Bayonets Along the Border by John Wilcox

in preparation for another night of attacks.
    Once again, at dusk, the bugles sounded the stand-to and, as the light faded, the drums increased their tempi and now the voices of the mullahs could be heard urging their men forward, promising everlasting life for every infidel they killed. And, once again, as the darkness descended, the tribesmen attacked, screaming derision and waving their swords, banners and long daggers.
    The Pathans’ tactics never changed during the long hours of darkness. Broken only by spells during which they carried back their dead and wounded, the tribesmen kept hurling themselves forward, supported by their riflemen firing from the positions they had been forced to evacuate during the day.
    For Fonthill and Jenkins this second night descended into a cauldron of robot-like firing, reloading, cooling their rifles with precious water whenever there was a lull, and – on two heart-in-mouth occasions – thrusting with their long bayonets at the wide-eyed figures who had managed to approach the
abattis
and were hacking at them with theirlong swords. The Guides’ troopers on either side of the pair lacked bayonets, which could not be fitted to their shorter carbines, so they had to resort to slashing with their sabres, sword on sword, taking the conflict back, in Simon’s heightened imagination, to the days of the Crusades.
    So the weary defenders survived another night of continuous attacks. Yet ammunition was now running low and orders were given that there should be no replying to the sniping during daylight hours. The hours of darkness were the threat and, just before dusk, parties rushed from the safety of the
abattis
protected by a ring of bayonets and lit bonfires at intervals round the camp.
    If the defenders’ disciplined musketry had wreaked havoc in the ranks of the Swats and Bunerwals – as surely it must have done – then it seemed to have had no effect on their fanaticism because on they came once again in massed ranks, hurling themselves into the gunfire. They were clearly being reinforced by the arrival of yet more tribesmen, fresh to the battle, and this was marked by the increased number of groups who were able to leap over the barricades and the rifles to enter the inner arena.
    For Fonthill, the nadir of this night took place at approximately 3.30 a.m. when, fumbling in his pouch for another magazine, his rifle barrel was knocked aside by a Pathan who had reached the barrier. The man swung his sword horizontally and Simon was able to duck underneath it, withdraw his rifle barrel and, using the last vestige of his strength, plunge the long bayonet into his assailant’s chest.
    As he was attempting to twist his bayonet and free it, he was only dimly aware of a giant warrior who had leapt onto the top of the
abattis
, his bare feet ignoring the barbed wire that studded it,and swung his sword vertically down. The blade was met, with a clang of steel, just above Simon’s head, by the bayonet of Jenkins. The Welshman, a covering of perspiration, cordite and grime giving his face the appearance of some devilish gargoyle in the light of the bonfires, twisted the bayonet round, pushing the sword blade upwards. Immediately, he rammed the butt of his rifle onto the warrior’s bare instep, forcing it onto the barb of the wire. The man howled and staggered and Jenkins’s bayonet took him in the groin, hurling him back over the barrier.
    ‘Thanks, 352,’ gasped Simon. ‘I thought he had me then.’
    ‘Not while I’m ’ere, bach. Look to your front now. They’re still comin’, see.’
    And so they did, all through that fiendish night – although the numbers who were able to break through the perimeter were all quickly dealt with by the bayonets of the reserve companies, who remained through the night, watching for such breakthroughs.
    Dawn brought relief at last again and with it, the news of fewer casualties this time: only fifteen. More important, however, was another bugle call