Surprise Attack

The rifleman of the Napoleonic Peninsular war, 1810 to 1814, was the forerunner of the modern day SAS. Armed with the formidable Baker rifle, the first of its kind to be produced and a more accurate weapon with a longer range than the musket, their job was to operate in pairs ahead of the main infantry to scout and harass the enemy by sniping at senior officers and NCOs in the hopes of causing as much chaos, disorganization and panic as possible. In comparison to the musket, the inferior weapon of the infantry with a range of 60 yards at best, the Baker rifle had an accurate range of 200 and on occasion 300 yards, which came as an unwelcome surprise to the enemy. In place of the visibly bright scarlet tunics of the infantry, the rifleman’s uniform of dark green provided camouflage for the first time, allowing them to merge with the surrounding landscape as they stalked his targets.

Life was tough for riflemen, they were trained to move fast, endure long forced marches while living off the land. Shooting game if it was available and safe to do so or else surviving on nuts, grubs and even grasses, and all for the princely sum of a shilling a day. But unlike the rest of the army they were seldom flogged and even dined with their officers, something unheard of at the time. Moving in pairs to ensure one loaded weapon always faced the enemy, trained riflemen were capable of reloading twice or even three times a minute giving them an edge in any fire fight.

As a military unit they were a good hundred years ahead of their time, which is why I chose a rifleman to be one of Charlie Parker’s lives in my book Private Lives. I hope you will enjoy the following excerpt.

We had gone no more than ten miles before we made contact with the enemy and slithering like snakes through the underbrush we reached the brow of a small hill overlooking the French position. Obviously unaware the British had landed, they were taking none of the usual precautions, laughing and singing amongst themselves while drinking wine and roasting stolen cattle over open fires with the casual confidence of conquerors, so sure their position was secure they hadn’t even bothered to post sentries. I felt the tap of Pete’s rifle barrel on my shoulder and following its lead saw a full colonel with members of his staff emerge from one of the tents. At 200 yards with not a breath of wind he was a sitting target. Sighting the area where nose and forehead joined I held my breath and gently squeezed the trigger. I heard the satisfactory thwack of ball on bone and knew my target dead, but Ben had moved swiftly up into to the lead position before I had time to see the man fall. A good rifleman was trained to reload in 30 seconds, but that was standing upright and using his weight to ram the ball down the rifling. Lying on one’s side made things more difficult and though we each carried a small wooden mallet to help tap the ball home it should have slowed the process. But necessity makes the impossible possible and somehow I found my rifle reloaded and ready by the time Pete fired a scant 20 seconds later.

I edged forward to witness a scene resembling a disturbed ant heap, with two officers down many of the soldiers had panicked, running about directionless in search of their muskets. A great bull of a man, a senior sergeant of some kind by the look of him, was standing on top of some packing cases bawling orders which seemed to be having a stabilizing effect on the men. I snapshot him through the throat in less than ten seconds and the blood gouted from his mouth like fermenting beer from a busted cask. But by now some of the soldiers were pointing in our direction. It was time to go. I tugged at Pete’s coat to let him know I was away, but he looked round with a grin and two closed fingers, indicating he was going for a double shot. The practice was strictly forbidden for to shoot two men with a single ball meant staying put until the distance to target closed to less than 60 paces. To attempt the shot at longer range was doomed to failure, as the ball would lack the power to pass through one solid target and sufficiently damage the next. It also meant the chances of us getting away were far from good which was why the penalty for attempting a double, even if successful, could well result in a flogging unless judged vital to aid escape.

But a second glance quickly explained why Pete was so taken with the idea and my own heart began thudding in shared excitement. The leading Frenchman was scrambling up the hill on all fours, head held high, his gaze fixed on our position doubtless betrayed by muzzle flash or powder smoke. No more than a pace behind the next soldier followed upright, placing their necks in near exact alignment no more than a yard apart. It was a chance in a thousand, the perfect double shot. Holding my breath I felt myself almost become a part of Pete as he gently caressed the trigger. The blast of rifle fire followed by the smack of lead on flesh was no more than expected. But my gaze was riveted on the second soldier and despite my training I damn near broke cover to cheer as his head whipped back to display the familiar red rose blossoming beautifully just below his chin.

We sank back into the undergrowth intending to use the hill as cover as we doubled back down to shelter in a field of ripening corn below. But though expert marksmen we were new to war. The French on the other hand were seasoned campaigners and though taken by surprise by our first shot had reacted with an automatic counter-attack of veterans before the second. While some were still milling around like bewildered recruits, a detachment of hardened veterans had broken away and rounded the hill to cover our flank. As we bounded down towards the cornfield with Pete in the lead the world suddenly erupted in a crashing volley of musket fire as the air came alive with a whine of angry hornets. Something tugged hard at the bottom of my leggings while a white-hot poker was laid sizzling across my back. Four paces in front, Pete’s head exploded in a haze of pink, his sprinting body crumpling like an emptied sack of coal. How I survived that first volley I shall never know but I was hidden deep in the chest-high corn before they had time to reload a second. The French made a half-hearted attempt to flush me out, but none were too keen to risk their lives for the sake of one man and after a while they contented themselves with setting fire to the field. But for the second time that day luck was with me, for the wind veered round to the opposite quarter providing a readymade smokescreen to aid my escape, leaving the French coughing and spluttering at my heels.