cthulhu, met. We shall see.
Darks63, I changed it a little with the custom event. Thanks Allenby for crafting that.
Draco, India never changes for the British.
Allenby, you never know who will pop up in the oddest of places.
5th May 1936
London:
The cabinet had just finished the last session for the day, the Prime Minister tiring towards the end. Apart from the North West Frontier, there was little out of the ordinary. Stanley Baldwin took Alfred Duff Cooper aside.
'It can be done can't it? What does the King know of it?' Cooper partially looked over his shoulder.
'The King knows little. The Air Ministry have given approval, and the War Office can spare the men to provide for it.' Baldwin looked around again.
'Good, should be most excellent. I assume you have read the copy of the speech he sent over? John [Simon] and Anthony [Eden]?' Cooper responded.
'Yes, most excellent really. Wembley will love it. Just hope he doesn't stutter to badly.' Baldwin had a slight smile.
'Not to worry Alfred, we'll be standing behind him, whilst the King is out gallivanting with his latest interest. Some American women, Special Branch will have a report for us soon.' Cooper looked relieved.
'Surely that strictly isn't proper?' Baldwin now rebutted.
'My dear Alfred, of course it is. She is some divorced American women, of which we know little about. She might pose a threat to the defence of the realm. So under the Defence of the Realm act we can. Any sordid details that don't pose a threat to the realm will just have to be ignored.' Baldwin gave a slight laugh as he walked back to his office.
Peshawar:
Having been under almost contrast attack since the siege began on the 29th of April, Brigadier Peele was facing a dire situation. Although he had suffered casualties, he was still able to adequately defend the fort, Although the supplier of water was beginning to become a genuine problem. The tribesman seemed to be growing ever stronger. Whatever losses were inflicted, seemed to be replaced.
'Corporal. Corporal! Bring your section to the west wall and set up on the parapet. Staff Sergent, hand me my rifle.' Peele was handed his rifle. He would need it, as would everyone everyone. He kept a loaded Webley tucked into the front of his trousers, his holster having been lost some day previous.
'Watch them, bloody watch them!' Some tribesman were spotted sneaking through the rubble, past their fellow dead from a previous assault.
'Keep your fire clean,we must conserve ammunition.' The garrison had been using ammunition at a fierce rate. The defenders on the wall began skirmishing with the tribesman that were using debris as cover. Soon the firing ceased, the garrison fighting off the small attack. To the North, a large force tribal force appeared, under a green banner. It was the fakir.
'To all the British within the walls! Here me now, for Allah will spare your lives if you leave now. Leave this place, or you will surely all die!' The fakir yelled. Peele rushed onto the Northern parapet, his men remaining hidden.
'Not bloody likely!' Peele yelled, building up the courage to yell it out. The garrison opened fire on the gathered tribesmen who fanned out and returned fire. Peele fired his rifle, missed then slid the bolt back gently. The fakir was in his sights, looking down the sights, he squeezed the trigger, his finger exerting barely any pressure. He fired, the recoil barely disturbing his sight. The bullet entered the Fakir's right arm, he had effectively missed, and a number of men dragged the bleeding man behind some rubble. Outside the fort, bodies lay strewn where they had fallen, with only a very few moaning or trying to move. They would soon die. Inside the fort, the few casualties were bing buried in shallow graves, and the thousands of empty shell casings lay scattered, only to be collected at night by the multitude of camp followers.
That afternoon, more tribesmen appeared, with the fakir now lying on an improvised stretcher, being carried by a number of his followers.
'You see you British could not kill me, a servant of Allah. You will all die before the setting of tomorrows sun!' Peele did not speak, and three seconds later he did not miss.
'Sergent, form a scouting party. Bring back the body!' The tribesmen were fought off again, loosing a number of their men.
'Sergent, we will cover you from the fort. If things go off, there is cover behind that wall, make sure your men no where to go.' Peele ordered the gates to be opened and the Sergent and seven men dashed out, running low, using the terrain for cover.
'Keep your eyes open, we fire on sight.' Two men grabbed the dead Fakir and started hauling him through the dust back under the cover of the wall. Private Edward Heaton was hiding behind the wall with the rest, watching the buildings for signs of movement.
'Take cover!' he yelled as a number of tribesmen appeared through the remains of one of the buildings. He fired, as did the rest of the men and the two dragging the body sprinted to the wall, body in tow.
'Covering fire!' Peele yelled from inside the fort. Rifle fire was being exchanged and Heaton and another man, Henderson stayed behind the wall, whilst the rest retreated. Rifle fire cracked by, sending flakes of dust into the air. Henderson was killed, clean through the head. Heaton ducked behind the corner of an old dilapidated building adjacent to the hall. He was grabbed from behind, a massive kukri against his throat.. He fired, but he couldn't work the bolt, and his rifle was kicked from his hand. He struggled with the wild tribesman and he drew his revolver and fired once into the man's stomach. More appeared, he fired again and again. Until only one of the wild men were left, the last carrying what appeared to be a lancers sword. He fired, but the revolver was empty. He squeezed the trigger again and again. Empty. The wild man charged at him, and he felt the full force of the mans fist against his face.
He awoke in a daze, the sun blazing down on him. He was knelling, his head being held up by a hand that had a fistful of hair. He tried to gauge his location, but he Heaton was still dazed.
'Will you sacrifice your own men for your hopeless cause?' The man yelled. His feet were bound, as were his hands in rough rope. Heaton was staring into the sun, partially blinded, only the outline of the man could be seen.
'This man will die because of you.' He yelled again. There was no response. From the fort, Peele and his men looked on. There was nothing that could have been done. The garrison watched as the man shouted in his native tongue and rose his sword above Heaton's neck. Peele could do nothing but feel helpless. Heaton said nothing, almost unable to speak. He muttered something, perhaps the beginnings of a small prayer. The almost giant appearing man launched his sword down upon poor Heaton's neck, decapitating the British soldier. Shots rang out, and the man was killed who fell next to his executed prisoner.
'Damn it to all hell! The bastards. They are uncivilized barbarians!' Peele was pushed to the limit, he had snapped. He could do nothing else. It was a blow to the morale of the garrison, but that was not the worst. From the west, a column of injured and bedraggled men were shouting and waving their arms about. The only officer of the men, a Captain Stuart was the last surviving officer from the Kyber Garrison. The remaining men had been allowed to retreat, moreover to tell of the slaughter. Completely overwhelmed, the slaughter was immense. They had fought to the last round until they surrendered.
'Captain Stuart. How many men do you have remaining?' [He wheezed heavily] 'About forty injured, few walking wounded, thats about it. No ammunition, food or supplies. All destroyed.' Peele looked at him glumly. More sick and injured men.
'Damn it. Where the hell is the relief force?' D. F Deedes was writing, Private Heaton would be a martyr, a heroes death. Heath's brigade was now only seven miles from Peshawar, however the light was fading fast and the storm clouds were brewing.
Until the next day, both sides rested and planned. Heath started early against Peshawar, with the support of two armoured cars rushed from Abbotsbad, his aim was to strike into Peshawar and relieve the fort. Harvey's brigade would be following to the left as a reserve and flanking force. As the day drew on, the fighting around the fort intensified dramatically. For almost four straight hours the tribes attacked constantly, the dead rising, and not only amongst the tribesmen. A young corporal came running to Peele.
'To the South Sir! [excitedly] The relief column!' Peele looked out, it was Heath's men, marching slowly towards the fort. Suddenly, hundreds of horsemen firing into the air appeared to the West of the town, out of the range of the fort and charging towards Heath, chanting and screaming at the top of their lungs.
The thin topsoil was creating a large dust cloud in the sky and Heath and his men saw it coming. Given enough time to ready the machine guns and prepare the infantry, the formation spread out, with almost every available weapon pointed towards the on coming cavalry. The primary automatic weapons were the lewis machine guns, holdovers from the great war and some of the new Vickers Bertha's, which the Indian army had purchased as a replacement. As the cavalry drew nearer, even Heath, the soldiers soldier drew his revolver in case the cavalry broke through. Screams, chanting and yelling were heard first, then the hooves. Great banners were fluttering in the breeze as the cavalry began the charge. Heath would later draw parallels with the charge of the Light Brigade during the Crimean War almost eighty years before. The men on horse charged the automatic weapons and men armed with Lee Enfield rifles, capable of firing off fifteen well aimed shots per minute. Into the hail of led the men charged, bravely beyond any measure of the word. Men and horse were cut down by the British and Indian fire. In what was a set piece battle, a cavalry charge in an attempt to break through a relatively straight front was more akin to a battle from medieval Europe, but in this primitive land it was nothing if not modern. Only a few cavalry even made it to the British line, and those that did were quickly overwhelmed. For four hundred yards in front of Heath and his men lay the dead of what would probably be the last great cavalry charge. At least 1200 had charged that day, and almost to a man and horse lay in the dirt and mud of the plain.
Never one to waste time, Heath urged his men on. The fortifications were slowly being subsumed by tribesmen, like an ever encroaching tide against a castle of sand, Peele was slowly loosing. Heath and his men would relieve Peele, however the situation was beyond repair and the province would have to be abandoned for to the left, Harvey in Personal command was checked then beaten by a large contingent of tribesmen in a series of running battles across the plains and in the mountains. The Hindukush would destroy him, but it would also make another man, Lewis Heath would forever be known as
Heath of Peshawar as the Daily Mail would call him. It was a disaster for the Army, even though the Peshawar garrison had been saved, but the province lost for the meantime.
In a case of stunning defeats, victories and personal sacrifice, the news would cause uproar in London. The press wanted responsibility for the dashing of British pride in India, but more importantly, the government wanted a scapegoat for this loss of face. Questions, serious questions were going to be raised in Parliament, and within the government, and like bloodhounds, the press smelt blood.
