The Air Patrol: A Story of the North-west Frontier

by Herbert Strang

"We can't help it. I only hope the Major himself started in time."

Dawn was stealing down into the valley. Ganda Singh crept on all fours to the wall and peeped over. In a few minutes he returned and reported that there was nothing opposite the bridge but a mass of broken rock and metal. The guns had been destroyed. But the Kalmucks were scattered along the track between the bridge and the bend, crouching behind rocks and entrenchments which they had thrown up during the night. Apparently they were unaware of the descent of the aeroplane, and dreaded another attack by bombs.

It was hardly light when a fierce bombardment broke out from the bend. Shells crashed upon the northern wall, and whistled into the deserted compounds, scattering earth in all directions, and filling the air with noisome fumes.

"We're safe here for the present," said Bob, whose face looked pinched and pale in the light of the morning. "But when they find we don't reply, and there's no other attack from the aeroplane, they'll bring their guns along and pound us from the opposite bank. When it gets too hot we must go into the galleries. Before they can repair the bridge and cross, Endicott ought to be here."

He had scarcely spoken when a shell plumped into the house, and set it on fire. The garrison were enveloped in a mantle of smoke. But as the smoke drifted across the river, the Kalmucks, taking courage from the quiescence of the defenders, rushed forward from their shelters and began to throw a light framework over the torrent between the rock in midstream and the end of the ruined bridge. The sudden cessation of the bombardment gave Bob an inkling of what was to come; next moment loud yells from beyond the river made it clear.

"They're coming at us," he said quietly to Lawrence. "They must have made a bridge. We can't retreat now. You must do your best, old chap."

Though Lawrence begged him to remain on his chair, Bob got up and accompanied the little band as they rushed towards the river wall to meet the storming party. They were no more than thirty; the track swarmed with the enemy. The improvised bridge would not support more than thirty at a time, so that the attackers and the defenders of the wall were equal in point of number; but the Kalmucks had posted many sharpshooters in the rocks above the track, who could fire over their comrades' heads and pick off the garrison manning the wall and the gap where the end of the drawbridge had been.

It was a fierce and terrible struggle hand to hand. The defenders could deal only with the storming party; they had no leisure to attend to the half-concealed marksmen among the rocks. With bayonet, clubbed rifle, sword and miner's pick they sought desperately to stem the attack. Gur Buksh had distributed the Sikhs among the miners to give them steadiness; but the Pathans, inspired by the fury of their own leaders, Fyz Ali and Muhammad Din, needed no encouragement from the disciplined men. Shan Tai and Chunda Beg had thrown themselves into the fray with picks. Of all the little community only Ditta Lai and the Bengali servants remained in the rear; they were physically unfit to bear a part in the great fight. It was much to their credit that, at this crisis in affairs, they did not cower in frantic terror, but toiled hard to raise a rampart of boxes, tins, and bags of earth opposite the mouth of the gallery.

Regardless of the fusillade, Bob and Lawrence went from end to end of the line, cheering the men, rallying them when they showed signs of being forced back by the onrush of the yelling enemy. Again and again the assault was beaten back. At one moment the end of the bridge was heaped high with the men thrust back from the wall. The river received many dead and wounded forms, and bore down some who, though unhurt, had been hurled or jostled off the bridge. But the garrison were dropping man by man. Gur Buksh, conspicuous by his height, fell to a bullet. Ganda Singh fought on, though a bayonet had transfixed his arm. Fyz Ali was shot as he was in the act of bringing the butt of his rifle down upon the head of a big Kalmuck who was forcing his way through the narrow gap into the compound. Bob, fainting from his former hurts, sank down unconscious among his wounded men. As yet unscathed, Lawrence stood in the gap, and the number of prostrate forms in front of him bore witness to his unfaltering vigour. Next to him Fazl, whose low stature rendered him immune from the sniping shots of the enemy, darted forth whenever he saw an opportunity of using his kukuri, and sprang nimbly back before he could be touched.

But Lawrence's heart sank as he saw his devoted little band becoming less and less. He had no reserves. There was no limit to the number that the enemy could throw against him. The crowd on the bridge never diminished. As soon as one man fell his place was taken from behind. From sheer exhaustion the defenders could not stem the torrent many minutes longer. Their arms were aching and numbed almost to the point of paralysis. The frequent alarms and broken rest of seven days and nights were telling on their hardy frames. Lawrence, swinging his rifle like a flail, expected at every stroke that his muscles would refuse to lift the weapon for another. Missing Bob's cheering cries, he gave a rapid glance round, and seeing his brother on the ground, he was just making up his mind that the time had come for a general retreat to the galleries, their last line of defence, when there came the sudden crackle of rifles from a new direction. It was on the right. There was a cheer, very different from the shrill cries of the Kalmucks, and then confused cries all around. The firing from the rocks had ceased. At a second volley the Kalmucks on the bridge halted in surprise and hesitation. Lawrence guessed what had happened. Seizing the moment, he shouted to his men to follow him, and springing from the wall, led them in a fierce rush on to the bridge. They swept the enemy before them, cutting down one, tumbling another into the stream.