Free Rogue Officer by Garry Douglas Kilworth Page B

to stop. The 93rd closed ranks and bayoneted many of them. The 42nd were a little slower to react to these fierce warriors in green turbans and cummerbunds, their sacred gold rings bearing Koran texts flashing in the sunlight. The attackers threw themselves full length forward, underneath the line of bayonets, and slashed at the legs of the British soldiers.
    Jack was close to the front line when three of the Ghazis broke through, slashing this way and that, cutting at their enemy with their razor-sharp sabres. Soldiers of the Company were harvested like wheatstalks. Some just panicked and ran, and were hacked in the back. Then more Ghazis breached the line. Heads rolled. Skulls were split in two. Legs and arms lopped like sapling trees. The Ghazis were terrifying, with their mad rolling eyes and their high-pitched screams. Their sword strokes came in flurries, slashing this way and that.
    ‘
Bismallah
,’ a big Ghazi screamed, leaping from ground level to the back of Jack Crossman’s horse. ‘
Allah! Din! Din!
’
    Instinctively, Jack’s crippled arm went up to protect his head and he managed to ward off a death blow. The Ghazi grabbed his collar and the lieutenant was wrenched backwards. Jack and his assailant fell from the horse’s back on to the hard-baked ground. Jack felt the wind knocked from his body, but he continued to struggle with his attacker, trying to tangle himself with the Ghazi’s flailing arms to prevent him from using his weapon. He felt a stinging blow above his eye, rendered by the man’s heavy gold ring, and instantly realized the Ghazi had lost his sword in the fall. He punched back with his good hand: a blow which merely glanced off the man’s shoulder. They rolled in the dust, the Ghazi frantic to kill him and Jack becoming a punchbag for the blows that rained on his head and body.
    The Ghazi was a blizzard of fierce energy, as lithe and as slippery as a cat, impossible to stop or contain except by dealing a mortal blow. He was kicking with bare feet at Jack’s groin and thighs, scratching with his long nails. Suddenly there was a knife in the Ghazi’s right hand. Jack managed to grip the man’s wrist. This left him punching with his stump, rather than with a fist, which was most ineffectual. He was vaguely aware that all around him others were having to deal with Ghazis creating havoc despite their slim numbers. They were frenetic in their attacks, as determined as the ancient berserkers they resembled. Even bullets, unless in the heart or head, only seemed to stun them for a second. On they came, cutting down infantry with their tulwars, dragging officers from their horses.
    While Jack was still struggling blindly with his persistent Ghazi, feet were treading all over him and his attacker. Bare feet and booted feet. Above them rifle butts were thudding into bodies. Bayonets were piercing flesh. Swords were chopping away limbs. Blood sprayed on both men. Finally Jack managed to get an armlock on the Ghazi’s throat. He tried to throttle his opponent, tried to break his neck. His right arm would have been stronger, would have done the job, but he dare not release his adversary’s wrist which wielded the dagger. Finally his own loose horse, whinnying and stamping, terrified out of its mind by the writhing mass of bodies and the noise, trampled upon both of them, causing Jack to loosen his grip. The Ghazi squirmed out from under and was again on top. Now the dagger was poised to plunge into Jack’s face. On the Ghazi’s features was a twisted expression of utter triumph.
    Jack had no idea what happened next. He realized he was being showered with warm sticky blood. The grasp upon his throat had suddenly relaxed and when he looked up his assailant was gone. It seemed the Ghazi had simply vanished into thin air. Jack sat up. The furore was still gushing and foaming around him but many of the Ghazis now lay dead on the ground. There was a headless corpse next to him. Blood was spurting from