MONDAY MORNING arrived. The third day of battle. At parade in the dim early light of dawn the officers gave their instructions for the day's action. The orders called for more of the same. Keep down and let the artillery bombardment continue.
The General, swagger stick in hand, paced up and down in front of the troops as plans were announced. It was then the men knew. There would be no assault on enemy positions. The General would either starve the rebels out, or bomb them into submission. A process that might take months, if it happened at all.
Tom, like the other men, was disgusted by developments. But unlike some he did not become sullen or stoic in the face of orders he deemed obtuse.
For a few minutes they waited for the Lieutenant.
"Keep you chins up lads," said Tom with a touch of pomposity. "He'll starve those devils into submission."
"Even if it takes a year," Bo added unhappily.
"It probably will," put in Sandy.
"Don't worry, he'll bomb them all the way to China. But he can't do it by doomsday; it's gonna take him a few days more."
The men laughed nervously. A few cast anxious glances around, afraid officers would overhear.
"Our fearless leader, the Lord High Poohbah General Ponce, needs reinforcements," went on Tom.
"Maybe Lord Melgund did go to fetch help," put in Bo.
"That's right," Tom shot back. "He's fetching the Light Brigade, what's left of 'em!"
Gloomy laughter greeted this remark.
"No really," said Bo, when the laughter subsided. "Maybe he did."
"He's gonna really beef up his command," said Tom. "He's bringing in the Bengal Lancers and the Army of the Potomac too."
"The whole British Army," chimed in Higgins, getting into the act.
"Absolutely!" exclaimed Tom. "We'll have men so thick up here we won't be able to lie down. We'll have to stand shoulder to shoulder, all night long. Our sheer number will just frighten the rebels to death. We won't have to fire a shot."
At this they all broke into laughter.
"Pipe down!" a voice barked. An officer standing thirty feet away glared at the members of Baker Troop.
"With this bloody lot, I'll bet he yearns for sepoys and the good old days at Lucknow," muttered Tom, making sure he had the last word.
The general mirth, unsmothered by the officer, only fully settled down when Lieutenant Richards appeared. Immediately the men were serious and attentive as he gave them their personal detail for the day.
Shortly thereafter they were marched off for another tour of duty at the front. Just before they left however, Tom grabbed Jack by the shoulder.
"Stick with me today," he said.
Jack looked at Tom but before he could speak the order came: "Move out!"
The column had moved rapidly, but Tom managed to hustle alongside Jack.
"I have something I want to show you," he said. Jack had no time to ponder this enigmatic statement.
Baker Troop, along with the rest of the Midland Battalion, reoccupied their trenches on the extreme left flank. Tom and Jack settled in together.
The sun climbed wearily in the sky, indifferent to the figures below.
Jack kept a careful lookout over the rim of the trench. He could not see movement, but he did hear the regular far off pop of rifle fire, and near at hand the occasional report from close fire. Neither of them did much shooting, Jack for lack of targets of opportunity, Tom for lack of interest. He jabbered on, moving about the trench to point out things of interest.
Toward noon they both saw Colonel Williams lead a column of men forward under cover of a ridge near the river. Several minutes later gunners wheeled two nine pounders into the position secured by the Colonel.
"For God's sake, Colonel," said Tom, peering over the top of the trench, "what do you think you're doing? I thought you were told to sit tight. Damn fool doesn't know any better."
Jack chuckled quietly. He knew Tom admired the Colonel.
"I guess he's frustrated," said Jack.
"I'll break that man," said Tom, in a vague imitation of the General. "What does he think he's doing, fighting a war?"
Across the field they heard the command: "Fire!"
A terrific blast, the gun recoiled and several suspenseful seconds later an explosion blew in the side of the longest building in the village.
"Rebel H.Q., I'll bet," said Jack.
Then faintly they heard the command to reload. The shelling continued for some time.
All along the line the rattle of gunfire could be heard as the battle heated up. Jack and Tom kept low and after about an hour things seemed to settle down somewhat.
Tom took the opportunity of relative quiet to munch a bit of hard tack. Jack took his helmet off and slowly raised his eyes to ground level. There was no sound at all now as he scanned enemy trenches for signs of life. It must be dinner time, he thought. For a long time he lay there, stretched out on his stomach, watching for movement.
Then suddenly he felt Tom's hand on his left arm.
"Don't move," said Tom.
Jack froze.
"We have a visitor."
A strange sensation coursed down Jack's back.
"This is what I wanted you to see."
Jack started to turn.
"Slowly," said Tom, squeezing Jack's arm, "you'll scare him."
Jack turned. Tom was lying flat, his head rested just beneath the rim of the trench. Jack's eyes followed the gaze of Tom's eyes to a mound of earth at the rear of the pit.
Sitting there, absolutely motionless and staring back at them was a gopher.
"My friend," said Tom. "He visited on and off all day yesterday."
Moving carefully Tom threw a piece of hard tack two feet to the right of the animal. It blinked, but made no motion. The two men watched as though entranced. The gopher blinked again, then darted for the food. It munched away oblivious to the audience.
Several more times Tom threw tack to the mound of earth. Each time the gopher retrieved it, then perched happily on its haunches eating with his two friends.
"He must like it," said Tom. "He ate my whole dinner yesterday."
The gopher had stopped nibbling now. He blinked twice, then stared at the two prone figures.
Suddenly the crack of a Winchester broke the silence and the gopher catapulted backwards.
Tom threw himself across the trench to find his friend. Two feet down the far side of the mound he saw the decapitated body of the little animal. For a second it shivered stiffly, then twitched once, then lay still. The head was nowhere to be seen.
"Damn! Bloody hell!" he shouted.
"Tom." shouted Jack. "Get down!"
Tom felt the powerful arm of his friend around his waist and felt himself being hurled back, to the bottom of the shallow trench.
For a long time he sprawled there speechless. He stared at Jack with glassy eyes. He was very quiet for the remainder of the afternoon.
At sunset the Midland Battalion was withdrawn from the line. As Jack entered the zareba he immediately realized something was amiss.
He and Tom made their way over to their sleeping kit, deposited their rifles and ammunition pouches and hungrily ate some cold beef and biscuits. Only when he had finished did he realize what it was that was different.
Except for the dull metal clank of mess kits the place was completely quiet. There was no conversation, no good humoured joshing. The men ate in silence. A few shuffled about without apparent purpose.
Jack walked over to the centre of the camp, near the hospital tents, to fill his canteen. As he approached he could hear the pitiful cries of the patients and the terse conversation of doctors.
He had almost reached the water barrel on a wagon nearby when he practically stumbled on what appeared to be discarded rags. There was a wide row of them. Then he saw, in their midst, a solitary white face staring patiently at the evening sky. He felt a surge of revulsion, then unreasoned fear. He stepped quickly around the bodies and over to the barrel. He opened his canteen, picked up the dipper and was about to use it when he heard: "I wouldn't, if I were you soldier."
Jack swung around. At first he could not find the source of the voice. Then he did. A figure toiled away near the fallen. He was sewing canvas shrouds over bodies. Jack had not seen him at first because he wore dark tattered civilian clothes and worked in silence at the end of the row.
"It'll make you sick," explained the voice.
Jack dropped the dipper. The water was contaminated!
He beat a hasty retreat.
As he dropped down beside Tom he described what had happened.
"I'm not surprised," said Tom, when Jack had finished, "lots of the boys have dysentery. And they go anywhere. Either they can't make it to the latrines or they're afraid to move around too much.
"As a matter of fact the place is a pig sty. Trash all over, dung, dirt. The bloody dirt, it's into everything and the place stinks. Can't you smell it?"
There was no need to reply. The stench hung over the camp like an evil cloud. It had for several days.
In the silence that followed Tom's remark Jack sensed something else. The first tentacles of fear had found a foothold. Not fear of battle. The Midlanders, the Grenadiers, the 90th, all of them, to a man, they were ready, even impatient, for action. The fear that gripped the camp was that of a senseless, idle death in the zareba from a sniper's bullet.
For two nights and three days the men had lived under the threat of death from enemy snipers. The troops were demoralized. Enemy tactics were beginning to take their toll.
The officers saw all of this.
Colonel Williams decided to do something about it. He quietly summoned a private, informal conference at Battalion Headquarters, a conference that was strictly unofficial. A number of prominent officers, one being the General, were conspicuous by their absence. They had not been invited to confer.
