THE EDUCATION OF CHARLIE

Private Charlie Teller marched in column over the hot sand. The sun burned his back and the metal buckles on his uniform equipment were heated to a degree that burned to the touch. Those in front of him weren't marching as sprightly as when they started and those behind were being urged along by a mounted officer. The marching men were over-hot and tired. They were out on a patrol, his first and as far as he knew, he was here to fight the Fuzzy Wuzzies. Re didn't know who, or what they were or why he was to fight them. That didn't matter, he was a soldier.

The trouble was that Charlie was scared of three things, he wasn't a coward. His first fear was of the incompetence of the officer, the second was of his sergeant, Sergeant Todd, and only last of the enemy. He didn't know how the other marchers felt but he was beginning to hope these Fuzzy Wuzzies would do something, it would break up this dreadful marching. His vague wish came rushing, charging at them screaming and yelling from the low hills off to their left. Men in loose gowns with black squares sewn onto them and shiny black men in loin clothes, all waved spears or long rifles. As they came on Sergeant Todd, following the officers chaotic orders, formed them into a square, as they had been trained to, do so often. Now that the attack had come he wasn't Charlie Teller but Private Teller and he trusted his sergeant to know what he was doing.

They managed one fusillade before they lost men in the melee. Out on the desert white figures lay sprawled dead and dying. When the charging men hit the square, it was like a physical blow.

It seemed only moments before the natives withdrew to just outside rifle shot range. There they rallied and readied for another charge. The regiment pulled their square tighter and pulled their dead and wounded inside. The officers' horses were held by a soldier but he was finding it difficult to hold because they were spooked now. The officers formed a small segment of the square.

The second charge came on faster than Charlie expected, the noise was deafening. Then they engaged in hand to hand fighting, bayonet against spears and swords. Men lay all around and twice Charlie fell over bodies. One clutched at his leg, Charlic kicked it away. He was being pressed bard on all sides. Sergeant Todd was outside the square roaring and bayoneting with a professionalism that, even here, amazed Charlie. He saw the first spear that went through the big sergeant's defence, then the second, third and the, fourth as the big man fell, still roaring defiance.

It was then that Huggins, the man next to him fell, his bayonet falling towards Charlie and broke his concentration. The spear burned into his back and he too fell. He 1ay there, still conscious, as the battle continued over him. It was over, the British Army lay spread over the sand, the overwhelming force of Dervishes danced about in a bloody mania, some looted the bodies or dispatched the wounded and dying. Charlie feigned death, even as they robbed and trod on him. It was dusk before they left and the-dead, never lonely, lay in their unwelcomed peace before the frenzied feast of the dawn vultures.

After they had gone Charlie crawled away. His tunic was stiff with dried blood. The primative spear had dislodged with the looters rough handling of his body. His wound had stopped bleeding but burned into his back making it hard for him to breath the hot air. He was about a-hundred yards away when he heard the horse whinny. He tried to stand up but the pain drove him down. He tried again, this time more slowly, accepting each part of the pain. He staggered back the way that he had so painfully crawled, urged forward now as the distressed whinnying increased.

It seemed to take longer to find the animal than he expected. The Major's horse lay under a pile of bodies. Blood spread, now dried, over its eyes from the bullet that had grazed a furrow across its brow. It was struggling to get up but the weight of the dead lying across its body held it fast.

He put his hand on the animal's brow, speaking softly and comfortingly to it while he wiped the blood from its eyes with the rag he used as a kerchief. Then he began to pull the bodies off, each exertion took his breath away as pain stabbed at his back and forced grunts from him involuntarily. Before he was able to move them all, the horse succeeded in getting to its feet and stood trembling before him.

He was a country boy, long ago he had been a country boy, long ago before all of the blind obedience and the blood. The horse brought back those salad days at his father's forge with him holding the horses while his father shod them. That was before the recruiter came to his village and he had taken the King's shilling. He remembered the days of his youth, the summer and the harvest plenty. But there was also the bleak winters, the hunger and the punishing hard work so that when the recruiters had visited his village he had grabbed at the King's shilling.

He walked the horse away from that dreadful slaughter scene. Supported by the horse he longed to rest but knew that to stop now would mean both of their deaths. He had loaded the animal with dead men's water canteens. The horse was watered from his white helmet. Charlie thought of the animal as Hero, the name of the horse that his family had shared with others in the village. Hero seemed comradely, they were comrades in the attempt to survive. During the night Charlie accepted that he could go no further. He found a flat area of sand and sculpted a rough human shape before setting himself into it. Before that he had unsaddled Hero and placed a heavy rock on the reins. In the coolness of the night they had both revived. Although his back was stiffening and, he felt sure, Hero must have one hell of a headache. When the dawn came the restlessness of Hero woke him. He watered him before he himself drank, longing for a mug of strong sweet tea in the chill of the morning.

The sun would soon heat the air, scorching the earth to make it unpleasant for another day. Then came the shock out on the desert he saw them, three figures outlined on the skyline. They were coming on at a trotting pace, seemingly to be tracking him. Someone had returned to the massacre, probably to rob and discovered his and, the horse's tracks leaving there, Now they had sent these men to finish the job.

Re quickly saddled and loaded the canteens onto Hero and, apologising to the horse, mounted. He looked to the horizon, they were still coming on, as straight as an arrow. Re kicked Hero into a walk and then into a trot. He had not noticed it at first, it was so familiar yet somehow unexpected, a sabre in the saddle holster.

He wheeled Hero and began back towards his pursuers. He knew that to try to run away would end in their catching him. They would keep going even when he was forced to sleep or rest. He covered the intervening ground at a fast gallop, which at the end, became a charge. They had stopped as they saw him coming towards them and seemed mesmerised. He didn't hesitate, he had seen too much death already. He chopped the first native in the first clash, wheeled Hero, the second turned to meet his attack. Charlie scythed him down. The third man was running away but Charlie dug his heels into Hero and went after the runner, cutting him down from behind.

Two days later he met the Egyptian Army on their way to rescue the dead patrol. The British officer leading them showed surprise that Charlie had survived. The patrol had not been meant to. They had been the decoys.

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