Patrick Mercer - Dust and Steel

‘Sir, Numbers Five, Six and Seven Companies paraded ready for training, sir.’ The captain remained at the salute, his right hand at the peak of his covered cap.

‘Right, Captain Mellish, I’m obliged to you,’ Morgan returned the salute, ‘but please drop all that parade-ground stuff. We’re here to learn to fight, not to play at guardsmen. How d’you suggest we tackle this?’

Morgan looked at the trio of Indian officers. Again, he was struck by their age – they were all at least forty – and their smartness. Even in shirtsleeves they were beautifully pressed and brushed, whilst their moustaches swept down and over their lips, a stark, dyed black compared with their greying hair. But it was their eyes that held his attention most. Did he detect humility there, a supplication that seemed to beg him not to compare them with their faithless comrades? It wasn‘t yet possible to know – but the next couple of hours of running and crouching in the heat would soon tell.

‘Well, sir,’ all the British and native officers of the 10th had relaxed at Morgan’s word, ‘if you would be good enough to pause in your demonstration every few minutes so that we can translate the instructions for the boys, they’ll soon cotton on. Then it’s up to us to drive home what you’ve taught us.’

‘Good. Form the companies in three sides of a square around my men, please, and we’ll try to show you what little we’ve picked up.’

Captain Mellish and the others smiled politely at Morgan’s self-deprecation, saluted and doubled off to the waiting sepoys.

‘They don’t look half bad, sir.’ McGucken cast an appreciative eye along the long, smart, lean ranks of the 10th.

‘Aye, Colour-Sar’nt, as long as they’re on our side I reckon they’ll do rightly,’ Morgan replied quietly, ‘but I can see why Pegg and the others have their doubts.’

The three companies of the 10th were quickly wheeled around the waiting ranks of the Grenadiers.

‘’Eathen sods…’ Lance-Corporal Pegg knelt in the dust at the far right of the company, rifle at his knee, with his skirmishing partner, Private Beeston, one pace to his left and rear in the same pose, ‘…bit too close for comfort, sez I.’

‘You’re right, Corp’l. If the bastards rush us now we’ll be fuckin’ lost,’ came the reply in dourest Nottingham.

‘Right: falling back. On sighting the enemy the even numbers fire without challenging on their own initiative,’ McGucken bellowed to the assembled multitude, slow and clear, before pausing and glancing at the subadar who stood alongside him.

‘Ee-nish-a-tif, sahib?’ The Indian looked puzzled.

‘Aye…’ McGucken was stumped for a moment, ‘…without needin’ no bloody orders.’

‘Ah…yes.’ The subadar grasped what was meant quickly enough before turning it into rapid Hindi.

‘Whilst the odd numbers prepare to cover them,’ the big Scot continued, ‘shouting, “Moving now” the evens fall back fifteen paces, turn to face the enemy and immediately reload.’ The subadar repeated everything he said. ‘Once they’ve reloaded, provided the enemy’s not pressing too hard, the evens shout, “Ready” allowing the odds to fire and fall back in exactly the same manner. Got it, Mister…er, Lal?’

Subadar Lal had indeed got it, translating fast and accurately.

‘Right, look in and you’ll receive a complete demonstration.’ There was no need to repeat these words. ‘Grenadier Company, skirmishing by numbers, falling back…one!’

On McGucken’s word of command, thirty or so weapons rose to the men’s shoulders, ‘Bang!’ was shouted the same number of times as the rifles’ hammers fell dully against leather-rimmed nipple guards, then, ‘Moving now’ was yelled as half the men darted back through the dust, a regulation fifteen paces.

To Morgan and McGucken’s bemusement, the three sepoy companies suddenly cawed with delight, hands clapping in appreciation, feet stamping in the dust in noisy admiration for the precision of the British troops.

‘What are those cunts laughing at?’ Pegg, already sweating hard and slightly out of breath after even a modest dash in the afternoon heat, went through the dry drill of reloading his rifle, steel ramrod rasping on the rifling of the barrel.

‘Ready,’ he and half the company bellowed.

‘Bang!’ boomed the other half before, ‘Moving now,’ to be greeted by more ecstatic applause and cries of admiration from the 10th.

‘Boggered if I know, Corp’l,’ panted Beeston as he sped past Pegg who, in time with the rest of the leading rank, was just bringing his rifle to the present. ‘Must think we’re fuckin’ off back to England,’ he added drily.

‘An’ so on until contact is broken with the enemy…’ McGucken’s voice brought the precisely regulated, darting ranks to a halt, all of them puffing with exertion as their equipment banged on their hips and the dust roiled around them in the heat of the day.

‘Now, the advance to the enemy…’ the colour-sergeant paused for translation, ‘…is exactly the same but the other way round.’ The subadar looked confused by that phrase. ‘Och, just watch,’ and with a few simple commands the skirmish line advanced back to the point from which it had started, as precisely as it had fallen back, to the intense and noisy pleasure of the audience.

‘Well, Mellish, I’m not quite sure why we’ve caused such a stir with your lads,’ Morgan said to the 10th’s senior captain, ‘but d’you think they’ve grasped the principle?’

‘Yes, of course. You don’t understand them yet, Morgan: they delight in anything new; they’re impressed by organisation and regulation. It’s what makes them such a pleasure to command but also leaves them so vulnerable to big-mouthed badmashes who can exploit their religious beliefs better than we can. Let’s see if they’ve hoisted the idea aboard, shall we?’

With remarkably little fuss, the British officers gathered the sepoys around them, talking to them in quiet Hindi almost as a schoolmaster might speak to his most promising pupils. The jemadars and subadars spoke rapidly to the havildars and naiks and in no time the ranks were numbered off, kneeling attentively and waiting for orders. There were a few hesitations and some mistakes, but very quickly the sepoys were trotting and crouching, loading almost as smoothly as the well-practised 95th.

‘Looks like this lot picks things up dead quick, don’t it, sir?’ Corporal Pegg and the rest of the company were standing on the edge of the yard in the shadow thrown by the white-washed buildings, sucking greedily at their big, blue-painted water bottles once the order had been given. All of their grey flannel shirts were stained wet at the armpits and down the spine, and they pulled at the damp crotches of their blue serge trousers.

‘They seem to have got the hang of things remarkably well, Corp’l Pegg. I imagine we’ll be glad of their help when we meet Pandy,’ Morgan replied.

‘Aye, an’ they’ve ’ardly broke into a sweat, ’ave they?’ Beeston said. ‘But what’s that noise they’re mekin’, Corp’l?’

‘It’s just the sound that these wallahs mek rather than “bang” like a good Christian would,’ Pegg explained as the sepoys smacked their lips to simulate the firing of their rifles. ‘All sorts of strange ’abits, these foreigners, you know, Jono.’

‘Aye, but the officer’s right: they’ll be ’andy to ’ave alongside when we get to Delhi,’ Beeston added, a note of grudging respect in his voice.

‘P’raps, but pound to pinch o’ shit they’ll be no bloody use at all when the lead begins to fly, you mark my words,’ added Pegg, his twenty years and single chevron weighing heavily.