Lazarus Rising Chapter 8 (part 3)

They arrived at regimental HQ a few minutes later and they saw Sergeant Crayford sitting on the steps outside. Crayford was in his early 40's and already bald. He was a large man, built like a bear and his own green 95th jacket seemed too tight for him. When he saw the two young corporal's approaching he stood up to his full height and bellowed across the street, "Where the hell have you been? We've got new orders have to get going."

"What's going on Sergeant?" asked Robert.
"Seems like the Frogs are trying to get closer to Porto. You two and the rest of the brave lads are going to send 'em packing."
"Where are we going?" Alex asked the sergeant.
"Place down south called Vimiero, seems Junot didn’t learn his lesson last week and he wants another bashing. Get your gear and get back here in 15 minutes, we march in half an hour."

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The road to Vimiero was long and hard and two days later, the regiment arrived at the tiny Portuguese village. Robert stood on a small outcrop of rock on the edge of town and watched the massed green jackets of the 95th below. He was proud to wear the jacket and after all that had happened to him over the last few years it was good to know that he had found somewhere he belonged.

Troops were arriving from all over Northern Portugal, he saw the different colours of the different regiments and just a few hundred metres away he saw a Highland regiment and heard the unmistakable sound of bagpipes. These men were some of the toughest in the British army and Robert smiled. He had learned a hard lesson a few years ago when he mocked a Highlander because he was wearing a kilt, to his face. The memory of the punch in the face was still fresh.

He turned his attention to his own little troop. He had been placed in command of a small group of 5 skirmishers. There was Jimmy Smith, who had informed him that he had joined up to escape a prison sentence or even deportation to the colonies because of an assault with a knife. There was Albert Brown, a Yorkshire farmer's son, who was probably the best shot in the entire regiment. Alfred Lincoln had been a soldier for over 30 years and have the scars to prove it. Once. a long time ago, he had struck a pimply faced young officer who had lost half of his men because of his cowardice. That got him 30 lashes and demotion from Sergeant major to Private. Robert both feared and admired the man because of his strength and experience.

The other two men were relatively new recruits and both were very young. Brian was only 16 and looked to small for his uniform. Patrick, was Irish and about 17, he looked hard and fierce, the way a skirmisher of the 95th should. He didnt talk very much, but his eyes were bright and alive with intelligence.

The sun was setting and camps were being made all over the place. He gathered the 5 men around him as Lieutenant Padham-Pryce appeared. Pryce was a newly gazetted officer who had bought his commission with his Norfolk landowner father's money.

"Good evening men, glad everyone has arrived safe and sound. Now tomorrow, we are expecting the French, who are over that way,' he gestured vaguely towards the South-East. "To try to get through to Porto through this valley. The 95th are ordered to harry the flanks of the French and try to work our way, using the high ground on the right, to reach the guns that General Junot has positioned up there. According to Colonel Revere, Sir Arthur is going to lure the French in and surround them. Our job is to locate and capture the guns that we are convinced are up there, and either destroy them or capture them and turn their own guns against the advancing French cavalry and infantry."

"Excuse me sir", Robert asked, "what kind of resistance can we expect?"
"Uncertain corporal, spotters have seen at least 4 guns, each with their own guards. We wont be able to get up there in huge numbers  so we will have to go in as small 5 or 6 man squads. Each squad will target one gun and, as I said earlier, destroy or capture it. The plan is to send 6 squads, I will command "A" squad, Corporal you will command "C" squad".

"Pardon me for asking sir" said Alf Lincoln. "Why 6 squads if there are only 4 guns?"
"Excellent question Private. Intelligence has spotted 4 but their may be more. It is absolutely essential that all six squads make their way into the hills quickly and unobserved so that we can find the French guns without attracting to much attention."

The lieutenant, who had become a little tense when Alf had asked his question, seemed to relax a little.
"Get some rest tonight gentlemen. We are heading out at 4 in the morning. Tomorrow there we be glory for you, me and the entire regiment."

"Yes sir, thank you sir" Robert said and he saluted Pryce. Pryce saluted back and headed off in search of the next unit, which Alex commanded.

"Young prick" Alf murmured, referring to Pryce.
"Watch your mouth Alf" Robert said, "He may be a prick but he's our prick and we all have to look after our pricks."
"I thought you had a nice little girl in Porto who wants to take care of your prick corporal?" Jimmy laughed.
Robert blushed slightly, bloody Alex had been sharing tales again. To be fair, the tales were true but he and Alex would have to have a word later.
"I can't help it if all the girls want me boys. I'm too damn gorgeous and my cock is famous from Porto to Lisbon."
The men all laughed at that and they all seemed to relax.
"Paddy" Robert asked, "get a fire going. I'll be back in a minute."

He left the camp and followed the path that Pryce had taken. He knew he would find Alex' unit eventually. As he approached the camp he saw Pryce was still there. He held back until the young officer left and then he walked over to join his friend.
"Good evening Corporal Tremaine." He said in an imitation of Pryce's Oxbridge plummy accent.
"Ah, Corporal Foxworth. May I bid you welcome to our humble pile of shite."
"John" Alex said to one of his men, "get a brew on."
"Come on Robbie, we can talk in my tent."

The two young men had regularly met up over the years. They were the same age, same build and even had the same eye and hair colour. Their first instructor, an evil little corporal named Catton, had called them "The Twins" and poked fun at them for the obvious closeness that they had. They had become the best of friends and regularly shared stories and reminisced about their experiences.

Robert trusted Alex completely and had told him everything about his childhood. Even about his mother's death and the subsequent banishment by his father. He would pour his heart out, usually over a cup of ale or bottle of wine that he shared with his friend. Robert would occasionally catch Alex looking at him in a strange way but Robert didn’t say anything.

On this evening, Alex had a bottle of Port and the two of them each took a swig from the bottle.
"So tomorrow we dance the dance of death again." Alex said.
"Here's to battle and cold steel." Robert replied.

"If I should fall tomorrow my friend, will you write to my father?" Robert asked.
"Yes, you know I will do anything for you my friend. But lets hope that it doesn't come to that. I love you Robert and I don’t know what I would do without you."

Robert once again saw the look in his friends eyes that seemed strange.
"I love you too Alex, like a brother. I better get going, see you in the morning."
Robert got up and left the tent. Alex, who had watched him leave, lay down on his back on his bunk and stared up at nothing in particular.

"Like brothers" he said to the silence and a tear rolled down his cheek.