We all know about the Charge of the Light Brigade. It spawned a famous poem and at least two films. But the Charge of the Heavy Brigade, which happened earlier on the same day, has been cruelly ignored by history. The injustice is all the greater because, unlike its more storied companion, it was a military triumph, and an Irish one at that, writes Frank McNally
Fighting alongside their fellow heavy brigaders, the Scots, the Inniskilling Dragoons routed a Russian force in what was one of the more successful engagements of the Battle of Balaclava. Unfortunately for them, October 25th, 1854, was what journalists call a busy news day. Elsewhere in the conflict, the Highlanders were stealing headlines with their "Thin Red Line" heroics. But it was the doomed bravery of the Light Brigade, charging into the "valley of death" on misunderstood orders, that condemned the poor Heavies to long-term obscurity.
This is partly the fault of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, who wrote The Charge of the Light Brigade in a creative burst immediately after reading the newspaper reports. It was 28 years later before he got around to writing The Charge of the Heavy Brigade: and like many sequels, it wasn't a patch on the original. In fairness, disaster is a much better subject for poetry. So for raw material, the disaster of the Light Brigade was hard to beat. As the French Marshal Bosquet said of it: "C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre." No matter. The record has at last been set straight in Soldiers and Chiefs - the Irish at War at Home and Abroad, an epic exhibition now running in the National Museum at Collins Barracks. The Heavy Brigade gets an honourable mention, albeit a brief one in a display that covers four-and-a-half centuries, from 1550 onwards. That's a lot of wars. And although our recent neutrality simplified the task, against this must be noted an earlier form of neutrality under which - in many conflicts - the Irish were obliged to fight on both sides.
Soldiers and Chiefs is the war exhibition to end all war exhibitions. Costing €12 million, including the new extension that houses it, it was four years in the making for Lar Joye and his fellow curators. The challenge was not eased by a scarcity of artefacts, especially from the older wars. So what they lacked in hardware, they had make up in presentation.
Because it was such a huge undertaking, the museum first consulted focus groups to see what the public wanted from an exhibition. Military medals were boring, the groups said; interactive learning opportunities were fun. Accordingly, the exhibition has borrowed tricks from museums everywhere: sliding drawers that you can pull out to refresh your school history; touch-screen videos; even actual rifles that you can pick up and point.
The curators were understandably nervous about the rifles. But as soon as you handle one, in case you enjoy the experience too much, it triggers a video of a 19th century training sergeant, educating you about the weapon through the traditional army method of verbal abuse. To sober you further, accompanying plastic moulds suggest the appalling trajectories of different bullets passing through a human body.
The Light Brigade apart, this being Irish military history, there are plenty of heroic failures. The adventures of Carlow-born soldier Myles Keogh are particularly interesting, combining as they do several different aspects of the Irish war experience.
Exhibits include his red cap, worn while fighting for the Pope against Garibaldi.
There's his sword from the American Civil War, too. And, poignantly, there is a replica of the papal medal he was wearing at his final engagement: the Battle of Little Bighorn. Keogh's horse, Commanche, is reputed to have been the army's only survivor. The papal medal was later worn by Chief Sitting Bull.
The shortage of older artefacts is more than offset in the modern section, where field guns, tanks, a 1940s bomb shelter, and suspended aeroplanes provide a wow factor at the end of the tour. Historians will find weaknesses in the exhibition, no doubt. But the only glaring omission is the Troubles: and these are to be the subject of a planned addition to the display (which, incidentally, will remain on show for at least 10 years).
Of what is already there, the most crowded room by far is the one covering 1914-1923, with events in Ireland and Europe deliberately interwoven. By contrast, the very last exhibit , as you leave, is an isolated screen: scrolling the names of 1,200 Irish people who died from military causes in one short - albeit extraordinary - period: 25th April to 12th May 1916. With the same scrupulous fairness that permeates the entire show, the victims are listed whether they fell in Dublin, Flanders, Mesopotamia, or anywhere else.
There is too much in the exhibition for a single visit. When we were being ushered towards the exit last Sunday, a man beside me promised to come again. "It's magnificent," he said, unconsciously echoing Marshal Bosquet. And as even the latter would have to agree, it is definitely war.
Footnote: No self-respecting student of the Easter Rising will want to miss a lecture in Dublin tonight by Prof Charles Townshend of the University of Keele. His new book on the subject is being acclaimed by some as the definitive account. You can judge for yourself at 8pm in Griffith College, South Circular Road. Admission to the talk, which is hosted by the Military History Society of Ireland, is free.