The heavy brigade vs. the light brigade, and what we do with our mistakes.
We memorize the tragedy and forget the victory.
To us, a balaclava is a ski mask, great for protection from the natural elements, robbing banks, and hiding faces in general.
To the folks who lived in 1854, it was a battle during the Crimean War, famously marked by two British cavalry actions: the charge of the Heavy Brigade and the charge of the Light Brigade.
On October 25, 1854, the Heavy Brigade went first. Under the command of Sir James Yorke Scarlett, he guided his men in an uphill charge against the Russian cavalry that outnumbered them three to one. The area was tight, without much room to maneuver, and the enemy was locked into place. Despite all of the strikes against them, the 800 or so British riders threw the 3,000 Russian cavalry riders into significant disarray, sending them fleeing. There were few British casualties, the battle was short, and for pure shock factor, the heavy cavalry had proved its worth. History remembers the effectiveness of the Heavy Brigade, their success due to discipline and determination, even when facing significant odds.
Except, if we’re honest, we don’t remember the Heavy Brigade.
We mostly remember the Light Brigade, thanks to Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem The Charge of the Light Brigade.
“Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred,” Tennyson wrote, and he was correct.
On the same day, not long after the success of the Heavy Brigade, Lord Cardigan thought he was supposed to lead his men into battle against a significant Russian artillery, infantry, and cavalry position, riding across a long and open valley completely exposed to the artillery.
Cardigan had misunderstood his orders and led 670 fast-moving cavalry troops on a frontal charge into a meat grinder. While the Light Brigade (or what was left of them) managed to reach the Russian artillery guns, the casualties were high, and the British were forced to retreat.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Tennyson’s poem has become famous almost as an anthem to courage, despite poor leadership, and the cost of following leaders—military or otherwise—who have made mistakes that will lead to our destruction.
Tennyson wrote The Charge of the Light Brigade in December of 1854, just two months after the battle, as the tragedy had reached the home front newspapers and had become a gripping story, further heightened by Tennyson’s poem.
But what of the successful battle that had come first?
I maintain that humans have always been ill able to understand what is success and failure, and the value of either across time. The Charge of the Heavy Brigade wasn’t written until later, in 1882, when a friend asked Tennyson to memorialize that battle in a poem as well.1
While the Heavy Brigade in the same battle on the same day was a picture of discipline and effectiveness, the Light Brigade became a symbol of tragic mismanagement, yet one marked by overriding courage and drama. In military terms, the Light Brigade was only redeemed, if it’s possible, by the incredible bravery and courage of the British who rode their ill-prepared cavalry directly into artillery. The actions of both Brigades are still considered good examples of effective cavalry action; don’t let the outcome fool you on that point. However, it’s the poem about the Light Brigade students learn in school, not the Heavy Brigade. I didn’t even know it existed until I cracked open my Great-Grandmother’s book of Tennyson poems.
We memorize the tragedy and forget the victory. And then we try to pull victorious principles from the tragedy.
The Battle of Balaclava and the two brigades could be an illustration of fighting the wrong battle, or choosing your battles carefully based on what you are prepared for. Some leadership coach or guru could force it into a pep talk or self-help book about communication and leadership responsibilities. A coach may use it in a half-time pep talk with his team, espousing the ability to press on and have courage even when the chips are down and the outcome is inevitable.
It’s as if we continue to choose our battles poorly and, when we’re slaughtered, package it up with rose-colored glasses and sell it somehow as tasty drama, inspiration and redemption, and a hopeful example, not indicating at any time we learned from our mistakes in a way that keeps us from doing it again, but instead, only in a way we can sell it.
We are told to remember history since it’s coming back around again, and that is true, but in the meantime, before the Russian artillery lands on our doorstep, maybe let’s not Instagram that history and bastardize it to get a nice anecdote to launch our platform. The poem, with Tennyson’s blurbable stanzas, is powerful, but 600 or so men and horses died a blood-and-guts horror of a death that day. Our personal horrors and pain should at least sit for maybe five minutes before we find a way to put a price tag on them.
Perhaps we don’t care to read about a success, but only a tragedy. Success is never so sweet as when tragedy precedes it.
But the Heavy Brigade went first. The Light Brigade was a costly screw-up.
War is always needless and meaningless. Even when it is for a just cause, the just cause only exists because something went wrong elsewhere, usually in the life of the person who created the need for a just response. We, the powerless, are then forced to send off our children—rather than the children of the powerful— to die because of this failure, one we had nothing to do with.