MAIN » ARTICLESCaptain Randolph Daaf
And his spectacular failure at the Battle of Ulundi
7AM
As Randolph awoke he cast an eye over his tediously familiar surroundings and sighed at the rabble of common soldiery that surrounded his tent. A split second later, Sergeant Murphy-Ozwald burst through the canvas like an elephant charging a national geographic reporter. Exclaiming with an unusual and mostly unwelcome tone of urgency, “Captain Daaf, Captain Daaf, there's an order from Colonel Buller! He…" Murphy-Ozwald's announcement was cut short by the Captain's slurred repost, "Damn it Ozworld, how many times have I told you to utilize manners, haven't I taught you anything, Jesus man, where did you leave your respect?” Murphy-Ozwald shrunk into a gibbering wreck of a human being, scarcely recognisable as the same man who led a crack team of commandoes into Baghdad during the fall of Saddam. Randolph lent back in his leather armchair and cast an arrogant glance towards the Sarge, his eyes full of contempt for the alcoholic, incestual bastard who only qualified for service due to his father inexplicably obtaining a respectable ministry post the year before he joined the force.
“Well, an order from Buller eh,” the Captain continued, “…that sly bastard, what does he want now? And what does General Dunhill have to say about whatever it is Buller is saying?” Making sure to avoid any unnecessary eye-contact, Murphy-Ozwald proceeded to explain the situation; General Dunhill, the elephant tusks, Napoleon’s sword, the whole nine yards of it in plain and simple terms that even a drunkard could understand.
Randolph did understand. He lent over and scooped up his pipe and tobacco. Shortly after lighting up and blowing a billow of scorched gas into the confines of his tent, it was time to make a decision. He wheezed heavily and spat an eruption of phlegm into his overflowing ashtray before addressing his subordinate with a series of short, sharp, but unmistakably austere instructions.
Within the hour, Randolph and his cavalry were mounted and ready for attack. Buller’s instructions seemed foolproof and the Captain was certainly not a man to argue with command. If it was to be, it was to be. At 7.30am on a dull, misty Thursday in July Randolph’s cavalry advanced across the Mbilane stream and were witness to an event entirely unexpected and altogether dumbfounding for the men mentally equipped for a damn good confrontation. The enemy, the Zulu, was not prepared for war, they were not in any kind of defensive position, and in fact they seemed wholly unperturbed and were casually herding their goats, apparently unaware of the impending British onslaught. The troops who had advanced, swords and rifles at the ready, found themselves facing a bored consignment of natives, and unwilling to fight passive souls, retreated rapidly to the high ground that Randolph had stationed himself upon in order to observe the siege.
Shocked by the unexpected retreat of his men, Captain Randolph Daaf proceeded to give a series of inexplicable and incomprehensible orders, resulting in utter disarray. “Confound it men, there is nothing left to fight for but our pride, and for Britain. Raise your swords aloft and slaughter those savages, be it in the name of the King, or for your own sense of decency, it must be done. Advance at once!”, “Re-advance, sir?” questioned a forgettable looking child of a soldier standing nearby. “Indeed,” replied the captain, “indeed.”
The men reacted with mild obeisance towards their head honcho. Randolph failed to notice and the charge was soon underway. They overcome the singular hill on the landscape and charged into an empty, baron scene, the enemy nowhere in sight. Randolph shouted another order which even he didn’t hear and halted. Heads turned and minds wandered, there was no-body to fight. It was a walkover. Britain had prevailed again. Randolph nodded his head at the men alongside him and reached into his deep pockets for the carefully concealed bottle of whisky and case of Cuban cigars. Sparking up, Randolph surveyed the scene in front of him with a mix of contempt and arrogance, comfortable in his colonial superiority and assured of the success of his army.
Thirty seconds later the Zulus arose from their hidden hideaways. The mossy grass beneath and surrounding the men on horseback exploded. The natives, bearing spears, shields and an undeniable sense of wrongdoing began to charge, their familiar racket of alien chanting engulfing the plain. Randolph, shocked to the core, found himself mute to the onslaught, unable to issue instruction and utterly incapable of aiding his men in any professional capacity. He felt a sharp pain in his cheeks and the scene began to fade. Water suddenly splashed over his face and the pain returned, harder this time and a body came into focus. It was Murphy-Ozwald, “son of a bitch” muttered the Captain. “Captain Daaf, sir, wake up sir, the battle is underway. It’s a good thing we came and got you when we did. Colonel Buller ordered a halt way back there by the river and you just carried on sir, are you ok?”, “What? What? Yes, yes, I’m find Sergeant, err, good work boy. Back to work now, eh? Off you go.”
The bastard appeared to be right. Randolph sat up and saw his men seated still upon their horses and efficiently falling back into a hasty retreat a good 20 feet from the charging Zulu who were dropping like flies. Buller alone sat stationary on his steed firing his own pistol frantically, whilst behind him on the hill a scouting party offered support fire. Suddenly Randolph felt himself rising from the ground, lifted in the strong arms of a man he didn’t recognize and the sound of the chanting dropped to a low hum and then disappeared completely as they raced back to camp, to the cigars and the whisky still sitting in his tent.
The following morning Buller, Dunhill and Lieutenant Chard of the Royal Engineers and the men met the enemy head on in battle, firing hordes of bullets into a relentless charge of Zulu warriors armed with weak shields but an unnerving persistence which would shake the memories of the young soldiers for years to come. The strength of the British firepower proved to be too great and not a single Zulu wounded was left alive. Revenge they called it. Randolph was only slightly listening as the story of the great victory was being relayed to him by Murphy-Ozwald that evening. “Damn it sergeant, why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I’m wounded…” There was no sign of any visible injuries to the Captain but Murphy-Ozwald, understanding the hint at last, following frequent eye-rolling from Randolph, retreated to the safety of his own tent.
The Captain, alone at last, wondered what the boy had been saying to him for the last hour. Didn’t he know a great battle was afoot and this was no time for talking? “Tomorrow we’ll show those natives what happens when you mess about with her majesty’s finest. For now though, Mr. Whisky, I believe we shall have our second date of the evening. Where shall we go this time, the theatre? Perhaps a walk along the river? Oh, the devil with it, let’s stay in shall we? Ha ha, bloody good…”
Written by Jay and James
7AM
As Randolph awoke he cast an eye over his tediously familiar surroundings and sighed at the rabble of common soldiery that surrounded his tent. A split second later, Sergeant Murphy-Ozwald burst through the canvas like an elephant charging a national geographic reporter. Exclaiming with an unusual and mostly unwelcome tone of urgency, “Captain Daaf, Captain Daaf, there's an order from Colonel Buller! He…" Murphy-Ozwald's announcement was cut short by the Captain's slurred repost, "Damn it Ozworld, how many times have I told you to utilize manners, haven't I taught you anything, Jesus man, where did you leave your respect?” Murphy-Ozwald shrunk into a gibbering wreck of a human being, scarcely recognisable as the same man who led a crack team of commandoes into Baghdad during the fall of Saddam. Randolph lent back in his leather armchair and cast an arrogant glance towards the Sarge, his eyes full of contempt for the alcoholic, incestual bastard who only qualified for service due to his father inexplicably obtaining a respectable ministry post the year before he joined the force.
“Well, an order from Buller eh,” the Captain continued, “…that sly bastard, what does he want now? And what does General Dunhill have to say about whatever it is Buller is saying?” Making sure to avoid any unnecessary eye-contact, Murphy-Ozwald proceeded to explain the situation; General Dunhill, the elephant tusks, Napoleon’s sword, the whole nine yards of it in plain and simple terms that even a drunkard could understand.
Randolph did understand. He lent over and scooped up his pipe and tobacco. Shortly after lighting up and blowing a billow of scorched gas into the confines of his tent, it was time to make a decision. He wheezed heavily and spat an eruption of phlegm into his overflowing ashtray before addressing his subordinate with a series of short, sharp, but unmistakably austere instructions.
Within the hour, Randolph and his cavalry were mounted and ready for attack. Buller’s instructions seemed foolproof and the Captain was certainly not a man to argue with command. If it was to be, it was to be. At 7.30am on a dull, misty Thursday in July Randolph’s cavalry advanced across the Mbilane stream and were witness to an event entirely unexpected and altogether dumbfounding for the men mentally equipped for a damn good confrontation. The enemy, the Zulu, was not prepared for war, they were not in any kind of defensive position, and in fact they seemed wholly unperturbed and were casually herding their goats, apparently unaware of the impending British onslaught. The troops who had advanced, swords and rifles at the ready, found themselves facing a bored consignment of natives, and unwilling to fight passive souls, retreated rapidly to the high ground that Randolph had stationed himself upon in order to observe the siege.
Shocked by the unexpected retreat of his men, Captain Randolph Daaf proceeded to give a series of inexplicable and incomprehensible orders, resulting in utter disarray. “Confound it men, there is nothing left to fight for but our pride, and for Britain. Raise your swords aloft and slaughter those savages, be it in the name of the King, or for your own sense of decency, it must be done. Advance at once!”, “Re-advance, sir?” questioned a forgettable looking child of a soldier standing nearby. “Indeed,” replied the captain, “indeed.”
The men reacted with mild obeisance towards their head honcho. Randolph failed to notice and the charge was soon underway. They overcome the singular hill on the landscape and charged into an empty, baron scene, the enemy nowhere in sight. Randolph shouted another order which even he didn’t hear and halted. Heads turned and minds wandered, there was no-body to fight. It was a walkover. Britain had prevailed again. Randolph nodded his head at the men alongside him and reached into his deep pockets for the carefully concealed bottle of whisky and case of Cuban cigars. Sparking up, Randolph surveyed the scene in front of him with a mix of contempt and arrogance, comfortable in his colonial superiority and assured of the success of his army.
Thirty seconds later the Zulus arose from their hidden hideaways. The mossy grass beneath and surrounding the men on horseback exploded. The natives, bearing spears, shields and an undeniable sense of wrongdoing began to charge, their familiar racket of alien chanting engulfing the plain. Randolph, shocked to the core, found himself mute to the onslaught, unable to issue instruction and utterly incapable of aiding his men in any professional capacity. He felt a sharp pain in his cheeks and the scene began to fade. Water suddenly splashed over his face and the pain returned, harder this time and a body came into focus. It was Murphy-Ozwald, “son of a bitch” muttered the Captain. “Captain Daaf, sir, wake up sir, the battle is underway. It’s a good thing we came and got you when we did. Colonel Buller ordered a halt way back there by the river and you just carried on sir, are you ok?”, “What? What? Yes, yes, I’m find Sergeant, err, good work boy. Back to work now, eh? Off you go.”
The bastard appeared to be right. Randolph sat up and saw his men seated still upon their horses and efficiently falling back into a hasty retreat a good 20 feet from the charging Zulu who were dropping like flies. Buller alone sat stationary on his steed firing his own pistol frantically, whilst behind him on the hill a scouting party offered support fire. Suddenly Randolph felt himself rising from the ground, lifted in the strong arms of a man he didn’t recognize and the sound of the chanting dropped to a low hum and then disappeared completely as they raced back to camp, to the cigars and the whisky still sitting in his tent.
The following morning Buller, Dunhill and Lieutenant Chard of the Royal Engineers and the men met the enemy head on in battle, firing hordes of bullets into a relentless charge of Zulu warriors armed with weak shields but an unnerving persistence which would shake the memories of the young soldiers for years to come. The strength of the British firepower proved to be too great and not a single Zulu wounded was left alive. Revenge they called it. Randolph was only slightly listening as the story of the great victory was being relayed to him by Murphy-Ozwald that evening. “Damn it sergeant, why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I’m wounded…” There was no sign of any visible injuries to the Captain but Murphy-Ozwald, understanding the hint at last, following frequent eye-rolling from Randolph, retreated to the safety of his own tent.
The Captain, alone at last, wondered what the boy had been saying to him for the last hour. Didn’t he know a great battle was afoot and this was no time for talking? “Tomorrow we’ll show those natives what happens when you mess about with her majesty’s finest. For now though, Mr. Whisky, I believe we shall have our second date of the evening. Where shall we go this time, the theatre? Perhaps a walk along the river? Oh, the devil with it, let’s stay in shall we? Ha ha, bloody good…”
Written by Jay and James