Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

“It’s all right, I’m British,” Marc said reassuringly. He realized that in his mud-caked clothes he could have been anyone: only his shako cap would be a certain sign of his allegiance.

“I can’t move my legs! I can’t feel my foot!” The “officer” turned out to be a corporal, a young man no more than twenty or so, beardless, handsome despite his pain-distorted features and glazed, goitered stare.

“I’ve got to lever the hindquarters of your horse so you can drag yourself free,” Marc said. “Then we’ll have to make a sprint for it. If we’re lucky, one of the troops in the woods will give us a volley to get us started.”

“Why doesn’t Prince move? I can’t get him to move!” The lad’s cry was anguished.

“Your horse is dead,” Marc said, as he drew his sabre carefully from its scabbard without raising his head above the cover being provided by the faithful Prince. The shooting had stopped, but Marc knew that the rebels would be waiting for the next act in this diverting little drama. Perhaps he should just wait here until the next assault began. But he was supposed to be leading a phase of it: technically, he had deserted his post. Moreover, his clambering about in the middle of the attack zone could well interfere with any covering or distracting volleys being planned. He would have to risk returning now. His concern for an individual soldier had overridden his duty to the troop and the company.

The corporal groaned horribly, either at the news of Prince’s demise or his own considerable pain.

“Hang on. I’m going to lift up the horse’s rump as far as I can, then you’ll have to do the rest. And it’s going to hurt. If you can’t manage it, we’re both dead men.”

The lad’s eyes widened. “I’ll manage it, sir.”

“Good. Now here we go!”

Marc wedged the flat blade of his sword as far under the horse’s huge thigh as he could; then, using his shoulder for leverage, he began slowly to lift, mustering all his waning strength in the effort. Even so, he could not have levered the beast nearly enough for his comrade to pull free if the latter had not had the good fortune to lie in a small furrow. Marc merely needed to raise the dead weight up about five inches. However, as soon as the rebel sharpshooters spotted the horse apparently moving, they began firing. One bullet knocked Marc’s cap askew; others slammed into Prince’s body. His master gasped with each insult.

“Dig your hands in and pull!” Marc cried. “I can’t hold this thing up much longer!” Cold sweat was pouring down his face.

The young man did as he was ordered, letting out a bone-chilling shriek with each inch that he moved his crushed legs. He had to extricate himself by using only the upper part of his body, as his legs appeared to be lifeless. Marc’s shoulder, arms, and hands started to go numb. In another second he would have to let go. Bullets continued to whiz over his head or thud into the horse. With a wheezing gasp, Marc released the sabre. The corporal screamed as if he had been gelded.

Marc forced himself to look over at him. The young man’s legs-limp, one of them askew-were completely free. His face was grey and awash with sweat. He was trembling uncontrollably. His lips were working, but he was unable to speak.

“One of your legs is broken,” Marc said. “The other is likely numb, but you may be able to stand on it. When I say ‘go,’ I want you to raise both arms. I’m going to haul you up, and we’re going to make a run for it as if we’re in a three-legged race. Understand?”

When no words would come, the young man nodded his assent.

Just then a volley of gunfire roared out of the woods. Hilliard had been watching Marc’s every move. He was giving them four or five seconds of relief from the sniper fire.

“Go!”

The pounding of Marc’s heart and the rasping of his breath drowned out the corporal’s shrieks as the two men rose up, crab-like, against the horizon, and started to scuttle raggedly towards the woods. There could be no more covering fire now. They were silhouetted against the treeline like ducks in a shooting gallery. Forgive me, Marc whispered to Beth, who was always somewhere close by, as he braced for the bullet that would end his life and break his promise. Several of them skidded through the grass at his feet. The lad’s legs were useless. He had fainted with pain or terror. Marc picked him up in both arms, just as a fresh thought struck him: I will die with an enemy bullet in my back!

But there were no more bursts of gunfire. The air about him had gone ominously quiet. Yet he was still moving: he could feel his boots thudding on the frost-hardened ground. He could feel the wind gusting and pulling on his tunic. He could feel snow on his cheeks. Snow. He was running-camouflaged-through a squall.

“This way! This way!” It was Hilliard’s voice, soon joined by a chorus of others, orienting him as a rattling cup does a blind man.

Seconds later he collapsed into a tangle of spruce boughs.

“You made it!” Hilliard declared, beside him. And there was awe in his voice.

The rescued man was taken back to the surgeon. No-one in Marc’s company knew his name, and he was soon forgotten as Captain Riddell’s plan to take the barricade was now ready to be executed. The brief squall that had saved Marc’s life was now over. The air was clear and cold again. Sporadic gunfire to the right indicated that the main battle was still progressing. Marc was grateful that his squad had been designated to provide only the covering fire for Riddell’s pincered assault, as the adrenaline that had kept him going till now was fast draining away and not likely to return. He ordered Hilliard to direct the opening volleys, while he sat on his haunches and took deep breaths. Some sodden biscuit had been brought up, and he nibbled at it dutifully. Once the flanking troops had succeeded in nearing the sides of the log-rampart, he knew he would have to find some reserve of strength to lead his squad on the frontal assault and hand-to-hand fighting with sabre and bayonet.

He heard the opening volleys, then the individual gunfire of the advancing troops, left and right.

“They’re pinned down already,” Hilliard informed him. “We’ve got to go in now, or our fellows will be cut to pieces.”

Marc tottered to his feet. “Sergeant,” he said to Ogletree, “have the men fix bayonets. We’re going to clear those buggers from that pile of poles!”

Moments later, Marc found himself leading the charge across ground that he had already traversed twice. The enemy gunfire on both flanks of the rampart had stopped abruptly. The rebels must have guessed at the plan and were hastily reassembling at their gun-slits to take on the frontal assault. Dodging dead horses and two fallen comrades, Marc’s men sallied towards the barricade, bayonets brandished and voices roaring with menace and bravado. At the same time, the troops on either flank began to rise and make a dash towards the same target. This was it. Once in such motion, no British infantry unit could be stopped, short of annihilation.

Marc was the first man to leap up onto the rampart and start swinging his sabre. There was nothing to swing at. In less than thirty seconds the rebels had melted away, undetected. Their rampart had been raised on the crest of a shallow coulee, so they had been able to retreat running upright and unseen to a dozen possible sniping positions beyond.

“Damn it all,” Hilliard cursed angrily, slicing at the air with his fearsome blade and looking up and down the barricade. “All that suffering on our part and we haven’t killed one of the bastards yet!”

“True,” Marc said. “But we’re gaining ground bit by bit. Their ground.”