No war in all the history of the British Army (or for that matter British Imperial History) managed to capture so much of what is best, of what is worst, what is intelligent, what is stupid, what is courageous and what is foolhardy, what is important and what is infinitely insignificant, than the extraordinary and downright bizarre military campaign which was the Crimean War, of October 1853 to February 1856. It stands in history as a testament to British folly – and yet there was much learnt from the dire experience, and which led to the successful reshaping of Britain’s military organs, rendering them fit for the practice of Empire in its hayday between 1860 and 1914. Indeed, the Crimean War still has lessons for us today.
I should tell you how it came to be that I developed an interest in the Crimean campaign. As usual, the story begins in the ancient world, and this time with my reflecting on the extraordinary fact that one of the greatest poets of the late Roman Republican age, Publius Ovidius Naso, for reasons which have remained an entire mystery to posterity, was exiled in his fiftieth year from the splendour of Rome to the very fingertips of its dominions on the shores of the Black Sea, just south of where the might river Danube empties out into its waters. For ten long years Ovid lived in piteous exile on that shore, in the town of ancient Tomis, now known as Constanza, in Romania.
While researching his exile, and in particular the ancient trade routes which were followed from Rome to Corinth and beyond (and which I hoped would have supplied the poor fellow with olives and dates), I discovered that ships would regularly sail from Greece through the Dardanelles, up the western shores of the Black Sea until they would reach the large peninsula at the north end of the Sea, which they knew as ‘Taurica’. This peninsula, about half the size of Denmark, and which is very roughly a rhombus or sidelong four sided diamond in shape, had in ancient times a very large greek colony at its southern end, known as Chersonesos. To this day, the ruins of Chersonesos are only marginally less extensive than those of Pompeii.
It was in the tenth century, however, and after the year 988 AD when Saint Vladimir of the Kievan Rus converted to Christianity, that this beautiful corner of Europe joined the Russian family, becoming known as the Crimea.
The Crimea then began a long a distinguished history in the life of greater Russia: a place of great churches, monasteries and cathedrals, a centre of Russian culture and learning, a summer resort to which the frozen citizens of St Petersburg and Moscow would flock every year and in more recent years the permanent home of the Russian Black Sea Fleet founded by Prince Potemkin (and the Soviet Union’s only ice free harbour all-year-round), the location of the momentous Yalta conference of Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill and, from its foundation in 1783 by Rear Admiral Makenzie (in the service of the Russian navy), the location of the mighty harbour city of Sebastopol. It is in places a breathtakingly beautiful place, with dark and snowcapped mountains, cliff faces plunging to the coastal sea below and yet a number of sheltered and deep water bays. It has, overall a temperate, continental climate which is very pleasantly warm in the summer, but bitterly cold in the winter.
And so the Crimea has a claim to be one of the most historic and interesting parts of the continent of Europe, quite apart from being the amphitheatre for one of the most astonishing military campaigns in history.
No one ever seems, properly, to understand what the Crimean War was all about – suffice to say, that it involved an urgent need to remove the Russians from what was, on any view, one of the somewhat more Russian parts of the world, I hope you would agree from my simple summary.
By the beginning of the 1850s, Russia was extremely powerful and the Turks, or to give its proper title the Ottoman Empire, was increasingly weak. Russia was felt to be encroaching ever more on the territory of the Turks, and had even sought to extend its territories along the western Black Sea shores, lands which bordered those of Austro-Hungary. In short, it was felt across Europe that Russia was ‘getting rather big for its boots’.
In an unrelated incident, there had, in June 1853 been a riot outside the Church of the Nativity, where the Roman Catholic monks who had been handed a front door key to the church placed their own silver star over the Manger (in June??) The Russian Orthodox monks tried to stop their rivals fixing it there and in the struggle some of the Orthodox were killed. The Turkish police, the Tsar protested, had connived at their murder and within a matter of days a Russian Army was marching towards the Danube on a crusade to protect the Holy Places from Islam.
Tensions between Russia and Turkey escalated, and diplomatic dispatches flew across Europe from St Petersburg to Paris, from Constantinople through Vienna to London, and even crackled across the new fangled electric telegraph wires. The Tsar was hopeful of keeping Great Britain out of any war with the Turks, but the rumblings of war were growing louder.
By October 1853 Russia was at war with Turkey. On St Andrew’s Day, 30 November 1853 (Saint Andrew being the patron saint of the Russian Navy, under whose reversed saltire they sail) the Russian Black Sea Fleet under Admiral Nachimoff sailed out of Sebastopol, came across a Turkish flotilla on the south shore of the Black Sea at Sinope, and sank every single ship. Nearly 4,000 Turkish sailors were lost and many of them, so it was widely reported in the press at the time, were shot by Russian gunners as the floundered in the water.
British opinion was outraged by the massacre, and driven on by the war bellowing of Palmerston, the Prime Minister Lord Aberdeen ultimately decided that he had no choice but to recommend to Her youthful Majesty that war be declared upon Russia in order to defend the independence of the muslim Ottomans. This was a singular war indeed. France declared war on Russia the day after Britain.
Now, the last successful war which Great Britain had waged had been the long and bitter Napoleonic campaign against France which culminated in 1815 with the Battle of Waterloo. Less than 30 years later, the British and French were to wage war, together with the Turks against the Russians. However, as the British were soon to discover to their cost, there had been a great deal of sitting on a large quantity of laurels since Wellington had trodden those glorious Belgian fields in victory.
At Waterloo, Wellington had a brave and distinguished aide de camp by the name of Lord Fitzroy Somerset, the youngest of the Duke of Beaufort’s eleven children. Fitzroy was always a young man marked for greatness – and in the words of Crimea Historian Christopher Hibbert:
“Captain Lord Fitzroy Somerset… had the ability of preserving in the midst of confusion, irritation, danger or abuse a quite astonishing serenity. He was also extremely tactful, industrious and discreet. He promised, indeed, to be an ideal Military Secretary; and [Wellington] found him to be one.”
Fitzroy was at the Duke’s side on the field at Waterloo, but toward evening a musket ball from a sniper smashed his right elbow. He walked to a forward hospital and showed his lacerated arm to the surgeon in charge. The surgeon told him to lie down on the table and then he cut the arm off between the shoulder and the elbow. Fitzroy did not so much as murmur; and The Prince of Orange, lying wounded in the same small room, was unaware that an operation had been performed until the remainder of the arm was tossed away by the surgeon and (by now, Colonel) Fitzroy called out – “Hey, bring my arm back. There’s a ring my wife gave me on the finger.”
After Waterloo there followed a brilliant military career, and in due course a peerage, which led to Fitzroy being ennobled with the title, Lord Raglan.
And it was Lord Raglan, in the years after the iron duke’s passing, it was the same dashing young Fitzroy who had been Johnny to Wellington, that took up the post of Commander in Chief of Her Majesty’s Brittanic forces.
There have been few commanders in chief who have been subjected to the levels of criticism which Lord Raglan has suffered at the hands of history – and in the opinion of this humble essayist, he has been very greatly maligned.
Imagine, if you will, the whole British army and navy departing from Plymouth: gunners rolling cannon, quartermasters counting stores of oats, thick woollen socks and worsted jackets, horses being led up gangplanks, Scotchmen with bagpipes, women and children waving frantically from the docks, and the glittering regalia of the officer class winking in the sunlight. It was described as the largest army ever to leave our shores – but it was also an army of many regiments, each the self governing little entity of its colonel in chief (who had often literally bought his position) and egos the size of Bass Rock – all one needs to hear are the names of the army’s senior officers, in order to sympathise with Lord Raglan in his task of asking these men what to do (since Raglan would, at times, consider it rather un-gentlemanly to issue anything so crude as an ‘order’.)
Oh yes, the names, a role call of the British aristocracy: the 7th Earl of Cardigan, commander in chief of the Light Brigade, surely one of the most courageous and yet difficult men ever to sit a saddle; the 3rd Lord Lucan, who bought his command of the 17th Lancers regiment for the princely sum of £25,000, and was the father in law of Cardigan with whom he was barely on speaking terms through the entire campaign; General Richard Airey, who rarely left Raglan’s side but whose personality seems to have been a perfect match for his surname; the magisterial and mutton chopped Glaswegian General Sir Colin Campbell (later the first Lord Clyde), commander in chief of the terrifying Highland Brigade; the Duke of Cambridge (grandson of George III), Sir George De Lacy Evans, Sir Richard England (that last two both Irishmen, as is of course obvious from their surnames) and a sprinkling of other knights and Lords completed the top table of command. In short this was at its inception less a military campaign and more, an enormous outing for overgrown schoolboys to practice using their pea shooters.
After some weeks voyaging around Spain and through the Mediterranean, the British met up with their French counterparts, and this enormous joint armada reached Constantinople – like some vast Crusade in reverse, defending, not fighting the Turks. The soldiers were universally greeted as heroes by the citizenry and their leader Omar Pasha, with the usual decline in popular feeling after about a week, by which time the local populace were no doubt royally sick of finding Scotsmen dead drunk in their latrines. The vast caravan moved up the Western Black Sea coast, ever closer to the Crimea.
But why? The short answer to that question is that he who controlled the Crimea, and in particular the harbour city of Sebastopol, could control the entire Black Sea Fleet and thus in one fell swoop disable the naval power of Russia throughout the Black and Mediterranean Seas. Russia would be dealt a short, swift smack on the nose, and firmly reminded that it should stick to playing within its own front and back gardens, rather than gallivanting around Europe and the middle east. And as we all know from our history books, that is of course a tactic which tends to work quite well with the Russians… and in no way reflects an attitude among the British Officer Class – which some inferior minded and hyper-critical people might suggest – that was somewhat out of touch with reality…
By this time, as our gallant troops tramp north from Constantinople, their woollen socks and heavy jackets cooking them in the mid day sun – the enemy was fast becoming Cholera, not Russia:
“It was reported that men began to suffer from diarrheoea, and a feeling of constant lassitude and nausea, and there were occasional cases of cholera. The camp was moved, but the sickness increased. A hot wind blew almost daily from the west, covering the grass and the tents and the food with a white limestone powder and a clutter of dead flies. And then it became known that a serious epidemic of cholera, prevalent all over the south of Europe that summer, had broken out in the French camp. Three days later the British camps were infected. Once more the tents were moved, but the sickness followed.”
Thousands died, and it was not until Raglan once again had all the men aboard ships and set sail across the Black Sea heading into the lion’s jaws of the Crimean peninsula itself, that the winds changed and fresh air filled the lungs of the troops.
I need hardly add, of course at this point, that every history of the Crimea records that the French troops were better equipped with lighter and more modern kit, that their supplies and rations were better and that their officers made swifter and more co-ordinated decisions – each time the French and British, for example would dismantle a camp, march and then pitch camp again, invariably the French were hours ahead with the British watching their dust in the distance. And this superiority, as we shall soon see, was to be replicated on the field of battle.
The key to understanding the Crimean War, in the opinion of this essayist, is to understand that the next two years essentially involved the British and French forces making repeated, unsuccessful attempts to capture the city of Sebastopol, whose determined and astoundingly courageous Russian inhabitants held out valiantly against one of the most determined sieges in military history. Together with the Siege of Sebastopol, all of the major battles of the Crimean War took place within an approximate radius of twenty five miles of that city – including the Battle of the Alma, fought en route from the Allied landing site at Eupatoria, the Battle of Balaclava (and the infamous Charge of the Light Brigade, which took place the same day) and the Battle of Inkerman.
With the exception of Balaclava, the battles are unfortunately littered with examples of miscommunications, poorly worded or executed orders, bloody minded or arrogant decision making and stunning incompetence (on the British side). Of course the responsibility for all of this must ultimately fall on the shoulders of Raglan (who had, incidentally, the charming habit of confusing the French with the Russians, and so for example would turn to General Airey, saying “Airey, present my compliments to Lord Lucan, and ask that he advance his regiment slowly along the Sandbag Battery, keeping the French on his right – what? Oh yes, the Russians of course, silly me, keep thinking we’re still against Boneparte, what? Yes, Russians on the right, French on the left, of course…”
With hindsight, you perhaps wonder how they even made it to Plymouth to get on the ships!
Mention must be made, however, of the truly heroic actions of the Highland Brigade under Sir Colin Campbell at Balaclava, which was perhaps the high point of the campaign (among admittedly a number of very heroic moments in the War).
Balaclava was a small harbour about 20 miles south of Sebastopol, and had become the main supply route onto the peninsula for the British troops. On 25 October 1854, fierce fighting was taking place involving the French, British and Russians in a valley plain no more than 3 miles to the north of the harbour (the very plain along which the Light Brigade charged – which is a story in itself for another day). About a mile from Balaclava, along the only road from the harbour, were the men of the 93rd Highland Brigade, while Balaclava itself was held by only a handful of marines from the ships moored there.
Suddenly, a mile and a half in front of them, running pell mell, were hundred of fleeing Turks who had lost their nerve and were fleeing toward Balaclava shouting Ship! Ship! Johnny! Ship! They dashed past the camp of the highlanders, the last line of defence above Balaclava, stopping on their way to pick up anything which looked inviting.
Stretching their gaze into the mid-distance, the Highlanders began to make out hundreds of Russian cavalrymen swarming down the sides of the hills to the south of the valley and forming themselves up on the Balaclava road.
Raglan and the rest of the army could only look on through their spyglasses, helpless, more than a mile and a half in the distance, as the powerful Russian cavalry began to quicken its pace in the direction of the Highlanders who were entirely outnumbered and completely off guard. Raglan held his breath.
Sir Colin, in his rich Scots accent barked to his men – who, the Times correspondent noted “would gladly follow him into the jaws of hell.”
“Remember, there is no retreat from here men. Remember, there is no retreat. You must die where you stand.”
“Aye Aye! Sir Colin,” one man was heard to reply. “We’ll do that.”
Then suddenly a curious and oppressive silence which had been noted before the battle of the Alma once again settled across the field. The Times correspondent reported:
“The silence is oppressive, one can hear the champing of bits, and the clink of sabres in the valley below. The Russians on their left draw breath for a moment and then in one grand line dash at the Highlanders. The ground flies beneath their horses’ feet; gathering speed at every stride, they dash on towards that thin red streak topped with a line of steel.”
Prevented by Sir Colin from charging (yes, astoundingly the Highlanders had wanted to charge the Russians, and had to be ordered down by him with the cry “93rd, 93rd! Damn all that eagerness!”) Prevented, the Highlanders fired their rifles instead. No Russian rider fell from his saddle, but a few were wounded, and the leading squadron immediately wheeled to the left. Sir Colin then reorganised his line to face the new direction of the Russian advance and again the Russians wheeled to the left. Their determined stand alarmed the Russian commander, who then ordered his men to retire. As they did so the Highlanders opened fire on them in retreat, and then the Highlanders began throwing their bonnets in the air, cheering excitedly.
At this point, I’m conscious that this essay could quickly descent into a kind of verbal parody of the worst kind of military bore – and, unless physically, restrained I might find myself resorting to the employment of various items of furniture in the recreation of graphic battle scenes. And so it is at this point that I seek to judiciously withdraw from the smoke and cordite of the field, and return to the relative calm of the page.
In September of 1855, amid scenes of terrible confusion and panic, involving some of the most embarrassing and rank cowardice in the history of the British Army, the French succeeded in seizing the Malakoff Kurgan and Redan Heights, the main defensive positions of the Russian defenders of Sebastopol. As the smoke cleared the Tricolor flew, and the War in the Crimea was all but over. Just 3 months earlier, Lord Raglan, tired out, overworked and vexed from every side during the protracted campaign (and which had brought down Aberdeen’s government 8 months earlier, ushering in the bombastic Viscount Palmerston) had passed away in his field quarters. It was the end of an era.
In the aftermath of the War, when the Allied forces had finally limped home, a number of changes were brought about in the order and regulation of the Army. The common practice of purchasing commissions was abolished. The chain of command structure was reformed. The kit of the standard infantryman was entirely reviewed and updated, as was that of the cavalry and others. It was firmly resolved that lessons would be learned.
Much of this was driven by the fact that the Crimean was really the first War in which the public at home, and the government, were kept appraised of developments on a daily basis – mainly through the Times Correspondent. This ushered in a new era of instant critical appraisal of a kind previously unheard of, and during the Crimea on a number of occasions nationwide campaigns were taken up “to provide our ill-supplied soldiers with hats, coats and scarfs”, and other campaigns of that kind – at relatively short notice – and of course Florence Nightingale became the famous ‘Lady with the Lamp’ – and while her field hospitals (which were in fact at Scutari on the western Black Sea shore, with patients shipped there mainly from Balaclava) had appalingly low survival rates, it was in the hospitals back home in England and the improvements there where she really went on to make her mark upon the page of history.
25,000 soliders are estimated to have lost their lives during the Crimean, a tiny figure compared to the Great War, but significant for the times – as was the estimated cost to the exchequer, a sum of about £70 million. Sebastapol which had been so hard fought for and wrestled from the hands of the Russians, was promptly handed back to the Tsar less than a year later after the Congress of Paris – however the balance of power shifted in Europe, in a manner which would lead inexorably to the conflict of 1914 and beyond.
As we bid farewell to the Crimean War, the swirling Victorian Fog closing in around, and as we move forward again, far forward almost one hundred and fifty years, we see that little has really changed.
The army continues to be engaged abroad in controversial and at times poorly thought out campaigns, in circumstances where the common soldiery are ill supplied – and the very reasons why the campaign was begun have become a little befuddled. We must always be vigilant, and prepared to change.
Europe is still torn, and the slightest shifting in the balance of power can potentially have enormous implications. There still remains the haunting feeling with this continent that War lies at the base of a greasy pole which we all valiantly scramble to keep climbing.
And Russia, always Russia.