Red Runs the Helmand. Patrick Mercer
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them.
The people were mercifully slow to react. Morgan’s impression as he dashed and turned, sweeping his sword blade from side to side to keep the Kandaharis at bay, was of a cowering bank of flesh and cloth that pressed itself against the town’s walls as he and his men scrambled down the street.
‘Let’s not wait, Sar’nt Kelly, they’re hard behind,’ gasped Morgan, as he caught up with his clutch of men, who had paused to get a better hold on the barely conscious Thompson.
‘Aye, sir, I can see that . . .’ and, as if to reinforce what he knew already, a shower of stones, fruit and whatever else came to hand bounced around Kelly and Morgan as the mob surged up the street in pursuit.
‘So, hardly the most glorious start to an officer’s career, Mr Morgan?’ I knew that all four of those listening, Galbraith, Sergeant Kelly and Heath would be expecting me to show some sort of favouritism to my son. In truth, I’d have been a damn sight less hard on a young officer I didn’t know than I was going to have to be on Billy – if I’d been in that horrid situation, I suspect I’d have made a right bloody hash of things and got the whole patrol kicked and stabbed to death. What worried me, though, was how matter-of-fact Billy had been about killing a child.
‘No, sir, I know that, but I was fortunate to have a good set of men around me. If they’d got out of control or fired into the crowd, I suspect we wouldn’t be here now, sir,’ Billy answered confidently, Galbraith nodding his approval almost imperceptibly.
‘Quite so, young man. I gather that Private Thompson should recover, but you were lucky that the whole thing didn’t turn very nasty indeed. Who d’you suppose the maniac child was?’ I asked Billy, but Sergeant Kelly responded.
‘Ghazi, sir. Pretty young one, but a Ghazi beyond doubt,’ he said, with total conviction.
‘What – at twelve years of age? The only possible attraction I can see for being a bloody Ghazi is the dozens of virgins they’re promised in eternity if they butcher one of us. Can’t see how that would influence a twelve-year-old unless he’s a very early starter.’ The idea of using children as assassins was preposterous, wasn’t it? But, then, the very concept of committing certain suicide in the name of religion was also pretty odd – yet that was what was happening.
‘Well, sir, he was dressed all in white.’ Billy had taken up the narrative now. ‘Apparently he was yelling, “Din-din,” though I didn’t hear that myself. He was quite demented and went for Thompson with a knife rather than a firearm.’
‘Perhaps he couldn’t get a jezail or a pistol.’ I still found it hard to believe that anyone could bend a child’s mind to do such a thing.
‘Ten a penny in the metal-workers’ quarter, sir,’ Kelly added quietly.
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ I’d not yet been into the teeming bazaars of Kandahar, the same bazaars in which I was asking boys like Thompson to risk their lives. ‘Well, you two, it seems our enemies’ beastliness knows no bounds, yet you’ve come out of this remarkably unscathed. I have no doubt that the mullahs will get to the press vermin and that you’ll read all about your own atrocities, but let me handle that side of things.
‘Heath, I want a full account of this new tactic that the Ghazis are using sent to all commanding officers – and I’ll need to take a copy of it with me when I report to General Primrose, so don’t drag your heels.’ My brigade major adopted his customary harassed expression as he scratched in his notebook.
‘Have either of you anything more to say?’
Both Billy and his sergeant gave me a regulation ‘Nosir.’
‘Sar’nt Kelly, you should have known better than to let a patrol get into a mess like this and, Mr Morgan, if I hear about any more errors of judgement, then I’ll have your balls for bandoleers and you’ll be back to India before you know what’s hit you.’ I knew how lame this sounded and if it had been anyone but Billy standing in front of me, I would probably have given both him and his sergeant a cautious pat on the back – but I couldn’t, could I? ‘Well, think yourselves lucky. I’ll come and visit Private Thompson: now fall out, the pair of you.’ I’d tried to sound gruff and to conceal the fact that my son had got himself out of a nasty scrape without a mark on him, but as both officer and sergeant saluted, I caught a look in Billy’s eye that concerned me. He knew me – of course he did – and he would certainly know how much I sympathised with him and Kelly, whatever act I put on, but there was no self-doubt in that glance, apparently no residue of regret that the first person he’d had to kill had been just a child.
‘One more thing, Galbraith.’ I’d stood up, put on my helmet, settled my sword and was preparing to leave my son’s commanding officer. ‘You’ll need to be very careful of such tactics in the future. You’ll warn the men to be on the qui vive, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will, sir. In fact Taylor, whose company is just about to take over patrolling duties, is working up a series of instructions to help the men handle just such events in the future.’ He looked suitably pained that I should have asked such a question.
‘Quite so, quite so. I wouldn’t have expected anything less.’ I was trying my damnedest not to let my concern for Billy show, but I couldn’t quite stop myself. ‘I’ll smooth things over with General Primrose. And how’s young Mr Morgan settling in?’
‘He’s a most promising officer, sir, and while I know how ticklish things are in town, I think he conducted himself right well today.’ Galbraith stared straight back, making no reference to the boy’s relationship to me. But I wondered if he knew the question I really wanted to ask.
I wanted to ask him how he would have reacted to having to run his sword through a twelve-year-old’s chest. Would he have shown no remorse, like Billy? I knew that – no matter the circumstances – I would have reproached myself. I wanted to ask him if he’d noticed the cold glaze in my son’s eyes. But I didn’t – I couldn’t. I just nodded my understanding, flicked a salute out of courtesy and left the room.
Chapter Three - Khusk-i-Nakud
The 3rd Scinde Horse felt they were old hands, for they had been in Afghanistan more than a year and had a couple of successful skirmishes to their credit; now they were brimful of confidence. As the tribesmen seemed to have subsided into an uneasy truce, there was time for some sport in the hills and valleys around Kandahar: the commanding officer had asked some of the new arrivals from India to join him and his officers for what was insouciantly known as a ‘little spearing’.
It was widely accepted that Sam’s step-father, Brigadier General Anthony Morgan, regarded himself as a great shikari, so an invitation to ride out with a pig-spear, almost as soon as he’d wiped the dust of his travels off himself, had seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Over the past two years, Sam had written and received a few stiff soldier-father-to-soldier-son letters from his step-father, but he hadn’t seen him until now. He was wondering how much the prospect of another campaign at this late stage of his career would please him. Then Malcolmson, the colonel, ambitious to the last and delighted that one of his people knew someone of influence, had introduced his officers – the handful of British and twice the number of Indians – to their guests. Keenan was amused to see that his father had changed into mufti while he and the other officers had been required to stay in uniform due, as the colonel stuffily put it, ‘to the omnipresent possibility of an enemy presence’.
They’d all been lined up outside the bungalow that served as the British officers’ mess, themselves drinking a fruit-punch stirrup cup and the Indian officers unadulterated fruit juice. Malcolmson, no doubt, wanted to give the new general an impression of relaxed élan, a study in dash and the spirit of irregular cavalry, but once the man himself and the other guests came cantering up, in an assortment of linen jackets, corduroy breeches and the most battered sun-helmets, the colonel’s efforts were made to look a little contrived. Had the officers of the Scinde Horse been similarly déshabillé then the ruse might have worked, but the polished boots, the native officers’