PROLOGUE This is a "Battle Report" written for the HMGS Mid-South newsletter, The Dispatch, and reprinted with the permission of the editor, Major Bill Harting. It was written in response to a battle report in the form of a diatribe by a Turkish officer against the incompetence of the British forces at Balaclava, and particularly the deranged behaviour of one British officer, generally recognized as Colonel Flashman. I, Howard Whitehouse, had the privilege of playing Sir Harry during this game - a very entertaining 30mm action put on by Mr David Raybin at Nashcon in May of '91. As the reader will note, this is no ordinary Battle Report. FLASHMAN AT BALACLAVA An excerpt from the Flashman Diaries It takes a lot to upset breakfast at Gandamack Lodge. Flashy reads 'the Times' over tea and kippers, discarding final demands from irate tradespersons, while Elspeth looks on adoringly, or at least vacantly, which will suffice most mornings. This morning was different, for the Royal Mails brought -- together with the usual overdue bills and threats of legal action -- the November issue of the HMGS Mid-South dispatch, sent to me by my old carousing comrade Howard Whitehouse; he owes me a favour for bailing him out of a dungeon in Bokhara in '42. There it was - Infamy! A letter from some appalling Turkish jack-in-office spreading calumnies about the gallant Flissman bahadur VC. etc regarding the affair at Balaclava. Not that the jumped up little beggar was lying, necessarily - that don't signify with Flashy. It's the slur on the reputation you see - and with a liver as yellow as mine, a good name is absolutely the thing to put a heroic spin on whatever poltroonery my bladder and bowels may dictate. I've no ill will towards the Turks in general. Indeed, one particular troupe of Circassian dancing girls on the road to Trebizond made an unusually favourable impression on me -- but that's another story. Their army consists of the usual Oriental mob of unpaid, unfed yokels led by hopeless aristocratic fools. The Russians and the Spanish are the same, and so, though I wouldn't say it in public, are most of Her Majesty's regiments. But the British noble imbecile, idle and half-witted though he might be -- and I ought to know -- has one advantage over this damnable unshaven Dago pederast scandal-monger. He doesn't write to the papers. Poor sod probably couldn't if he wanted to. Be that as it may, I shall set down an accurate account of what occurred that day. First of all, the Turk is right In noticing that the British army was unusually lethargic, even by its own standards, that morning. Raglan was, as we all knew, half off his chump. That blackguard Cardigan was wenching and gambling on his yacht in the harbour, for which I envied rather than blamed him. As staff officer on duty, my concern was the security of the camp which meant special attention to the needs and possible desires of Mrs. Fanny Duberly, whose tent lay between the fetid slums of Balaclava town and the ridge inhabited by this Pasha fellow and his troops. I was on my way to tend to Mrs. D's requirements when the Russkis attacked. Of course, I saw immediate advantage in rescuing the fair maiden from the Czar's minions, but how to do it? Ever the gallant horseman and I ride well when the foe is behind, I galloped over to Colin Campbell's brigade -- you can guarantee a dour Scots Presbyterian will be up early in the morning -- to borrow an appropriate escort for an English lady. Old bugger gave nothing except the promise of the swift dispatch of Mrs. Duberly's husband as soon as he had completed his duties for the day. Not at all what Flashy had in mind. About this time General Scarlett had sobered up enough to get his donkey wallopers aboard their troop horses and point the at the Russians. I rode over and told him some cock and bull tale about Lord Raglan ordering him to detach a squadron for escort duty. He wasn't having any of it. That's the problem with your capable professional officers, you can't trust 'em to follow a stupid order on demand. Fortunately we don't meet them very often in Queen Victoria's service. So there I was, with a damsel in distress due to show her gratitude, no doubt, to a bold rescuer -- and only a brigade of worthless Turks to defend her from the hordes. Then -- horror! The Turks began to fall back from the ridge. I did what any right-thinking coward, liar, and charlatan would do. I covered my much esteemed self with glory to the extent of a second Victoria Cross and Thanks of Parliament. And all I had intended to cover was my posterior. "Mrs. Duberly! Er, Fanny my dear, it's Harry. I'm here to save you from the onslaught of the Bear. Quick, let us be away!" It sounded fine enough to me, but regrettably Dear Fanny recalled my conduct towards her at Roundway Down, sometime before the business with Disraeli. I might recall that she fainted, or gushed breathlessly at me, but actually her words were strictly to the point: "Bugger off Flashman. I've got a pistol and I'll blow your long nose off if you stick it inside my tent." Charming little minx, thinks I, which increased my manly ardour no end. "Fanny -- dearest Fanny --" I began, and reached for the tent flap. A loud explosion and the rapid -- and quite alarming to a yellow laddie like me -- passage of a lead ball past my left ear took me all unawares. The resulting involuntary retreat took me fifty yards from Fanny's canvas shooting gallery without any mental calculation on my part. That's the thing with bonafide arrant cowardice, you see. Your everyday cringing sort tends to hang about waiting for someone else to clear off first, so as not to be the first to run. Those are the poor bastards who end up skewered on bayonets or assegais or ghazi knives. No, the inherent poltroon is pedalling to the rear before his brain notices that something's amiss. It was then that the true horror of the moment struck me. The Russians were coming on towards Balaclava town, with Raglan's army hopelessly out of position and only a brigade of Turks between them and your diarist. Oh well, thinks I, they'll cover my retreat nicely. Just then it became evident that the oily little swab in charge of the Turks had it in mind to drop back from his exposed post to a sensible line in rear. Quite sound from a tactical viewpoint but fairly disastrous for Flashy, since the proper place for a Turkish rearguard action - and I've studied wars well enough, even if I prefer to avoid intimate contact with 'em -- was quite clearly some distance behind not only Mrs D's tent -- I couldn't give a fig for her at that moment -- but the prefabricated hovel wherein the Flashman personal effects were stowed. I can ride damnably smartish to save my hide, no question, but I had serious doubts as to whether I could rescue my camp bed, dress uniform, collection of French postcards and the remains of the most recent issue of my allowance from Elspeth. Try and tell your wife that you need another cash disbursement from her departed papa's fortune because some bloody Cossack got your best boots and bankroll; see if you live that one down! I had to remonstrate with the Turkish commander. I rode over at a slow canter doesn't do to appear too concerned when you deal with Orientals - otherwise they know they've got you by the whatjerttercallits. "Holla there old son" says I, in passable Turkish -- as you'll know I'm a dab hand with languages -- "don't leave those fine earthworks you've built. It looks bad. Dishonourable you know. Let me show you where you can make a stand worthy of Turks! " It sounded fine to me, but, of course, my Turkish was not only rusty, but also learned from my delicate flowers of Circassian trollophood. And Circassians aren't really Turks at all. I suppose it was rather like addressing Abraham Lincoln in terms picked up in the best bordello in San Antonio. Charming establishment, by the way. The fellow's face turned white with fury. Hullo, says I, the silver tongue seems a little tarnished. A suspicion that while I had used the correct word for 'dishonourable', the rest of my speech had featured a word I now recalled primarily in the context of certain inventive and invigorating activities specifically proscribed by the Bible, the Koran, and the Public Indecency Act of 1843. "Now, see here, your esteemed Pashaship. No offence intended. Courageous Turkish boys. Spanking good show, lads!" I was babbling, of course. The only word I can be sure I got right was 'spanking'. You might have thought this would forge some kind of common bond with this vile Asiatic functionary, but no. The swine shot at me, and once again it was Headlong Harry first for the rear. I've been shot at many times, but seldom twice in ten minutes in separate events, and never before (or since) by people officially on the same side as myself. I was fuming. I'd show his Sublime Flatulence how a brave English soldier would receive such an insult. Of course, I'd have to find one. Stopping briefly to flog my servants into packing up my belongings with a degree of haste generally unknown in the east, I spotted my riposte to the Pasha. He had fired on me with a flintlock pistol. I should reply with a piece of nine pound ordinance. This may seem unfair and unsporting, which it was, and I can only say that I regret that there was no siege piece available. However, it seemed unlikely that an officer of the Royal Artillery could be persuaded to order a battery to fire on an allied officer purely on my statement that he had affronted my dignity. No. He was the kind of fresh-faced fool I'd have bullied ragged at Rugby, a young battery commander anxious to do well. "Captain Fitzpatrick" quoth I, "that man is a Russian agent. A Tatar, skilled in subterfuge, who has been placed amongst the Turkish staff by Menshikoff in order to delude them into abandoning their positions. You must fire on him!" These words, coming from the famous Flashy V.C., staff officer to Raglan and well-known to the illustrated papers, had their effect. I honestly believe he'd have shot at Queen Victoria if I'd told him she was an officer of the Czar's Dwarf Guard done up in crinolines. The shots rang out, six of the Tower Armoury's finest roundshot aimed at one capering Osmanli with a tube of red felt jammed on his noddle. Pity we didn't have any of those fine German range finding instruments they've come out with in recent years. Pity the British cavalry took this moment to cross the valley at a round trot. It might have helped if the gunners hadn't received a ration of rum shortly before I galloped in amongst 'em. Ah well. (At this point this fragment of General Flashman's diary ends, depriving the reader of his account of the remains of the Battle of Balaclava, including the details of his encounter with a beautiful Russian countess, his attempt to return to British lines by leading a charging column of Russian infantry, his attempt to kidnap the Czarist general while posing as his ADC, and the bizarre turn of events in which he cleared a redoubt which had fallen to the Russians by leading a company of hospital patients (who were chasing him for reasons now lost but evidently too sordid for family reading) and thus won a bar to his Afghan War V.C. Perhaps the rest of this document may one day be found. H.J.W., provisional editor) . Back to Table of Contents -- Savage and Soldier Vol. XXIII No. 2 Back to Savage and Soldier List of Issues Back to MagWeb Magazine List © Copyright 1992 by Milton Soong. This article appears in MagWeb (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web. 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