began checking their weapons out of long habit. As a general rule, the major disliked formal meetings and avoided holding them whenever possible. So an orders group such as the one they saw forming probably meant action was imminent.
The Paras’s instincts were on target. New information had generated new orders. The six hundred soldiers of 3 Para were being committed to a night attack.
Five minutes later, Farwell had his platoon leaders and sergeants assembled in a small clearing by the side of the road. He looked up into a semicircle of fire-lit faces. Some of the men seemed surprisingly eager, almost elated by the prospect of a real “set-piece” battle.
Others, more imaginative, wiser, or simply more experienced, looked grimly determined instead. All seemed horribly young to their thirty five-year-old company commander.
He unfolded a map and spread it out in the light thrown by the campfire.
“All right, chaps. Here’s the gist of what we’re up to….” He spoke rapidly and with more confidence than he felt, outlining the situation they faced and the broad plan of attack passed down from battalion HQ.
Two hours before, elements of D Company, the parachute battalion’s special patrol unit, had contacted what appeared to be a company-sized
Afrikaner infantry force digging in along the last ridgeline separating the Allies from the broad Mooi River valley. They showed no signs of being willing to withdraw without exacting a steep toll in lives and lost time. And by daylight their defenses might be strong enough to delay the expeditionary force’s advance for several hours-hours the Allies could not afford to lose.
So the British paratroops were going to attack immediately, accepting the inherent risks and confusion of a night battle in order to strike before the Boers finished building their bunkers and fighting positions. To minimize the inevitable confusion, 3 Para’s battalion staff had laid out a simple and straightforward plan. After a brief artillery barrage,
Farwell and his A Company would storm the ridge east of the highway. Its counterpart, B Company, would drive on the heights to the west at the same moment. The Support Company’s machinegun and Milan antitank missile teams would be positioned along the Start Line, ready to move up and “shoot in” both assaults. If all went well, they’d be able to crush the enemy blocking force and unbar the road for a faster advance in the morning.
“And the colonel will hold C Company in reserve … here. ” Farwell’s finger pointed to a tiny stream shown meandering along the base of the enemy-held ridge.
“That should allow those Charlie Company layabouts to reinforce either axis of the attack … if anybody needs their rather dubious help. “
As he’d intended, this last comment prompted a few quick, nervous grins.
A and C companies had a long-standing but friendly rivalry.
Farwell sat back on his haunches and studied his subordinates.
“Well, that’s it then, gentlemen. Are there any questions?”
“Yes, sir.” The freckle-faced lieutenant commanding 2 Platoon leaned forward, his expression troubled.
“Why not use D Company to make a flanking attack? I mean, going straight up that slope seems likely to be a bit sticky.”
Farwell nodded. It was a good question, one that deserved a straight answer. He traced the tangle of gullies and ravines shown extending to either side of the highway below the ridge.
“I’m afraid we simply don’t have time for such subtlety, Jack. It might take D Company hours to work its way into position through that mess.” He shook his head.
“And who knows what the blasted Boers might have waiting for them when they got there?”
The lieutenant nodded slowly, reluctantly conceding the point. No one else spoke up.
Farwell let the silence drag on a few seconds longer and then climbed to his feet. The other men hurriedly followed suit.
“Very well, gentlemen. You have your orders. You may brief your platoons at your leisure. ” He smiled broadly.
“But make sure that happens to be sometime during the next five minutes. We’re moving up to the Start Line in ten, so don’t be late. Dismissed.”
As the orders group broke up, Farwell moved among his officers and
NCOs-shaking hands with one, clapping the shoulder of another. It seemed the least he could do. Privately, he didn’t expect many of these young men would be alive to see the next sunrise. And since he planned to lead the attack personally, he counted himself among the likely casualties.
BLOCKING FORCE, NORTHERN NATAL COMMANDO
BRIGADE, ON THE RIDGE SOUTH OF THE MOOI RIVER
VALLEY
The scraping and rustling noises made by men digging in rocky soil carried far in the blackness under the trees carpeting the ridge. Foxholes and bunkers were being Jug more by feel than by sight, and any necessary orders were passed along the chain of sweating, middle-aged soldiers in harsh, piercing whispers.
One hundred meters east of the spot where the N3 Motor Route cut through the ridge, short, broad- shouldered Sgt. Gerrit Meer laid his shovel to one side and straightened his aching back. Ag, he thought disgustedly, this whole thing was blery stupid-the product of some foolish staff officer’s diseased mind.
He didn’t object to fighting the Uitlanders, far from it. Meer came from the town of Mooirivier itself, and he didn’t want to see a horde of black-loving invaders swarming freely through his hometown streets. But he did object to being asked to commit suicide.
And that was what his commanders seemed to have planned. He’d spent six years fighting along the Republic’s borders before coming home to his family farm. So he knew enough about tactics to view the ridge as a potential death trap. The same trees that sheltered the commando from observation by enemy aircraft would provide cover for any attacker moving upslope. Even worse, with the open countryside of the Mooi River valley behind them, he and his comrades wouldn’t have anywhere safe to retreat to when the time came.
As if that weren’t bad enough, the sergeant didn’t think there were enough men here to hold the ridge for long against a determined assault.
It might have been different if the full
commando had mustered, but more than half hadn’t even bothered to show up at the assembly point.
Meer hawked once and spat. Traitorous rooinek swine. His English neighbors loathed the blacks as much as he did. He knew that for a fact. So what did they do the moment the going got tough? They ran away to save their own skins. He scowled. When this war was over, there would have to be a reckoning with such cowards.
He picked up his shovel again and leaned into his work stabbing the broad, sharp blade into the ground with short, powerful strokes. After all, a good deep foxhole might just keep him alive long enough to kill some of his people’s enemies.
A sudden, blindingly bright flash lit up the crest ahead and sent his shadow racing away downslope. The ground rocked. For an instant, Meer froze. Then he dove for cover.
“Down! Everybody down!”
More shells burst in the treetops-spraying jagged steel and wood splinters downward in a deadly rain. Some men dropped without a sound, killed instantly by blast or concussion. Others fell screaming, torn open and bleeding but alive.
Through it all, Sgt. Gerrit Meer and other veterans like him lay huddled in their shallow holes, waiting impatiently for the enemy barrage to end.
A COMPANY, 3 PARA
Maj. John Farwell crouched beside his signaler, ten meters behind the shadowy, motionless shapes of 2 Platoon. All eyes were riveted on the dark mass of the ridge rising above them.
Dozens of bright-white explosions flickered from east to west along the crest line, leaving in their wake a maelstrom of noise, smoke, and blast-thrown debris. Three full batteries of 155mm howitzers were pounding the Afrikaners-pouring salvo after salvo of HE onto defensive positions pinpointed by 3 Para’s patrols.
Then, as suddenly as they had begun, the shell bursts stopped. Silence settled back over the night.
Farwell checked his watch: 2315 hours. The barrage had lifted.
He jumped to his feet, waving his men forward with one arm while the other clutched his Enfield L85AI assault rifle.
