Attack on the Redan by Garry Douglas Kilworth

Author:Garry Douglas Kilworth [Kilworth, Garry Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Historical, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781472104069
Publisher: Constable & Robinson Ltd
Published: 2012-09-01T03:53:58+00:00

6

Lovelace and Crossman slipped through a gully at the end of which they knew they would find a large drain. The drain, clogged in parts with debris, but passable, would lead them into a part of Sebastopol which had a stretch of wasteland fronting some gutted buildings. This part of the city had been heavily bombarded by the allies and consequently the tide of humanity had moved back from this beach of rubble.

Just before entering the drain, they passed a spot where Crossman paused to stare at the remains of a decomposed body jammed almost out of view between three standing stones. There must have been several such corpses littering the landscape, caught in crevices or holes, out of sight and mind. This was not a place frequented by either the Russians or the allies, the topography being too jagged and rugged for a group of any size to launch an attack. Incised by deep, narrow, winding natural passageways, between sharp-edged lips of rock, even a force the size of Goodlake’s sharpshooters, a company, would have trouble scrambling around. The Russians themselves would be content with surveying the area from a distance, knowing of the difficulties it would present to any large attacking column.

‘What is it?’ asked Lovelace.

‘Diodotus.’

Crossman was speaking of a young Greek spy they had used a short while back. The young man had been shot through the neck and spine, right here, in front of Crossman. According to a Russian officer called Tolstoy, to whom Crossman had been introduced by the Greek, Diodotus had been a promising poet. His talents had obviously gone with him now, to the afterlife. It raised the unavoidable question in Crossman’s mind at the time, as to how many talented young lives had been lost, how many great works of art, books, statues, inventions, discoveries, would not now amaze the world of the living. Some Shakespeare, or Michelangelo, or Brunel may have had his legs shot from under him in this pointless war, robbing future generations of what should have been a priceless heritage.

‘This is where he was killed?’

Crossman nodded. ‘He dropped a dark lamp and we were caught in its bright flare.’

‘You’re lucky that isn’t you then.’

‘Just what I was thinking.’

They continued on their journey, leaving the rags on the bones of Diodotus to blow in the wind and the rain. Crossman and Lovelace set some small traps in the drain before leaving it. Not man-traps, but devices of twigs and thread. When they returned by the same route, something they usually tried to avoid, they would be warned if their entrance had been discovered. Unfortunately as the war progressed the holes in the enemy defences – be they ever so small – had mostly been closed. The spies and saboteurs were now down to a quarter of a dozen, which were jealously used.

They also left a dark lamp just inside the drain on the Sebastopol side, to use on their return.

Once in the streets of Sebastopol they made their way down to the harbour.

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