounded, while thirty men bit the dust, never to rise again; but the rest reached cover on the opposite side.
After the brave Ghurkas, the Dorsets and the Derbys tried time and time again to follow, only to be mowed down in heaps. All that succeeded in crossing the ridge were a few who made a dash for it singly or in small parties. How deadly was the marksmanship of the Afridis is shown by the fact that when Lieutenant Hewett, of the Dorsetshire Regiment, led a section forward, he was the only one to reach the crouching Ghurkas. Every one of the men following him was killed.
It was in a pause at this juncture that Private Vickery, of the same regiment, made himself conspicuous by running out repeatedly and at last succeeding in dragging back to shelter a wounded comrade who was lying out in the open; this and several other acts of bravery gaining him a V.C. in due course.
For a time it seemed a sheer impossibility that the position could be carried, though the artillery was playing upon the enemy’s sangars continually. Noon came, and still the three companies of Ghurkas were waiting under the cover of the rocks until their comrades should join them for the final dash up the heights.
At last General Yeatman-Biggs ordered that the position must be taken at all costs. Brigadier-General Kempster, in command of the brigade, now brought forward the 1st Battalion of the Gordon Highlanders and the 3rd Sikhs, and told them they were to make the assault. Far up on the hillside the jubilant Afridis were shouting defiance, amid the waving of standards and beating of drums, confident that their stronghold was impregnable. They rejoiced too soon.
Drawing up his men, Colonel Mathias, of the Gordons, said: “Highlanders! the General says the position must be taken at all costs. The Gordons will take it!”
With their Colonel, Major Forbes Macbean, and Lieutenant Gordon at their head, and their pipers, Findlater and Milne, playing the familiar “Cock o’ the North,” the Gordons dashed over the fiery zone, with the Derbys, the Dorsets, and the Sikhs pressing close behind them.
Almost the first to be hit were Major Macbean, who cheered on his men as he lay on the ground, and the two pipers. Milne was shot through the lung and fell senseless, but Piper “Jock” Findlater, who was shot in both ankles, propped himself up against a boulder and continued to play his pipes with unabated energy. And to the inspiriting strains of the old regimental air, the Highlanders and the others got across.
PIPER FINDLATER … PROPPED HIMSELF UP AGAINST A BOULDER AND CONTINUED TO PLAY HIS PIPES.—Page 236.
It was perhaps owing to the suddenness of the rush after the long wait, and to the renewed artillery fire, that the Gordons accomplished the task with fewer losses than had attended the previous attempts; yet for all that the casualties were heavy. In the charge up the steep slope, where some of the Afridis were already turning tail, more men were to fall ere the heights were won; but won they were, the enemy being sent flying in all directions.
It was a grand dash, worthy of the splendid reputation of the Gordons, and well did they deserve the burst of cheers with which the other regiments spontaneously greeted them as they returned. Sir William Lockhart, too, at a parade two days afterwards, had a word or two to say about that exploit which filled the Highlanders with pride.
For his gallantry in continuing to play his pipes while wounded “Jock” Findlater in time was awarded the Victoria Cross. There were many who considered that Piper Milne also merited the honour, but the authorities thought differently, and his claim was passed over.
Two other Crosses on the same day were gained by Private Lawson, of the Gordons, for rescuing Lieutenant Dingwall and a fellow-private under a most severe fire; and by Lieutenant H. S. Pennell, of the Derbyshires, for a brave endeavour to save Captain Smith of the same regiment. Only after a second attempt, when he discovered that the wounded officer was dead, did Lieutenant Pennell desist from his efforts.
What other gallant deeds were performed equally deserving of reward it is impossible to say. In the fierce swirl of the fight many must have passed unnoticed, and many heroes must have fallen at the moment of their self-sacrifice. But we do know that it was not only British officers and men who distinguished themselves in that memorable fight. For the record speaks of one Kirpa Ram Thapa, a native officer of the 2nd Ghurkas, who though badly wounded in two places refused to fall out, and insisted on leading his company to the very end.
One other story that I may note has a humorous touch about it, and is characteristic of the good terms on which officers and men are in the Highland regiments. As the Gordons streamed up the ascent to the summit of Dargai, after their bold dash, Colonel Mathias, who was not quite the man he was in his younger days, showed signs of being winded.
“Stiff climb, eh, Mackie?” he said, turning to his colour-sergeant, who was by him; “I’m—not—so young—as I—was, you know.”
“Never mind, sir!” the sergeant is said to have answered, slapping his colonel encouragingly on the back and nearly knocking the remaining breath out of him. “Ye’re gaun verra strong for an auld man!”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
SOUTH AFRICA.—THE V.C.’S OF THE SECOND
BOER WAR.
The late war in South Africa, when—for the last time, it is to be hoped—Briton and Boer strove for supremacy, is too recent to need even an outline of its history being given here. It was a war of many blunders and disasters, and its record does not make altogether pleasant reading; yet against the gloom of it there is not a little to be set of which we may be proud. After the war had entered upon its second phase good generalship asserted itself; victory followed victory in swift succession, and there was no more looking back.
Many reputations were lost, while others were gained, in this difficult campaign, but there was one person whose prestige from the first suffered no loss. That was the British soldier. In the face of a foe remarkable for “slimness” and marksmanship, Tommy Atkins once more showed himself the splendid fighter that he always has been. We have only to remember the fierce battles on the Tugela River, at Colenso, at Magersfontein, at Paardeberg, and elsewhere, to assure ourselves on this point. Under the most terrible fusillade—and how terrible it was at times can hardly be conveyed in words—our gunners and our infantry never hesitated or winced. Throughout the ranks they fought with an indomitable courage that compelled the admiration of the Boers, and in the pride we feel at their bravery and devotion we are glad to forget the incompetency displayed by many of their leaders.
Of the acts of individual heroism that were performed pages and pages might be written without exhausting the subject. In the leading of forlorn hopes, and in the succouring of wounded comrades under fire, officers and privates alike were ever ready to risk their lives; and the fact that no fewer than seventy-eight Victoria Crosses were won in the war speaks for itself. How some of these rewards for valour were gained it is my purpose to relate in the present chapter.
Among the first to be decorated was an Army surgeon, a worthy successor to Jee, Home, and those others of whom mention has been made. At the battle of Colenso, in December 1899, Major William Babtie, of the Royal Army Medical Corps, received word that a number of wounded artillerymen were in need of assistance. They lay in a donga, or hollow, close by the guns of their batteries (the 14th and 15th), sheltered from the Boer marksmen, but suffering considerable agony from their wounds.
Without loss of time, and quite alone, Major Babtie rode out to them. He knew full well that the instant he appeared in the open he would become a target for the enemy’s rifles, and few of those who watched him go on his errand of mercy expected to see him alive again. But although his horse was struck three times, he himself by good fortune escaped being hit. Reaching the donga, he found a score of poor fellows badly needing attention, and with wonderful coolness he set about dressing their injuries. The Boers, who had no scruples about firing upon the wounded, made repeated attempts to get within range of the intrepid surgeon and his patients, but with ill-success. Babtie seemed to bear a charmed life, and he was able to save many a gunner who but for his prompt help must have died on the field.
The Royal Army Medical Corps, it may be mentioned, won three more Crosses in South Africa, making the total placed to their credit seven. Lieutenants Douglas, Nickerson, and Inkson were the other heroes, the last-named being conspicuous for carrying a wounded comrade for over three hundred yards under heavy fire to a place of safety.
It was at Colenso that the magnificent attempt to save the guns was made which resulted in the sad death of Lieutenant the Hon. F. H. S. Roberts, the only son of Lord Roberts, then Commander-in-Chief. Colonel Long, with the 14th and 66th Batteries of the Royal Field Artillery, had pressed forward to drive the Boers from their trenches along the bank of the Tugela, expecting to be supported by reinforcements. But under the deadly fire directed upon him he was obliged to retire, leaving many dead and wounded behind him, and leaving, too, twelve guns standing ready for use, with their breech-blocks still in them.
For a long time the guns stood deserted thus, while the battle raged to right and left of them. Then, as General Hildyard’s infantry, including the Devons, the Queen’s, and the Scots Fusiliers, made their dashing advance upon the Boer positions, a trio of staff officers who were with Generals Buller and Clery volunteered to save the guns if possible. These three were Captains Schofield and Congreve, and Lieutenant Roberts.
Other volunteers were soon forthcoming when it was known that the attempt was to be made, and corporals, linesmen, and some drivers of ammunition waggons, with two or three spare teams, galloped out after their leaders. The guns were reached, but at once Boer shells and bullets began to drop thickly around. Captain Congreve was almost the first to be hit, being wounded in the leg. Then young Roberts was struck, at the same time that a shell burst under his horse, inflicting severe wounds upon him. “He was looking over his shoulder at Schofield,” says an eye-witness, “laughing and working his stick with a circular motion, like a jockey, to encourage his horse,” when his first bullet found him, and he fell mortally wounded. In the meantime the gallant gunners and drivers were limbering up with all speed, and thanks to Captain Schofield’s exertions, two of the guns were hauled back in safety.
Later on, Captain Reed of the 7th Battery, Royal Field Artillery, made another and partially successful effort to rescue some of the remaining ten guns, receiving a bad wound in his thigh in the attempt; but almost all of them had to be abandoned. For their gallantry, however, Captains Schofield, Congreve, and Reed, with Lieutenant Roberts, were all recommended for the V.C., the three first-named alone surviving to receive the decoration. Poor Lieutenant Roberts, as will be remembered, died at Chievely, two days later.
THE GUNS WERE REACHED, BUT AT ONCE BOER SHELLS AND BULLETS BEGAN TO DROP THICKLY AROUND.—Page 242.
As to the bravery of the men who helped them to save the guns, both Captain Schofield and Captain Reed have borne eloquent tribute. “Bosh!” said Reed, when he was complimented on his exploit; “it was all the drivers.” And if you ask Captain Schofield, you will find he will make much the same answer. While the rain of bullets poured on them the drivers limbered up in a calm, business-like fashion, as if there wasn’t a Boer within a dozen miles of them.
“Just to show you what cool chaps those drivers were,” says Captain Schofield, “when I was hooking on one of the guns, one of them said, ‘Elevate the muzzle a little more, sir.’ That’s a precaution for galloping in rough country, but I shouldn’t have thought of it—not just then, at any rate. Pretty cool, wasn’t it?”
They were gallant men those drivers without doubt, as gallant as Colonel Long’s gunners, who fell one by one by their guns until only two were left, two who continued the unequal battle alone, and when the ordinary ammunition was exhausted fired their last shot, the emergency rounds of case; after which they stood at attention and waited for the end that came swiftly. All could not be decorated, however, though all deserved equal honour, and so Corporal G. E. Nurse, of the Royal Field Artillery, was elected to receive the V.C. as the most fitting representative.
The next heroes on the list are two brave men of the Protectorate Regiment, Sergeant H. R. Martineau and Trooper (now Lieutenant) H. E. Ramsden. During a sortie from besieged Mafeking Sergeant Martineau’s attention was called to Corporal Le Camp, who had been struck down by a Boer bullet. The latter was lying in the open less than a dozen yards from the enemy’s trenches and bleeding profusely from his wound. Not far away were some bushes which offered ample shelter, so making a dash for the corporal, the sergeant carried and dragged him thither as best he could. Then, kneeling by the wounded man’s side, he carefully bandaged the gaping shot-hole and stanched the flow of blood.
Despite the shelter of the bushes, Martineau did not escape being hit. He was shot in the side as he stooped over the corporal, and he was struck yet twice more when, at the order to retire, he picked up Le Camp and carried him after his comrades, who were falling back upon the town. That plucky rescue cost the sergeant an arm, but it won him—though small compensation, perhaps—a V.C.
The same honour fell to Trooper H. E. Ramsden in this fight, for carrying his brother out of danger in very similar circumstances. The list of those who figured in gallant actions of this kind, indeed, is a long one. There was Second-Lieutenant John Norwood (now a captain), of the 5th Dragoon Guards, who while in charge of a small patrol party outside Ladysmith, in October 1899, was nearly cornered by the Boers. In retiring one of the troopers fell, whereupon the lieutenant, galloping back, dismounted, lifted the wounded man on to his shoulder, and with his horse’s bridle over his arm walked back to rejoin his comrades. And there was Lieutenant Sir John Milbanke of the 10th Hussars, who saved the life of one of his men while out on a reconnaissance near Colesberg. The lieutenant himself was badly wounded with a ball in his thigh, but disregarding this, he went to the aid of the wounded man, who was exposed to the Boer fire, and successfully brought him out of range.
Both these heroes gained the V.C., as, too, did Private Bisdee and Lieutenant Wylly, of the Tasmanian Imperial Bushmen, for gallantry of a like order. Having run into an ambuscade, the scouting party of which the Tasmanians were members had to get out of it as best they could. The Boers from their cover kept up a hot fire, and men and horses dropped quickly. Out of the eight in the party all but two were hit, and one of the officers had his horse shot beneath him. Seeing his predicament, Private Bisdee offered him a stirrup leather to hold on to, but the other was more badly wounded than he had supposed. Jumping off his horse, therefore, he put his officer into the saddle, and mounting behind him, galloped out of action. Lieutenant Wylly in his turn gave up his horse to a wounded private, afterwards taking up a position behind a rock, and using his rifle to good purpose to cover the retreat of the little party.
It does one good to read of heroism such as this, for it helps to keep alive our faith in those fine qualities which have made Englishmen what they are. If we still find something inspiring in the records of the old sea-dogs, such as Benbow, who was carried on deck in a basket after he had lost his leg, so that he might continue to direct the fight, we may treasure in our memories with no less reverence the deeds of many humbler heroes. There is about them, too, often enough, a truly British touch of dare-devilry, cheek, pluck—call it what you will—that cannot but strike one’s imagination.
Take the story of Sergeant T. Lawrence of the 17th Lancers, the “Death or Glory Boys.” He was in charge of a patrol in the neighbourhood of Lindley, in August 1900, while the Lancer Brigade was chasing De Wet. Suddenly attacked by a body of fourteen Boers, the patrol was obliged to retire. In the gallop for safety Private Hayman’s horse was bowled over, and down came its rider to the ground with a dislocated shoulder and broken collar-bone. In a twinkling the sergeant saw what had happened. The Boers were hard upon their heels, but taking his chance, Lawrence rode back to Hayman’s assistance. The private’s horse being useless, Lawrence dismounted and raised the wounded man on to his own steed, a dun pony, it is recorded. Then, setting the animal’s head for the picket and bidding Hayman hold on for his life, the sergeant gave the pony a vigorous kick and started him off. This done, Lawrence made his way back on foot, keeping up a warm fire with his carbine; and for two miles he retired thus, successfully holding off the Boers, until a party which had ridden out in search of him brought the plucky fellow into our lines.
There is a true British ring about Sergeant Lawrence’s action which is unmistakable, and few South African heroes more deserved the V.C. which was eventually bestowed upon him. He, thanks to his skill with the carbine, and perhaps owing something to luck, escaped without a scratch, but not all were so fortunate. Writing of Lawrence reminds me of another hero, Lieutenant and Adjutant G. H. B. Coulson, of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, who won glory and death at the same time.
It was during the rearguard action near Lambrecht Fontein, in May 1901. A corporal of the Mounted Infantry was wounded and helpless, so the lieutenant pulled him up on to his own horse. As they rode along the animal was itself struck, and it became evident that a double burden was more than it could carry. There was only one thing to be done. Slipping off the horse, Coulson told the corporal to “hang on” and save himself; then, revolver in hand, he stayed behind, in the faint hope that he might win back to safety on foot. It was a vain hope. The Boers rode down upon him, and—one man against a hundred—he fell riddled with bullets. Afterwards, when the corporal had told his story, they gazetted Lieutenant and Adjutant Coulson V.C., as one to whom the decoration would have been awarded had he lived.
Among other dead heroes of the South African War, place must be found for Lieutenant Parsons of the Essex Regiment and Sergeant Atkinson of the Yorkshires. At Paardeberg, where a fierce battle was fought in February 1900, many poor wounded fellows lay in the sweltering heat suffering for want of water. Water there was within reach, in the river that wound round by the enemy’s trenches, but the task of fetching it was attended with considerable danger. Some four or five men made the attempt, only to fall under the hail of Boer bullets. Nothing daunted, however, both Parsons and Atkinson made several dashes for the precious water, the former venturing twice, and rendering much-needed relief to those wounded near him.
Atkinson, who had distinguished himself in the fight by rescuing Lieutenant Hammick of the Oxfordshire Light Infantry, went down to the river no fewer than seven times, being under fire all the while. At the seventh venture his fate found him. A bullet struck him in the head, and the brave Yorkshireman fell mortally wounded. He was a son of Farrier-Major James Atkinson, of the Royal Artillery, who is stated to have been one of the party who captured the original Sebastopol cannon from which the Victoria Crosses are now cast. Although Lieutenant Parsons survived Paardeberg, he never lived to receive his Cross, being killed later at Driefontein.
For bravery that distinguishes itself in the storming of apparently impregnable positions and in the leading of forlorn hopes, the Highland regiments perhaps bear the palm. One remembers their deeds in the Mutiny days and, more recently, at Dargai. In South Africa they wrote their names large, at Magersfontein, Paardeberg, and in many a minor action.
One of their most dashing exploits was the capture of Thaba Mountain, in April 1900, by the Gordons. In this engagement Captain E. B. Towse, with but a dozen men at his back, charged in the face of a hundred and fifty Boers, who had climbed the hill from the opposite side, and routed them. The position was won and held, for the Highlanders—and especially the Gordons—are men who like to have their own way, but their brave leader paid dearly for his victory. During the brief but fierce encounter he was shot through both eyes and blinded for life. This action at Thaba Mountain, together with his well-remembered gallantry at Magersfontein, where in the very fore-front of the battle he was seen helping Colonel Downman, who was mortally wounded, gained Captain Towse the V.C. Little wonder is it that as she pinned it on the hero’s breast Queen Victoria was moved to tears of sympathy and pity.
There were several V.C.’s gained in and around Ladysmith during the memorable siege of that town which well deserve mention. Listen to the story of how Privates Scott and Pitts of the Manchester Regiment won the coveted decoration. In one of the Boer assaults early in 1900 the Manchesters were given the task of holding Cæsar’s Camp, a position in the long ridge of hills to the north-east of the town. Here they erected circular stone sangars, in each of which a few men were posted with a plentiful supply of ammunition.
When the attack was delivered, Cæsar’s Camp and Waggon Hill in the vicinity received the brunt of it. Before the Boer fire the Manchester Regiment in particular suffered great loss, many of their sangars being captured and occupied by the enemy; but there was one spot in the defences that the Boers failed to carry. In the little sangar where they had been stationed Privates Scott and Pitts swore an oath that they would never give up while breath was left in their bodies, and for fifteen long hours their deadly rifle fire kept the Boers at bay. In the end, as we know, the enemy were compelled to withdraw baffled, whereupon the two plucky privates who had “held the fort” so manfully returned to camp smoke-blackened and—in Scott’s case—wounded, to receive the due reward of their heroism.
Yet another brave man of Ladysmith fame was Private J. Barry of the Royal Irish. In the night attack on Monument Hill in January 1901, he was helping to work a Maxim when the Boers surrounded the little party. His comrades having been all shot down, Private Barry was called on to surrender, but this word was not in his vocabulary. He neither intended surrendering nor yielding his gun to the enemy, so hurling a defiance at the latter, he proceeded to smash the breech of the Maxim and render it useless. A few quick blows were sufficient for the purpose, and the work was done ere the infuriated Boers raised their rifles and shot him dead.
A distinguished fellow-soldier of Barry’s was Colour-Sergeant (now Captain) Masterson, the hero of Waggon Hill. In the furious hand-to-hand fight on the hill he was a conspicuous figure, only being overborne at last by sheer force of numbers, and falling with ten wounds in his body and limbs. None of his injuries were mortal, however, and he survived to receive the V.C. and a commission.
Captain Masterson’s name and rank, by the way, vividly recall to one’s mind the exploit of a Royal Irish Fusilier of earlier days, Sergeant Masterton, the hero of Barossa. Masterton was known as “the Eagle Taker,” for the dashing capture of a French Eagle standard after a charge up a hill much in the fashion of the Fusiliers at Waggon Hill, and he too was rewarded by promotion.
With another story of the gallant gunners I must bring this chapter to a close. The scene is Korn Spruit, on the road between Thaban’chu and Bloemfontein. On March 31st, 1900, two batteries of the Royal Horse Artillery were making their way to the Orange Free State capital, when they fell into a Boer ambush. Before the alarm could be raised five guns of the leading battery and a large section of the baggage train had been captured.
Q Battery, under the command of Major Phipps-Hornby, meanwhile was some three hundred yards away from the spruit when the Boers opened fire, and had time to wheel about into position. The enemy’s force far outnumbered the British column, but Major Phipps-Hornby and his gunners had no idea of deserting their comrades. Having gained the shelter of some railway buildings near at hand, the battery—minus one gun which had had to be abandoned—re-formed and at full gallop came again into action. Within close range of the Boers they unlimbered and opened fire, while the teams of horses were taken back to the rear of the buildings for safety.
For a long time the gunners served their pieces in splendid style, but the order came at last to retire. Realising how difficult it would be to hook the teams on to the guns under the terrible fusillade that the Boers were maintaining, Major Phipps-Hornby decided to do without them. Under his direction the men put their shoulders to the wheels literally, helped by some officers and privates of the Mounted Infantry, and by much pushing and hauling they eventually got four of the five guns round to the back of the buildings under cover, saving some of the limbers at the same time.
To rejoin the main body now entailed the crossing of a couple more spruits and a donga which lay within easy range of the Boer guns, a veritable zone of fire. But the gunners had faced danger like this before, and at the call for volunteers many drivers stepped forward. As quickly as possible the horses were put into the traces, the guns hooked on, and off they set, one at a time, on their perilous journey. It was a wild dash for safety, but they got home—all, that is, save one gun and one limber, which after several attempts had to be left behind, all the horses belonging to it being shot down.
It was a V.C. business, this saving of the guns, but when it came to a question of making the award a difficulty arose. Every man of the battery might be said to have an equal claim to be decorated. As a few Crosses only could be awarded, however, Rule 13 of the original Warrant had to be enforced, under which the honour was conferred upon the battery as a whole, one officer, one non-commissioned officer, one gunner and one driver being elected by their comrades as recipients. Of the two officers, Major Phipps-Hornby and Captain Humphreys, who had taken the leading part in the affair, each had displayed conspicuous gallantry, and each with characteristic generosity nominated the other for the decoration. One would like to have seen both of them gazetted, but the rule had to be adhered to, and, as senior officer, the V.C. was presented to Major Phipps-Hornby. Sergeant Parker, Gunner Lodge, and Driver Glasock hold the other three Crosses of the corps for this notable action.
Yet another hero of Korn Spruit is Lieutenant (now Lieut.-Col.) F. A. Maxwell, of the Indian Army, then attached to Roberts’ Light Horse. When the Boer fire was concentrated on Q Battery, he volunteered his assistance and faced the blizzard of lead five times, helping to save two guns and three limbers. It was he, too, who aided in the gallant but futile attempt to bring in the fifth gun, remaining exposed to shot and shell until the last moment. For his bravery Lieutenant Maxwell was awarded the V.C., and it is worthy of note that in announcing the fact the Gazette refers to his gallantry during the Chitral campaign, when he recovered the body of Lieut.-Col. F. D. Battye, of the “Guides,” under a heavy fire from the enemy.
CHAPTER XXIX.
SOMALILAND—NIGERIA—TIBET.
Within the last four years we have seen three campaigns of some importance which have added several V.C.’s to the roll. In 1902-3 was the punitive expedition against the Mad Mullah in Somaliland, bringing distinction to Captain Cobbe and others; in 1903 the rising in Nigeria, where, at Sokoto, Captain Wallace Wright (of the Royal West Surrey Regiment), with only one officer and forty men, made a gallant stand for two hours against the repeated charges of 1000 of the enemy’s cavalry and 2000 infantry, eventually putting this large force to rout; and in 1904 the Sikkim-Tibet Mission, which yielded a V.C. to a young lieutenant of Ghurkas named Grant. Of these campaigns that in Somaliland heads the list with six Crosses, and the story of how they were won well deserves to be told at length.
The first act of distinction was performed by Captain (now Lieutenant-Colonel) A. S. Cobbe, D.S.O., at Erego, on October 6th, 1902. In the fight at this place some of the companies were ordered to retire, and Captain Cobbe suddenly found himself left alone in the firing line with a Maxim. He saved the gun from capture by the enemy, and bringing it back worked it single-handed with such good effect that he may be said to have turned the fortunes of the day at a critical moment in the action. Later on he went to the rescue of an orderly who had fallen under the Somalis’ bullets, exposing himself not only to the enemy’s fire but to that of his own men, who were replying vigorously. For his gallantry Captain Cobbe was gazetted V.C., receiving the decoration from the hands of General Manning at Obbia, some four months later.
With the fighting at Jidballi two V.C.’s are associated. One is proudly worn by Lieutenant Herbert Carter for saving the life of Private Jai Singh in the face of a determined rush of dervishes; and the other by Lieutenant Clement Leslie Smith, of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry. The latter was serving with the 5th Somali Mounted Infantry at the time. In an onslaught made by the enemy from the bush our men got broken up, and the combat resolved itself into a hand-to-hand affair. Fighting desperately to recover themselves, the Mounted Infantry rallied bravely to their leader’s call, but little could be done to stave off defeat. The loyal Somalis were driven back, leaving many dead and wounded on the ground, among the latter being one Rahamat Ali, a Hospital-Assistant. Observing this man’s plight, Lieutenant Smith and Dr. Welland of the R.A.M.C. made a desperate attempt to save him.
They had almost succeeded in getting the wounded man on to a horse when one of the many bullets that rained upon them found him, and he was killed. The Somalis now hemmed in the two officers on all sides, so the lieutenant sought to bring out Dr. Welland, hastily helping him to mount again. The doctor’s horse was shot, however, as was a mule which was next seized, and immediately after there was a rush, and Welland was speared. Smith stood by him to the end, endeavouring to keep off the enemy with his revolver, but he had done all that mortal man could do, and it was time to think of his own safety. At that time the dervishes were swarming round him, and, as the Gazette notes, it was marvellous indeed that he escaped with his life.
But, notable as were these acts of bravery, it is for the heroic attempt to rescue poor Captain Bruce that the Somaliland campaign will perhaps be best remembered. In that drama of savage warfare, which brings home to us most vividly the difficulties and dangers of bush fighting, three Crosses were gained, inscribing the names of Rolland, Walker, and Gough upon the roll of glory. This is the story of it.
On April 22nd, 1903, Major Gough’s flying column, which had been operating in the Daratoleh district, began to fall back upon Danop, owing to shortness in ammunition and the large number of wounded on its hands. All around the little force, in the dense bush, the enemy swarmed thickly, maintaining a harassing fire upon the troops. During the afternoon the rearguard became cut off from the main body, and dropped considerably into the rear. With this section were Captain Bruce, R.A., Major Gough’s staff officer, and Captains Rolland and Walker of the Intelligence Department, and when in a little time Bruce fell badly wounded, the look-out for the little party seemed bad indeed.
Having fired at and killed a savage whom he believed to have aimed the fatal shot, Captain Rolland ran to his comrade’s assistance and dragged him to one side of the forest path, where he would be less exposed to the enemy’s fire. It was very evident that the wound was mortal, but Rolland—who, by the way, was an old Harrow boy, like Bruce—determined to make every effort to save his friend’s body if he could not save his life. While he attended to him two Yaos (men of the King’s African Rifles), a Sikh and a loyal Somali of the Camel Corps, bravely stood by them, covering them with their rifles and holding the enemy in check, the latter shouting to each other in joyful anticipation of a speedy victory.
Captain Bruce was a very heavy man, of nearly fourteen stone, and Captain Rolland, who turned the scale at nine and a half, found he could not lift the other. None of the four men could stop firing to help him, or the Somalis would have made a rush, so the despairing officer shouted to the disappearing column in front to halt. But the winding path soon hid it from sight, and Rolland saw that he was left to his fate. The enemy, becoming enboldened, now pressed closer in, and the captain had to leave the wounded man’s side and use his carbine and revolver to drive the Somalis back into the bush again. It was hot work, for the natives were in strong force and armed with rifles in addition to their broad-bladed throwing spears.
Suddenly Bruce got to his feet, and Rolland rushed to hold him up; but it was the last flicker of life. The wounded man lurched forward again and fell on his face, dragging Rolland down with him. As the latter turned him over on to his back, Bruce opened his eyes and spoke for the last time. “They’ve done for me this time, old man!” he said, and a moment or two afterwards relapsed into unconsciousness.
To Rolland’s great relief, he looked up from his friend’s body to see Captain Walker “trekking” towards him. His shout had been heard, after all. Together the two tried to carry poor Bruce between them, but it was no use; so Rolland decided to make a dash for the rearguard to get help. It was a terribly long run, and he thought he must get hit every moment, as the bullets pinged about him. He got through safely, however, and seized a Bikanir camel. As he was leading this back he met Major Gough, who asked what was the matter, and on being told at once hastened to Bruce’s aid.
Rolland’s camel was desperately frightened at the firing and shouting, and the captain had another bad quarter of an hour as he coaxed it and urged it along the bush path, but he reached the others without mishap. With Gough and Walker he now lifted Captain Bruce on to the kneeling camel, and as they did so a third Somali bullet struck the wounded man, almost immediately after which he died. At the same time the Sikh, who had done his duty nobly in protecting his officers, had his arm smashed by a fourth bullet.
The little party were not left alone until 5.30 p.m., when, after some scattering shots, the enemy at last drew off. “It was the hardest day of my life,” adds Captain Rolland, in his account of the affair, and we may well believe him. “I fired and fired in that fight till my rifle was boiling hot; even the woodwork felt on fire. Up to 3 a.m. a few biscuits and cocoa, then a 25-mile ride, a seven hours’ fight, and 25 miles back to camp; i.e. 50 miles that day; 25 hours without food of any kind, from the 3 a.m. biscuits and cocoa on the 22nd to the 4 a.m. dinner on the 23rd. Oh, the thirst of that day! I had two water-bottles on my camel, and drained them both. Hunger I did not feel.”
They buried Captain Bruce the next morning, side by side with another officer who had been killed, Captain Godfrey, laying them to rest just as they were, in their stained khaki uniforms. The silent African bush has many such graves in its keeping.
It was not until some time later that the part Major Gough had played in the rescue of Captain Bruce’s body was brought to light. He had promptly reported the heroic conduct of Captains Rolland and Walker, but modestly omitted all mention of his own share in the incident. And when the late Mr. W. T. Maud, the artist-correspondent of the Graphic, attempted to send home to his paper a full account of the affair, the Major rigidly censored the despatch so that his name did not occur therein. His heroism, however, could not be overlooked, and as soon as he was free from Major Gough’s censorship Mr. Maud made public the true story of the action, whereupon the V.C. was bestowed upon the Major as well as upon Captains Rolland and Walker.
It is interesting to note that Major John Edmond Gough (now Lieutenant-Colonel) is a son of General Sir C. J. S. Gough, V.C., and a nephew of that other distinguished Indian veteran, General Sir H. H. Gough, V.C. He thus establishes a record, for no other family has ever yet possessed three members entitled to wear the decoration.
To Lieutenant John Duncan Grant, of the 8th Ghurka Rifles, belongs the distinction of winning the last Cross that has been awarded. The scene of his exploit was Tibet, and the date July 6th, 1904. On that day the storming of the Gyantse-jong, the most formidable of the Tibetan strongholds, was successfully carried out, the Ghurkas, as on many a previous occasion, being called on to perform the most ticklish part of the business.
The jong, or fort, at Gyantse is perched high up on a hill, the approach being rendered difficult for an enemy by the bare and almost precipitous nature of the rock-face. There is scarcely any cover available, and an attacking party is exposed to the fire from the curtain and the flanking towers on both sides. All day the artillery had been thundering at the walls with little success, but at last a small breach was made in the curtain, and it became possible for a storming party to force its way through. It became possible, I say, but the task was a truly hazardous one. So little room was there that only one man could go up at a time, crawling on his hands and knees to the hole in the curtain.