Showing posts with label army. Show all posts
Showing posts with label army. Show all posts

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Fall out, Flashy



The army of Abyssinia was at rest, thousands of men loafing and talking and brewing their billies like anu other soldiers, save that these were black, and instead of shirt-sleeves and dangling galluses there were white shamas and tight leggings, and as well as the piled firearms there were stands of spears and racks of sickle bladed swords. They looked well, as the Gallas had done, and perhaps as soon as tomorrow they would go out to face the finest army in the world under one of the great captains. And how many come well to bed-time? And how many King’s Own and Dukes and Baluch, for that matter? Fall out, Flashy, thinks I, this ain’t your party; lie low, keep quiet, and above all, stay alive.


Flashman on the March, pp.198-99, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2005.


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Thursday, 23 August 2012

Free and easy style



. . . my bootneck sergeant scowled disapproval; he wasn’t use to the free and easy style of these Navy youngsters who couldn’t help bring their fifth-form ways to sea, and treated their men more like a football of which they were the captain, than a crew. It was natural enough: the cornet or ensign in the Army, when he joined his regiment for the first time, entered a world of rigid formality and discipline, but here was this lad just out of his ’teens with a little floating kingdom all his own, sent to fight slavers and pirates, chase smugglers, shepherd pilgrims, and escort the precious bullion on which a whole British army would depend — and not a senior to turn to for advice or guidance, but only his own sense and judgment.


Flashman on the March, p.17, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2005.



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Tuesday, 26 July 2011

A clash of armies





       The best way to view a clash of armies is from a hot-air balloon, for not only can you see what’s doing, you’re safely out of the line of fire. I’ve done it once in Paraguay, and there’s nothing to beat it, provided some jealous swine of a husband doesn’t take a cleaver to the cable.


Flashman and the Mountain of Light, p.326, Fontana Paperback edition, 1991.



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Monday, 25 April 2011

Aldershot in turbans



As far as you could see, among the endless lines of tents and waving standards, the broad maidan* was alive with foot battalions at drill, horse regiments at field exercise, and guns at practice — they were all uniformed and in perfect order, that was the shocking thing. Black, brown, and yellow armies in those days, you see, might be as brave as any, but they didn’t have centuries of drill and tactical movement drummed into ’em, not even Zulus, or Ranavalona’s Hova guardsmen. That was the thing about the Khalsa: it was Aldershot in turbans. It was an army.

*Plain


Flashman and the Mountain of Light, p.58, Fontana Paperback edition, 1991.


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Tuesday, 8 September 2009

Their hard school



…this was their hard school, as I was to learn, like our North-west Frontier, where you either soldiered well or not at all.



Flashman at the Charge, p.213, Pan edition, 5th printing, 1979.




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Monday, 22 June 2009

A sight of omen



…they were a sight of omen to me, for the last time I’d seen them they’d been standing back to back in the bloodied snow of Gandamack, with the Ghazi knives whittling ’em down, and Souter with the flag wrapped around his belly. I never see those 44th facings but I think of the army of Afghanistan dying in the ice-hills, and shudder.



Flashman at the Charge, p.60, Pan edition, 5th printing, 1979.




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Wednesday, 6 May 2009

Heel Fido!



Mark you, I’d no time to waste marveling over the fatuousness of this kind of mismanagement; it was nothing new in our army, anyway, and still isn’t, from what I can see. Ask any commander to choose between toiling over the ammunition returns for a division fighting for its life, and taking the King’s dog for a walk, and he’ll be out there in a trice, bawling ‘Heel Fido!’



Flashman at the Charge, p.29, Pan edition, 5th printing, 1979.




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Sunday, 11 May 2008

A good enough army


It was a good enough army, part Queen’s troops, part Company’s, with British regiments as well as native ones, but it was having its work cut out trying to keep the tribes in order, for apart from Dost’s supporters there were scores of little petty chiefs and tyrants who lost no opportunity of causing trouble in the unsettled times and the usual Afghan pasttimes of blood-feud, robbery and murder-for-fun were going ahead full steam.



Flashman, p.80, Pan edition, 12th printing, 1979.



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