Posts Tagged ‘Russians’

Page from Corporal D's Diary - Crimean War

A good friend of mine, the Archivist NCO of the Scots Guards, Wellington Barracks, London, and I are working on publishing the hand-written diary of a Scots Fusilier Guards corporal (who will merely be called “D” until we publish), who was in the Crimean War (1854-1856).  It is an amazing document.

Usually ‘other ranks’ diaries, which are scarce to begin with, are in quite poor English and almost impossible to read … no capitals or too many, no periods between sentences, sentence fragments, no commas, bad tenses, and atrocious spelling.  This soldier was the opposite.  He was educated, and had a meticulous hand.  His writing is legible, even delicate, and grammatically better than most officer diaries I have seen.

We are typing it out as accurately as possible, and adding footnotes to explain such entries as, “Some of the Bashi Bazouks came by…” (The Bashi Bazouks – which literally means  ’damaged heads’ – were irregular Turkish cavalry fighting against the Russians.  They were recruited from the gutters, badly led, unreliable, and very willing to run when the heat was on.  However, on those rare occasions when they did actually engage the enemy, they were reputed to be impressive.)

It is also always interesting to read what was written at the time the battles of the Crimean War were fought, a primary source. Hopefully, we will be able to publish this diary within a year – It deserves to be read.

Bashi Bazouks

Bashi Bazouk Chief

Black Bashi Bazouk

The real Bob. He can be seen at the National War Museum-Scotland, at Edinburgh Castle

Sticks survived the Crimean War, and came home a hero in his own right.  His comrades in the Scots Fusilier Guards even fashioned a medal for him.  As they made their grand victory march through the London streets, past their beloved Queen Victoria, Sticks led the regiment.

His heroic deeds in the Crimea were legend.  He even disappeared for weeks from the frozen trenches before Sevastopol.  He returned wearing a Russian religious medal around his neck.  The Sergeant Major winked, and said, “Guess the damned Ruskies know a good dog when they see one, aye.  Glad ta hav ye back laddie.”

Private Gorman also survived the war.  He left the Scots Fusilier Guards a few years later, but Sticks chose to remain.  He had found a home, indeed a calling.  Sean knew it as well.  Sticks didn’t belong to him.  He belonged to the Scots Fusilier Guards, and still does – in memory.

———————————————————————————

Yes, there was a real Sticks, but his name was “Bob.”  He did belong to a butcher, but may well have chosen the life of a soldier, rather than having been rescued by one, as in my fictional tale.  He fought in many of the battles in the Crimean War beside his comrades in the Scots Fusilier Guards, and survivied the war.

He even survived the freezing trenches of that first winter of 1854.  His mates did fashion a medal for him, and a collar of white belt leather, festooned with regimental buttons.

Unfortunately, the irony of fate caught up to Bob.  On a cold February morning in 1860, he was marching through London in his usual place at the head of the Scots Fusilier Guards.  Outside Buckingham Palace he was run over by a butcher’s cart and died as a result of the accident.

Much mourned, his spirit lives on, even today.  You see his friends just couldn’t let him go.  They had him preserved, and he can be seen by all of you – sitting tall, still on guard duty, at the National War Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh Castle.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my tale about Sticks as much as I’ve enjoyed spinning it for you.

In memory of Bob … a warrior.

There were many dogs with the British in the Crimea, including this one with officers of the 57th Regiment of Foot.

[This is a fictional tale by Will Hutchison, based on a very real story]

The war had begun.  Britain and France, unlikely bedfellows, were joined, with the help of Sardinia, against Russia – ostensibly to protect “poor, invaded, Turkey.”  As the 1st Battalion, Scots Fusilier Guards marched to the ships, they were led by a proud, prancing Sticks, his black and brown coat shining in the sun.

The marching troops passed by the amazed butcher along the way.  Private Gorman, marching near the head of the column, noticed Sticks’ back stiffen, his head tilt slightly higher, and he could have sworn he heard Sticks sniff loudly as he marched past his former master.

The sea journey was uneventful, except in choppy waters – Sticks being one of the few who did not tear his insides out retching over the rail.  Varna, along the western coast of the Black Sea was the army’s staging area.  It was also where cholera hit the British and French forces – hard – sometimes killing a hundred men in a day.  Sticks watched over his brothers in arms, adding joy to the last few moments of their lives when the sickness consumed them.  He was saddened by the losses, which cut his new friends down within hours of showing the first signs of illness.

“I think I have it, Sticks, heaven help me,” Sean Gorman pronounced one morning, when a grey pallor appeared on his face.  Sticks whined, remained with his friend … but he seemed to know that Sean would not succumb … or perhaps he willed it.  By the third day, it was determined that Sean had serious diarrhea, but not the cholera.  In time he recovered and was back with the regiment.

The real Sticks, whose name was actually "Bob" - This wonderful sketch is courtesy of an unknown artist

The regiment finally moved across the Black Sea to the Crimea, and a confrontation with the Russians.  Sticks first saw action at the Alma River, where the Scots Fusilier Guards were in the thick of a frontal assault on a Russian position fortified with cannon.  While they waited to assault, solid shot and shell rained down upon them perilously.

“What the divil is he aboot, Private Gorman?” asked the Sergeant Major, looking behind his line of soldiers, who were hugging the ground as close as possible.  He was watching Sticks cavorting about the field to their rear like he was playing with toy balls on a London green.

“He’s…he’s chasin’ after them cannon balls, Sar’nt Major.  He’s been doin’ it fer the longest time.”  They had been under intense cannon fire for over an hour.  The men’s nerves were frayed, stretched to the limit.  Watching this tiny dog scampering about was giving them a calming hope of survival.

“Ach, he is a charmer, that one,” said the Sergeant Major, laughing.  “You lads take heed now,” he bellowed.  “If the wee Sticks can stand this hell, then I’m damned sure we kin stand it.”  There were shouts of “Aye, that’s the God’s truth!” and “Charge on, Sticks, lad!”

The attack soon began in earnest.  First they crossed the Alma … where Sticks found he could swim, and Private Gorman went flat on his face in the water.  As the regiment moved up a gradual slope toward the enemy, men began to fall from the ranks.

Sticks would run to each, sniffing, prodding.  If the man lay still, he’d go on to the next.  If the man moved, he’d bark loudly until other soldiers or one of the bandmen, who were used to carry wounded to the rear, came up to aid the fallen man.  Sticks was utterly fearless and relentless. There were times when he ran so fast he outstretched the moving line of guardsmen, and had to be called back – bullets kicking up ground around him.

An officer went down, hit once in the leg.  It was the young lieutenant who had been Officer of the Day when Sean found Sticks in the snow. The ground where he lay was exposed except for a pile of rocks nearby.  The officer was hit again in the arm while lying on the ground. Sticks ran to his side and began dancing around, barking.  Sean heard the bark and recognized the wounded officer.  He moved quickly, grabbing the officer by his shoulder belt and coatee collar, dragging him behind the rocks.

“Good work, Sticks, lad,” he said, “but ya better bide here behind these rocks.  It’s no a safe place out there.”

Two bandsmen with an improvised stretcher came up.  Sean ran on to catch the regimental line moving ever closer to the Russians.  He looked back over his shoulder. “Stay – boy!  Stay!”

There was, of course, little or no chance of Sticks “staying.”

[The Conclusion, Part VI, will be along tomorrow with more of the real story behind the fictional tale.]

{Photograph at top taken by Roger Fenton}