The 80th Regiment of Foot at Myer's Drift, Ntombe River, Zululand.

It is march 1879 in Zululand. The end of the rainy season and it's bucketing down on a daily basis on  those men stationed at Fort Clery near the German Lutheran church and settlement at Luneburg, tucked away in the north west quadrant of Zululand about six miles from the Transvaal border. It is hot, sticky and sweaty in the intervals between showers. Roads dissolve into glutinous rivers of mud; the men are wet through and shivering most of the time, shelter is, at best, corrugated iron or thatched lean-to, clothing just rots off them, increasing their misery.

The mosquitoes, roused to a breeding frenzy in the stagnant pools, make their lives a misery. Men are dropping like flies from enteric fever and dysentery. Dragged off to the makeshift hospital, they don't fare very much better than those men still capable of remaining on their feet.

It's been a while since a convoy of supplies has come through from Derby in the Transvaal,  and the men are living on boiled beef and weevily biscuits. Ugly, oozing veldt sores caused by bad nutrition burn incessantly. A combination of prickly heat and lice makes them scratch constantly, turning the sores into gaping wounds.

Night after night they stare out over the parapets into the inky blackness, supposedly alert to the possibility of a Zulu attack. They are aware of what waits them if it happens; torn off lips, bellies slit open, private parts hacked off. Lit by occasional jagged flashes of lightening, eyes strain in the darkness, on tenterhooks in case the Zulus, fresh from their victory at Isandhlwana decide to turn their attention to the north.

But they are numbed by the heat, the pelting thunderstorms, the insects, the poor food........ One can only stay alert for so long under these conditions. They are starting to switch off.

Bored, wet through most of the time, disease-ridden and plagued by insects, al in all, it's a rotten miserable billet!

But there is good news. A whole bunch of wagon masters and teamsters from Derby in the Transvaal have just dragged themselves into the fort. Sick to death of battling for miles and miles in the worst possible weather, they have had enough and have astoundingly abandoned their convoy that they were bringing in to Luneburg. The wagons are marooned in the mud near Myer's Drift on the Ntombe River, just a few miles away.

Major Charles Tucker, the Fort Commander is livid. He immediately sends a company of the 8oth down to the Drift with orders to retrieve the wagons and bring them in. Having struggled for hours to cover the distance, Captain David Moriarty finds them strung out all over the place. Gathering them together over a couple of days, he finds that the Ntombe River has risen in flood behind him, cutting off his path to Luneburg.

After some time he managed to get two wagons across the swollen river, the oxen pulling them almost drowning in the attempt, rearing panic stricken, horns slashing and eyes rolling and they go under the brown muddy  water for the umpteenth time. These two wagons are left under the command of Leieutenant Henry Harward, with Colour Sergeant Anthony Booth and 34 men.

On the north bank, 34 wagons still stand, mired in the mud, in the loose upside down V-shaped laager with it's two feet anchored on the banks of the river. Brooding over the futile efforts of the soldiers, stands a ring of surrounding mountains, starkly lit by lightening, they resemble an enclosure used by Zulus to keep their animals safe at night, with the struggling soldiers inside representing the said goats. No wonder the Zulus cal the valley Ntombe - the goat pen.

Coming out on an inspection, Major Tucker has grave misgivings about Moriarty's defences. He sees, however, that the men are dead beat and Luneburg is only six miles away. He makes no move to order the wagons drawn up more tightly and shackled together - after all, they haven't seen a Zulu in days.

But they are under constant surveillance. Zulu scouts have dogged them closely, waiting for an opportune moment to attack.

At 5 o'clock on the morning of 12 March 1879, the inevitable happens.

The river, unnoticed by the sentries, has subsided during the night, leaving a 20 yard gap between the ends of the laager ends and the muddy waters of the river.

As the early morning mist lifts, shadowy figures slip through the gap and there is pandemonium inside the laager. Stabbing spears thunk home as exhausted soldiers stumble out from underneath their sodden blankets. Terrified screams rend the air. A few make a stubborn resistance, but it's quickly over. The reek of freshly spilt blood taints the fresh morning air.

Hayward's party on the south bank gives covering fire where they can, but very few of the soldiers or colonials

Hayward orders retirement, then speeds off on his horse to alert the garrison at Luneburg. Colour Sergeant Booth, keeps up a concentrated firepower while slowly retiring after Harward.

His actions that day saved his men and would earn him a Victoria Cross, while his officer would be court-martialled for cowardice.

As Major Tucker put it, as the relieving column approached the battle site........

.............'a fearful and horrid site presented itself, and the stillness of the spot was awful. There were our men lying all about the place, some naked and some only half clad........ all the bodies were full of assegai wounds and nearly all were  disembowelled.

Nearly everything had been broken or torn into pieces, the tents in shreds and boxes broken, the mealies and flour thrown everywhere. They had kill all the dogs save one.......

We found Moriarty lying in his face inside the laager, quite naked... we brought into Luneburg the bodies of Moriarty and Dr Cobbin, who was also killed there and they were buried the following day.

We ......... dug an enormous trench in which to bury them (the soldiers); this took us nearly all day. About 5pm I read the burial service over the dead. We fired three volleys and then returned to camp with what  little the Zulus had left in the wagons.'

The total losses were 61 soldiers and 18 civilians killed. The names of the 80th Regiment's casualties are now inscribed on imitation Zulu shields at Lichfield Cathedral.