Vortex

Most paid little attention to the noise. A weeks’ worth of combat in the

Drakensberg’s rugged foothills had taught them how to ignore the sound of gunfire not aimed in their direction.

Maj. John Farwell, A Company’s tall, hook-nosed commander, moved from campfire to campfire collecting his officers and senior NCOs. His two signalers followed close behind, made easy to spot by the thin radio antennas rocking back and forth over their heads. Soldiers who saw them go past muttered uneasily to one another and began checking their weapons out of long habit. As a general rule, the major disliked formal meetings and avoided holding them whenever possible. So an orders group such as the one they saw forming probably meant action was imminent.

The Paras’s instincts were on target. New information had generated new orders. The six hundred soldiers of 3 Para were being committed to a night attack.

Five minutes later, Farwell had his platoon leaders and sergeants assembled in a small clearing by the side of the road. He looked up into a semicircle of fire-lit faces. Some of the men seemed surprisingly eager, almost elated by the prospect of a real “set-piece” battle.

Others, more imaginative, wiser, or simply more experienced, looked grimly determined instead. All seemed horribly young to their thirty five-year-old company commander.

He unfolded a map and spread it out in the light thrown by the campfire.

“All right, chaps. Here’s the gist of what we’re up to….” He spoke rapidly and with more confidence than he felt, outlining the situation they faced and the broad plan of attack passed down from battalion HQ.

Two hours before, elements of D Company, the parachute battalion’s special patrol unit, had contacted what appeared to be a company-sized

Afrikaner infantry force digging in along the last ridgeline separating the Allies from the broad Mooi River valley. They showed no signs of being willing to withdraw without exacting a steep toll in lives and lost time. And by daylight their defenses might be strong enough to delay the expeditionary force’s advance for several hours-hours the Allies could not afford to lose.

So the British paratroops were going to attack immediately, accepting the inherent risks and confusion of a night battle in order to strike before the Boers finished building their bunkers and fighting positions. To minimize the inevitable confusion, 3 Para’s battalion staff had laid out a simple and straightforward plan. After a brief artillery barrage,

Farwell and his A Company would storm the ridge east of the highway. Its counterpart, B Company, would drive on the heights to the west at the same moment. The Support Company’s machinegun and Milan antitank missile teams would be positioned along the Start Line, ready to move up and “shoot in” both assaults. If all went well, they’d be able to crush the enemy blocking force and unbar the road for a faster advance in the morning.

“And the colonel will hold C Company in reserve … here. ” Farwell’s finger pointed to a tiny stream shown meandering along the base of the enemy-held ridge.

“That should allow those Charlie Company layabouts to reinforce either axis of the attack … if anybody needs their rather dubious help. “

As he’d intended, this last comment prompted a few quick, nervous grins.

A and C companies had a long-standing but friendly rivalry.

Farwell sat back on his haunches and studied his subordinates.

“Well, that’s it then, gentlemen. Are there any questions?”

“Yes, sir.” The freckle-faced lieutenant commanding 2 Platoon leaned forward, his expression troubled.

“Why not use D Company to make a flanking attack? I mean, going straight up that slope seems likely to be a bit sticky.”

Farwell nodded. It was a good question, one that deserved a straight answer. He traced the tangle of gullies and ravines shown extending to either side of the highway below the ridge.

“I’m afraid we simply don’t have time for such subtlety, Jack. It might take D Company hours to work its way into position through that mess.” He shook his head.

“And who knows what the blasted Boers might have waiting for them when they got there?”

The lieutenant nodded slowly, reluctantly conceding the point. No one else spoke up.

Farwell let the silence drag on a few seconds longer and then climbed to his feet. The other men hurriedly followed suit.

“Very well, gentlemen. You have your orders. You may brief your platoons at your leisure. ” He smiled broadly.

“But make sure that happens to be sometime during the next five minutes. We’re moving up to the Start Line in ten, so don’t be late. Dismissed.”

As the orders group broke up, Farwell moved among his officers and

NCOs-shaking hands with one, clapping the shoulder of another. It seemed the least he could do. Privately, he didn’t expect many of these young men would be alive to see the next sunrise. And since he planned to lead the attack personally, he counted himself among the likely casualties.

BLOCKING FORCE, NORTHERN NATAL COMMANDO