The Regiment Read online

  The Regiment

  Christopher Nicole

  Copyright © Christopher Nicole 1988

  The right of Christopher Nicole to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1988 by Century Hutchinson Ltd.

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This book is dedicated to GEORGE GREENFIELD, who suggested the idea

  This is a novel. The characters, except where they can be identified historically, are invented and are not intended to depict real persons, living or dead. Similarly, there is no such regiment as the Royal Western Dragoon Guards. The wars and battles are, however, factual, and are recounted as accurately as the story will allow.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue – May, 1983

  Part One – The Subaltern

  1 – Cape Town, 1899

  2 – The Modder River, 1899

  3 – The Orange Free State, 1900

  4 – The Transvaal, 1901

  5 – The Transvaal, 1901

  Part Two –The Captain

  6 – Bath, 1902-06

  7 – The Transvaal, 1906

  8 – Somalia, 1907

  9 – Somalia, 1907

  Part Three – The Major

  11 – Bath, 1908

  12 – Bath, 1908-13

  13 – The Curragh, 1914

  14 – France, 1914

  15 – Le Cateau, 1914

  Prologue – May, 1983

  ‘You’ll be for the regimental dinner,’ remarked the doorman at the Savoy Hotel, holding his umbrella above the young man as he got out of his taxi; the May evening, still light, was obscured by the persistent London drizzle. Hastily the new arrival was escorted into the warm comfort of the lobby, where he stood for a moment, water dripping from his dark blue overcoat and from the burnished helmet he carried under his arm. The elegantly dressed men and women moving to and fro before him paid little attention as he removed his greatcoat and revealed the sky-blue shell jacket, dark blue breeches, high polished black boots, lacking spurs, and the cavalry sabre hanging at his side. If he appeared as a relic from a long-forgotten imperial past, the hotel guests and staff had already seen too many exactly like him this evening.

  One of the under-managers was waiting for him. ‘It’s down the stairs and on the left, sir,’ he explained confidentially.

  ‘Thank you.’ The second lieutenant crossed the floor, disturbingly aware of the noise his boots were making, and descended the stairs. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the sergeant-major, also wearing full dress uniform, standing before one of the doors. ‘Lieutenant Wilson,’ he murmured diffidently.

  The sergeant-major came to attention. ‘Lieutenant Wilson, sir,’ he repeated, as if he did not already know the newcomer by sight. ‘Colonel Mackinder is waiting, sir.’

  ‘The taxi was late,’ Lieutenant Wilson explained, pausing as he stepped inside. The large room was festooned with bunting, dominated by the huge light blue regimental flag, but surrounded by others, ensigns and standards representing the battle honours won by the Royal Western Dragoons during their remarkable history. Sedgemoor—the regiment had been raised by Sir William Lord of Taunton in 1683 just to oppose Monmouth’s rebellion—and Blenheim, Minden and Busaco, Salamanca and Vittoria, Waterloo and Chilianwalah, Kabul and the Modder River, Le Cateau and the Somme, Dunkirk and El Alamein, the list was endless. Beneath the flags, the long tables sagged under the weight of the regimental silver; there were four tables, a top and three arms stretching away from it, with the centre arm slightly longer than the others. Along the near wall there ran another long table, on which all the helmets of the diners were arrayed.

  The room was also filled with officers, past and present, from youthful second lieutenants like Wilson himself, more at home inside a tank than on the back of a horse, to active captains and retired majors, all wearing the unique sky-blue jacket—a reminder of the Peninsular War, when the original red tunics wore out. No replacements were available, so the then lieutenant-colonel had obtained permission from the Duke of Wellington to clothe his men out of his own pocket; the only material obtainable in sufficient quantity was sky-blue. Already known as ‘Lord’s Own’, from the name of their founder, the nickname had promptly been changed to ‘Heaven’s Own’ by the rest of the army, and had been worn with distinction and pride ever since.

  ‘Wilson! Thank God you’ve arrived. The old man is expected at any moment.’

  Lieutenant Wilson faced his commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Ian Mackinder, a tall, powerfully built man with clipped features and piercing blue eyes, who, Wilson had already discovered, was not quite so fierce as he sometimes appeared; but he was looking fierce enough this evening. ‘The taxi was late, sir,’ he explained.

  ‘You know what you have to do?’ Mackinder inquired, ignoring the stammered excuse.

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Think so? Damn it, boy, you have to know it. Come with me.’

  Other officers stepped aside as the colonel led the junior lieutenant through their ranks to the huge painting which hung immediately behind the top table; some looked sympathetic, some looked amused; most had had to undergo this ordeal early in their own careers, when they had first joined the regiment.

  ‘Now,’ Colonel Mackinder said. ‘Tell me about that picture.’

  Lieutenant Wilson swallowed. He was staring at the most famous episode in the entire history of the Royal Western Dragoons. The picture depicted an enormous number of turbaned warriors, some on horseback, most on foot, milling about a sunbaked Indian plain beneath a brilliantly blue sky, and being charged by about four hundred helmeted horsemen, armed with swords and wearing sky-blue jackets, weapons pointed in front of them as they followed their commander into what seemed certain death.

  ‘Well?’ Mackinder demanded.

  Wilson swallowed again. ‘That was April 1843, sir,’ he said. ‘Just after the Battle of Hyderabad, when Sir George Napier completed the conquest of Sind. Two squadrons of the Royal Westerns were detailed to carry out a reconnaissance towards the Baluchi position. Their commanding officer was Major Ian Mackinder...’ He paused to glance at the man beside him, but Mackinder’s face was impassive. ‘A Scottish officer who had only recently been seconded to the regiment, but was now in command owing to the illness of the lieutenant-colonel. The regiment was led into a trap by their guides, and found itself surrounded by fifteen thousand Baluchis, who summoned Major Mackinder to surrender.’ Again he paused, having run out of breath.

  ‘Well?’ Colonel Mackinder demanded.

  ‘Major Mackinder refused to surrender,’ Wilson went on. ‘Instead, he led his men in prayer, and then drew his sword and gave the order to charge. The Baluchis broke and fled, and Major Mackinder took his men to safety with the loss of but thirty casualties.’

  ‘Now, do you feel capable of repeating that prayer?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Wilson said, and drew a long breath. ‘“May the great—”’

  ‘Not now, boy,’ his colonel admonished. ‘When the time comes. Just remember it. I think the old man is here.’

  The sergeant-major had appeared in the doorway and was signalling urgently. Mackinder, followed by his adjutant and the regimental majors, hurried across as several men entered the room. They all wore the sky-blue jackets of the Westerns, and three of them looked remarkably alike, except for differences in ages. They also looked remarkably like Lieutenant-Colonel Mackinder, who was now greeting them. Wilson knew that they were in fact all Mackinders; with one or two very brief exceptions, the Royal Western Dragoons had always had a Mackinder on their roster since that fateful day in 1843, and
the three men who had just arrived, father, son, and grandson, were all past lieutenant-colonels.

  Like everyone else in the room, Wilson had eyes only for the man in the centre of the group; because if Major Ian Mackinder had been the founder of a legend, this man, his great-grandson, was the most famous soldier ever to wear the sky-blue jacket of the regiment. It was not merely his exalted rank—Lieutenant-General (retired) Sir Murdoch Mackinder, VC, KCMG, DSO and bar, Légion d’honneur, followed by a host of other honours and decorations which were all displayed upon his breast tonight—which made him memorable; nor even the fact that he was still alive, at the age of one hundred and two, and still stood erect, and moved firmly, if slowly, smiling a greeting here, nodding another there, clearly remembering many of the faces. What had made him into an immortal was the legend of his life, the manner in which he had gained all those decorations. And now, having handed over his helmet to a waiting orderly to be placed beside the others on the table along the wall, he was coming closer. Wilson braced himself and stood to attention, trying to keep himself from shaking with apprehension.

  Murdoch Mackinder’s own great-grandson, the lieutenant-colonel, stood beside the famous old man. ‘May I present Second Lieutenant Wilson, sir,’ he said. ‘Just joined.’

  Wilson gazed at a tall, very spare man, clean shaven and not, at the moment, anyway, wearing glasses—nor was it easy to suppose that the cool blue eyes ever needed them. His features had the family clipped regularity, which tended again to create an impression of coolness, perhaps even aloofness, but he was smiling as he extended his hand. ‘The new sub,’ he remarked. ‘Are you nervous, Mr Wilson?’

  ‘I...ah...yes, sir,’ Wilson said.

  Murdoch Mackinder nodded. ‘If you weren’t, you’d have reason to worry. We were all nervous when we had to utter the prayer.’ The smile broadened. ‘I imagine even the first Ian Mackinder was nervous.’

  ‘Were you nervous, sir?’ Wilson could not believe his ears.

  ‘When I had to utter the prayer? My dear boy, I was shivering like a kitten,’ General Mackinder told him. ‘And many times afterwards, I can tell you. No nerves, no performance. Remember that.’ He turned to his great-grandson. ‘Well, Colonel Mackinder, shall we begin? Dr Crossfield says I have to be in bed by midnight.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Take your place, Wilson,’ Colonel Mackinder said, and escorted his great-grandfather, flanked by his father and grandfather, to the head of the table, where the old gentleman was seated exactly beneath the picture of the first Ian Mackinder’s charge. The other officers took their places, and the sergeant-major stood to attention at Wilson’s shoulder, at the foot of the longer centre arm, facing both Murdoch Mackinder and the picture, with the regimental standard in his right hand.

  ‘Gentlemen, the regimental prayer.’

  Every officer stood to attention, and then, with a single movement, each drew his sword and pointed it at the ceiling. There were some seventy men present, and Lieutenant Wilson, gazing at the swords held aloft, his own amongst them, had a sudden concept that this was indeed a recreation of the scene on that hot and dusty Pakistani plain, a hundred and forty years before, when Ian Mackinder and his men had accepted the simple choice: victory, or death. ‘Mr Wilson, sir.’ The voice was quiet, as the room was absolutely still.

  Lieutenant Wilson took the longest breath of his life. ‘“May the great God of battle,”’ he said, in a high, clear voice, “‘who has guided the fate of this famous regiment on many a hard-fought field, and never failed to lead it to distinction, grant that on this day, faced as we are with a host of enemies of our Queen and our country, every man will do his duty, so that should we fail in our ordained task, it will yet be said of us, they were the Royal Western Dragoon Guards, who fought and died according to the ancient valour of their regiment and their blood.”’

  There was a moment of silence, then Wilson remembered, and added, speaking quietly as he had been instructed, “Gentlemen, there is your enemy.” ‘

  There was a burst of applause as the swords were sheathed with a scintillating rasp, and the orderlies moved forward to relieve the diners and stack the weapons against the wall. The assembly then sat down, but Murdoch Mackinder remained standing. ‘That was well said, Mr Wilson. Well said. The regiment is proud of you.’

  There was another ripple of applause, and the old gentleman took his seat, while the waiters immediately began carrying in the meal.

  ‘When you said the prayer, Great-grandpa,’ Ian Mackinder wondered, ‘where was the dinner held?’

  ‘Oh, down in Bath, in the mess,’ Murdoch Mackinder replied. ‘It was a much smaller, more intimate affair in those days. Besides, we were under orders to sail for the Cape the next week.’

  ‘My God, to fight the Boers,’ Ian Mackinder said. ‘That seems...’ He checked himself.

  Murdoch Mackinder smiled. ‘A long time ago? It was a long time ago. Different men, different weapons, different enemies. Perhaps a different concept of life. But the same regiment.’

  ‘I imagine these dinners take you back,’ his great-grandson ventured.

  ‘They do,’ Murdoch Mackinder agreed. ‘All of those eighty-four years.’ His eyes were misty as he looked into his wineglass.

  Part One – The Subaltern

  1 – Cape Town, 1899

  The hansom cab rolled to a halt at the gates of the military depot outside the city of Bath, and the young officer stepped down. He wore a sky-blue jacket and dark blue breeches, black boots, and a burnished gilt helmet with a nodding plume. His sword was tucked under his arm. His boxes were lifted down by the cabby, watched with interest by the soldier on guard duty, who also wore light and dark blue. ‘Who goes there, sir?’ he inquired, coming to attention.

  ‘Second Lieutenant Mackinder, reporting for duty,’ Murdoch Mackinder told him. ‘Is there someone to help with my gear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the sentry said. ‘Sergeant,’ he called, without turning his head.

  The sergeant emerged from the guardhouse and swung the gate in. ‘Mr Mackinder, sir.’ He stood to attention and saluted. ‘We was not expecting you before tomorrow.’

  ‘I found an earlier train,’ Murdoch Mackinder told him. ‘My gear?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Look alive there,’ the sergeant shouted, and four other troopers hurried from the guardhouse to stand to attention before .the officer. Murdoch looked past them at the barracks, and the parade ground, and the stables, and the flags—and drew a deep breath. This depot had already played a large part in his life, but he had never actually been here before. As a Mackinder, all his life he had been destined for just this moment, when he would report for duty to the regiment which his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather had all commanded in turn. And which he would in turn one day command? That was looking too far ahead. But he could feel the weight of history descending on his shoulders.

  Well, sir, welcome to Bath,’ the sergeant said. ‘Colonel Edmonds will be pleased to see you.’

  He gave instructions to his men, who collected the two suitcases and the various other personal pieces of equipment—the saddle and the bag of golf clubs, the small cased travelling library and the revolver holster—which were all indications of the young English officer and gentleman in the sixty-second year of the reign of Queen Victoria, Queen of England, Empress of India, and head of the greatest empire the world had ever seen. They would take the baggage directly to the bachelor officers’ quarters; Murdoch followed the sergeant round the central parade ground, where a troop of recruits were undergoing the basic training of mounting—and falling off—a line of patient horses, towards the headquarters building, where the pale blue regimental standard and the Union Jack waved together above the red brick and the creeping wisteria.

  Here there were more sentries, and the regimental mascot—a Shetland pony called Morag, who almost seemed able to stand to attention like her human companions at the approach of an officer. The door at the top of the steps was opened for him, a
nd he stepped into an office, where another sergeant and two corporals immediately stood to attention behind their desks, and a languid-looking young man with a pale moustache glanced up from his desk with tremendous disinterest.

  ‘Second Lieutenant Mackinder, sir, reporting for duty,’ the sergeant said.

  The officer, who also wore the single pip—or star—of a subaltern on his epaulette, raised his eyebrows. ‘Bit early, aren’t you, old man? Weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, I found I had a day to spare...

  And you’re keen as mustard. Because your name’s Mackinder.’

  ‘My name is Mackinder, yes,’ Murdoch said. He was beginning to bridle, and when he did that he suddenly looked older than his eighteen years. He was tall for his age and somewhat slenderly built, but there was clearly ample strength in the narrow frame, and he carried himself with the peculiar erectness that marks the born professional soldier. But it was his face which always attracted attention. It was a thin face, matching the body beneath, with unusually clipped features which made an attractive whole. His mouth was flat and strong, his complexion good, if a trifle pale, his hair was black and lank, and his eyes were a pale blue—normally cool, but occasionally, as now, distinctly cold.

  ‘You can see the resemblance,’ said his new acquaintance, glancing at the portrait which hung on the wall, opposite that of the Queen.

  Murdoch followed his example and looked at his great-grandfather, General Sir Ian Mackinder, the hero of the famous charge in Baluchistan in 1843. A print of the same portrait hung in his mother’s house.

  ‘Hobbs is the name,’ said the lieutenant, holding out his hand. ‘Glad to have you with us, Mackinder. Forgive the chaff, but Mackinder is not a name we are ever allowed to forget about in this regiment.’