A Place to Rest

A Place to Rest
  
Step it up there Jones582 my old granny moves livelier than you boy’ roared the Company Sergeant Major.

Why don’t you get off my back Evans you miserable bastard? Jones thought as he quickly caught up his place.

The sun had been beating on their backs like a leaden bar all day. They’d rested briefly and had eaten a frugal meal at noon before moving swiftly on. He felt sweat pouring down his face in salty rivulets and yet again wiped his brow with the coarse red wool of his sleeve. The stink from his soaking armpits offended him. Jones582’s throat burned with the red dust kicked up by the Company’s boots but his water had to last all day so he bore it stoically.

In his Regiment, there were so many Jones’s, that the soldier’s last three digits of his army number had to be appended to his name in order to distinguish them. It felt dehumanising although he could never have expressed it that way.

Squinting at the sun Jones reckoned it was now getting on for four. He pushed his thumbs under the sodden shoulder straps of his heavy pack and eased the weight to a place that hurt a little less. ‘God, how much longer?’ What godforsaken hole were we going this time?  Why does no bugger ever tell us anything? He felt deep a depression sink through his soul as he trudged onward.

As the sun dipped horizonwards Jones582 saw a small settlement coming into view. He felt a deep sense of relief as the officer walked his horse over to Evans. ‘We’re camping there Sah’nt Majah.’ he drawled nodding towards the cluster of buildings his cut-glass English accent sounding alien in this mostly Welsh unit.

‘Yessah’ bawled the CSM “I’ll send a scouting party forward sah and a runner to the baggage wagons to prepare your kit sah!”

The officer casually waved his swagger stick in return of his subordinate’s smart salute and rode away.

Half an hour later Jones582’s mood had changed dramatically as he prepared his bedroll. This must have been a cowshed judging by the smell and the dried shit on the floor he thought still never mind the roof’s good and that bastard Evans hasn't detailed me for guard duty tonight.

The smell of boiling meat wafted to him from the company cauldron and after the long day’s march, he was ravenous. He breathed a sigh of contentment. Great, a cushy billet, clean my rifle and kit then after my meal, a smoke, oh yes, at last, a smoke. He dug the clay pipe out of his kit happy to see it was intact. Then, at last, a good night’s sleep, Oh God, how he relished the thought of that. Maybe in the morning they’d get a bathing party together and go to the nearby river but that was too far ahead to think about now.

‘Have you seen the land here’ asked Daffid Jones237 ‘a man could stay in a place like this forever’ he said in his musical Valley’s lilt.

‘Do you reckon so Daffid?’

‘Oh yes man, just look at that grass boyo. A man could raise cattle, sheep, crops anything he chose to here.’

‘Hmnnn…I can’t see a wife liking it Daffid.'

‘A good Christian wife follows her husband without question as directed by the Bible’ retorted Daffid  sharply

Oh please thought Jones582 don’t start bloody bible bashing Daffid. when he thought nothing could save him from a Thomas237’s bible lesson he was rescued by the Officer strolling by on his way to inspect his horse. Jones237 jumped up to attention and saluted ‘s’cuse me sah, permission to speak sah?’

The officer was mildly surprised but indulged the bright-eyed private. He recognised Jones237 as a solo tenor in the regimental choir and a good, deeply religious soldier  ‘yes, Jones, what is it?’ he asked briskly.

'I was just wondering sah, this place is so beautiful like a man could stay here forever sah.’

The English officer was used to his Welsh soldiers waxing lyrical. ‘A regiment of bloody poets and choristers’ his father had said on learning his son had been seconded to them ‘but there’s some say they can fight a bit.’ he had added grudgingly.

The lieutenant looked around him seeing for the first time that the soldier was right. In the fiery blaze of the setting African sun, there was an air of great tranquillity. The undulating land looked fecund and productive as the long sweet grass waved in the cooling evening breeze. The lengthening shadows were rapidly imposing nightfall’s claim casting deep purple shadows. It irritated him that a common soldier would notice such great beauty before he himself who was born of land-owning gentry.

‘If you have a question spit it out, man.’

‘I'm writing home tonight sir, I was wondering what's today's date and does this beautiful place have a name sir?'

The officer glowered at Jones237 standing stiffly to attention ‘It’s the twenty-first of January Jones and this place of absolutely no consequence and even less charm is known locally as Kwajimu. We call it Rorke’s Drift.’

Historical note:

At the Battle of Rorke's Drift on 22nd Jan 1879 139 soldiers of "B" Company the 2nd Battalion 24th of Foot drove off 4,000+ Zulu warriors winning 11 Victoria Crosses, Britain's highest award for bravery, in the process. (6 before breakfast) That record still stands as the highest number ever awarded for a single battle. It is sometimes said that modern rifles were easily used against ‘poor natives with short spears’ however, it has been claimed that none of the soldiers killed that day died of stab wounds; all were shot by the Zulus many of whom were armed with old but serviceable rifles. The battle inspired the film Zulu starring Michael Cain.  The regiment was not, as the film portrayed, a Welsh regiment at that time.