WHEN THE BUGLES CALL

WHEN THE BUGLES CALL

14-16 DECEMBER 1883

The French were formed up before the light had fully burned the mist from the ground.

Thomas stood with the legionnaires beyond the main line and looked towards Sơn Tây.

From a distance it seemed less like a town than something that had grown out of the earth itself. The walls were reddish-brown, heavy and squat, built from blocks of hard laterite cut from the iron-rich soil. Beyond them rose the citadel, pale in the morning light.

Around the fortress lay another ring of defences.

Bamboo.

Ditches.

Earthworks.

Thomas could make out dark figures moving between them.

He swallowed.

This was no village.

The guns opened.

The first French cannon fired with a concussion that struck him in the chest.

A heartbeat later the shot hit the wall.

Not a metallic ring.

A brutal, cracking thud.

A burst of red dust leapt from the laterite and drifted away in the morning air.

Another gun fired.

Then another.

The fortress began to disappear behind smoke.

Thomas watched the walls take the punishment.

Some shots buried themselves in the heavy masonry. Others tore chunks from the face of the ramparts and sent reddish fragments spinning into the air. Each impact raised another cloud of dust, until parts of the wall seemed to bleed the colour of the earth itself.

Beside him, Marcel grunted.

“Tough bastard.”

Thomas nodded.

He had expected cannon to smash walls apart.

These walls seemed merely irritated by it.

Then the infantry went forward.

The Marines advanced first, moving towards the eastern defences in loose lines.

Thomas heard the first scattered shots from the Black Flags.

Then the Gras rifles answered.

Within minutes the battlefield vanished.

Black-powder smoke rolled across the ground in thick white-grey banks. Every French volley added to it. The wind pushed the smoke back towards the Legion until Thomas could taste it.

Sulphur.

Burnt powder.

Something bitter that caught at the back of his throat.

Men coughed.

Someone spat.

Through the smoke he could see only pieces of the battle.

A line of Marines moving forward.

A flag.

A man running.

Bayonets catching the sun.

Then nothing.

Another volley cracked.

The smoke thickened.

Thomas wiped his watering eyes.

“Can’t see a bloody thing.”

“That is generally when somebody shoots at you,” Bartoli said.

A few men laughed.

The laughter sounded forced.

The firing ahead became faster.

Too fast.

Thomas frowned.

The Gras was a good rifle, but what he was hearing from the enemy line was different.

Several shots in quick succession.

Then more.

Marcel heard it too.

“Repeaters.”

Thomas looked at him.

“You sure?”

Marcel did not answer.

He was watching the smoke.

The first wounded came back not long afterwards.

A Marine walked past with one arm hanging uselessly at his side, blood soaking the sleeve from shoulder to wrist.

Another man was carried between two comrades, his face grey, his boots dragging through the dirt.

Then came a stretcher.

Thomas looked once and wished he had not.

The wounded man’s trousers had been cut away. What remained of his leg below the knee was wrapped in cloth already black with blood.

The man was crying.

Not shouting.

Crying.

“Mama!!.”

Thomas looked away.

More wounded followed.

Some cursed.

Some called for water.

Some said nothing.

One man walked back alone with both hands pressed against his stomach.

Blood ran through his fingers.

A legionnaire beside Thomas stopped smiling.

No one jeered now.

The guns continued.

The bombardment rolled over them in waves.

French cannon hammered the laterite walls. Gunboats on the river joined in, their heavier reports carrying across the battlefield.

The defenders answered.

A shell burst somewhere ahead.

Men disappeared into smoke and dirt.

For several minutes Thomas could not tell whether the French were advancing or retreating.

Then figures emerged from the haze.

Running.

Towards them.

Thomas felt his stomach tighten.

“Are they ours?”

Someone shouted.

A moment later he saw blue uniforms.

Marines.

Some were firing backwards as they came.

Behind them, darker figures surged through the smoke.

The Black Flags.

They came fast.

For the first time Thomas saw the enemy clearly.

They were not a rabble.

They moved together.

They fired and advanced.

Officers shouted orders along the French line.

Bugles sounded.

The retreating Marines stopped.

Turned.

Fired.

The Gras rifles erupted again.

A wall of smoke hid both sides.

Thomas heard screaming from somewhere inside it.

The legionnaires had fallen silent.

Every man now held his rifle differently.

Not casually.

Not across the shoulder.

In both hands.

Ready.

Thomas felt his mouth had gone dry.

He tried to swallow and could not.

Another stretcher passed.

Then another.

A young Marine stumbled beside them; his face covered in blood from a wound above the eye.

He looked directly at Thomas.

For one strange moment neither man said anything.

Then the Marine laughed.

A high, breathless sound.

“Your turn soon.”

He kept walking.

Thomas watched him go.

Bartoli muttered something obscene.

No one laughed.

The Algerian Tirailleurs were sent forward.

Thomas recognised them by their uniforms as they passed through the smoke and disappeared towards the guns.

He did not know where they were going.

He did not know whether the Marines had gained ground or lost it.

He did not know how many men were dead beyond the haze.

He only knew that more soldiers went forward than came back.

By afternoon the smoke lay across the battlefield like fog.

The sun became a pale disc above it.

Thomas’s eyes burned.

His throat hurt.

Powder residue clung to his tongue.

The firing slackened, then rose again.

Every lull seemed worse than the noise.

During one of them, Thomas heard a man screaming far ahead.

The sound continued for a long time.

No one spoke.

When the guns started again, Thomas was almost grateful.

The French artillery had moved closer now.

Thomas could see the crews working.

Load.

Ram.

Stand clear.

Fire.

The guns recoiled violently.

Smoke and sparks burst from the muzzles.

Across the field, another section of the laterite wall vanished behind red dust.

For a moment Thomas thought the bombardment had finally broken it.

Then the dust cleared.

The wall was damaged.

Scarred.

But still there.

“So much for softening them up,” Marcel said.

Thomas said nothing.

He remembered the phrase from books.

Soften the enemy.

Prepare the position.

Suppress the defences.

The words seemed absurd now.

Nothing ahead looked soft.

As evening approached, the firing became more scattered.

The French had not broken through.

The walls still stood.

The outer defences still held in places.

Men were still being carried back.

One stretcher bearer slipped near the Legion position and the wounded man rolled partly from the canvas.

Thomas moved without thinking.

He caught the man beneath the shoulders and helped lift him back.

His hands came away wet.

He stared at them.

Blood.

Warm blood.

For several seconds he could not move.

Marcel took his wrist and wiped the worst of it away with a rag.

“Don’t look at your hands.”

Thomas looked at him.

“What?”

“First time.”

Thomas nodded.

He wiped them again.

The blood seemed to remain in the lines of his skin.

Night fell slowly.

The battle did not end.

The Black Flag soldiers came out in small groups, striking at the French positions before disappearing again into the darkness.

Rifle fire flared without warning.

Bugles sounded.

Men were called to stand-to.

The Legion remained in position.

No fires.

No proper sleep.

Thomas sat with his rifle across his knees.

Every distant shot made him look up.

Every movement in the darkness became an enemy.

Around four in the morning, firing erupted again.

Men scrambled to their feet.

Thomas’s heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his throat.

“LEGIONNAIRES!”

An officer’s voice carried through the dark.

Every man froze.

Thomas tightened his grip on the Gras.

The order came again.

“STAND READY.”

For several minutes they waited.

Nothing happened.

The firing gradually died away.

Thomas lowered the rifle.

His hands were shaking.

He looked towards Sơn Tây.

He could not see the fortress.

Only darkness.

Smoke.

And the occasional flash of a rifle somewhere beyond the line.

He had not yet fired a shot in anger.

But he no longer needed anyone to tell him what battle was like.

The following morning, the grisly work was left to the artillery and the gunboats.

Thomas barely noticed anymore when the guns fired. Each concussion rolled across the ground, followed seconds later by the distant crack of shot striking the fortress.

The lieutenant Thomas had spoken with while on picket came along the line.

“Legionnaires, stand down.”

Thomas almost collapsed.

Apart from the fitful sleep he had managed after picket duty, he had spent most of the night either at stand-to or lying awake listening to artillery, rifle fire and the occasional screams from somewhere beyond the French lines.

Now that he had finally been told he could sleep, every part of him seemed to surrender at once.

He had no right to complain.

He knew that.

While he stood there wishing desperately for sleep, other men had been carried from the field and would never wake again. Some had gone screaming. Some had gone quietly. Some were probably still lying out there between the lines.

Had the Legion been ordered forward yesterday, Thomas felt certain that he might have joined them.

His guardian angel, it seemed, was still keeping watch.

The men were dismissed.

Thomas found a patch of ground, unrolled his blanket and dropped onto it.

The heat drained him.

The lack of sleep drained him.

His head throbbed from the endless concussion of the guns, and his throat still tasted faintly of black powder.

He pushed his rucksack beneath his head.

A gun fired somewhere behind him.

Thomas was asleep before the shot reached Sơn Tây.

Marcel stared down at him.

He had long since marvelled at Thomas’s ability to sleep almost anywhere, at any hour of the day or night. On stone floors, railway platforms, beneath wagons, against trees—it appeared to make no difference.

“He could sleep through the Last Judgement,” Marcel muttered.

Bartoli was nowhere to be seen.

Marcel looked towards the latrines.

Then towards the field kitchen.

With Bartoli, those were usually the only two possibilities.

Ever since a bout of dysentery in Algiers had nearly killed him, the Italian’s internal workings had apparently abandoned any pretence of order. He was either putting food into himself or urgently attempting to get rid of it.

Marcel had once described him as a self-perpetuating faecal machine.

Bartoli had considered this deeply before announcing that at least his machinery still worked.

A few minutes later he appeared from the direction of the latrines.

“Breakfast?”

Marcel stared at him.

“You have just come from the latrine.”

“Yes.”

“And now you want food?”

“Of course.”

“Do you ever stop?”

Bartoli frowned.

“Stop what?”

Marcel shook his head.

There were some mysteries of the human body that even military service could not explain.

Behind them another gun fired.

Neither man turned to look.

Thomas slept through it.

For the moment, Sơn Tây could wait.

The morning began as the previous two had.

The artillery sang its song of death, and the riverboats provided the harmony.

Thomas had slept through most of it.

For once he had not been on picket duty, latrine duty, kitchen duty, or any other bastardry the NCOs could conjure up simply because they could.

He felt like a new man.

Bartoli was already awake. Marcel had somehow obtained breakfast, or at least what passed for breakfast among the Legion’s meagre rations.

Thomas did not realise how hungry he was until he smelled the salt pork frying.

For an instant he was somewhere else.

Fried eggs.

Fried bread.

Perhaps a pork sausage beside them.

Home.

The thought came so suddenly that it annoyed him.

Home?

It had been almost four years since he had left. Whatever home had once been, it no longer belonged to him.

The Legion was home now.

He shook the thought away, poured a little water from his canteen into his hand and rubbed it across his face.

His stubble was getting thick.

The medical officers had advised the men not to shave while they were campaigning. A small cut could fester quickly in the heat and filth, and no one wanted to be invalided by something as ridiculous as a razor.

Thomas rubbed his chin.

Given the mismatched uniforms, worn-out clothing and assorted cast-offs supplied through the generosity of the Republic, a beard hardly seemed out of place.

A bugle sounded.

Every man looked up.

Stand-to.

Breakfast disappeared.

Legionnaires grabbed belts, rifles and ammunition pouches. Men ran for the water wagons, pushing and swearing as they filled their canteens. Packs were closed with whatever happened to be inside them, neatly or otherwise.

No one knew when they would be allowed to stop again.

Thomas buckled on his equipment.

Today felt different.

He could not have said why.

Perhaps every soldier eventually learned to recognise it.

The waiting had gone on too long.

The Marines had tried.

The Tirailleurs had tried.

The artillery had battered the fortress for two days.

Still Sơn Tây stood.

Thomas looked towards Marcel.

Marcel looked back.

Neither needed to say it.

If they wanted the job finished, the Legion was going in.

So, they waited.

And waited.

At first the line was alive with nervous energy.

Men checked ammunition they had already checked.

Bayonets were removed and replaced.

Straps tightened.

Canteens lifted and shaken.

Someone made a joke that nobody heard.

Thomas could feel the excitement in himself too, mixed with something colder.

Fear.

He wondered whether anyone else could see it.

Then nothing happened.

An hour passed.

Then another.

The excitement began to rot into boredom.

Men shifted their weight from one foot to another.

Some sat until an NCO shouted at them to stand.

Others smoked.

Bartoli complained about being hungry again.

The artillery continued without them.

Thomas watched the guns hammer Sơn Tây.

Shot after shot struck the laterite walls.

Each impact sent red dust and fragments into the air. Sections of masonry shuddered. Parts of the outer face collapsed.

Yet the fortress refused to open.

Through gaps in the smoke Thomas could still see men moving along the walls.

The citadel still stood above everything.

Still occupied.

Still waiting.

By late afternoon Thomas had almost convinced himself that nothing would happen.

Then the bugles sounded again.

This time the officers began shouting.

The calls ran down the line.

“Prepare to advance!”

Men who had been half asleep moments earlier were suddenly awake.

“Fix bayonets!”

Steel slid from scabbards.

Thomas fitted his bayonet and pulled hard to make certain it was seated.

His mouth had gone dry.

The Legion moved.

Not towards a breach.

Not towards ladders.

Towards the western gate.

Thomas stared ahead as the column gathered momentum.

The gate.

They were going straight through the bloody gate.

Fusiliers moved on either side of them, lighter troops pushing ahead and spreading out.

Thomas understood enough to know what that meant.

They would clear what they could.

The Legion would do the rest.

The battering ram.

The first shots came before they reached the walls.

A legionnaire several places ahead suddenly folded and disappeared from Thomas’s sight.

Another staggered sideways.

Someone shouted for the ranks to close.

They kept moving.

The firing increased.

Bullets snapped past.

Thomas heard one strike something with a hard crack.

A man screamed.

The skirmishers ahead began firing back at figures on the walls.

Smoke drifted across the approach.

Thomas tried to look everywhere at once.

The gate was closer now.

Broken.

Open.

Dark beyond.

“Forward!”

The column surged.

Thomas ran.

For a few seconds there was nothing except boots striking earth, equipment hammering against his body and the terrible knowledge that men were firing directly at him.

Bartoli was somewhere to his left.

Marcel to his right.

That was enough.

They reached the gate.

Thomas passed beneath the walls and entered Sơn Tây.

For one wild moment he thought they had done it.

Then he saw what waited beyond.

The gate had only brought them inside the outer wall.

Ahead stood more defences.

Bamboo barricades.

Low stone walls.

Ditches.

Trenches.

Buildings packed tightly together.

Men were moving among them.

Rifles flashed.

Thomas stopped thinking.

Someone shouted.

The Legion went forward again.

They were inside Sơn Tây.

And the real fight had only just begun.