Passage West

by Rishi Reddi

  And there is so much feeling of competition! We try to impress the superiors through skill at running, or doing the obstacle course, or speed in digging a trench. Some boys try to dominate the rest of us, forgetting that we are on the same side.

  I have been assigned to artillery for the 364th Regiment. They need boys who are good with horses, and ones who will not be afraid to be close to the action. I am proud to be in a mounted unit. I am responsible for guns and caissons and cannons, which we will cart in wagons.

  Harry is by my side almost always and we sleep in the same bunk. I stay near him at all times and some of the other Japanese boys, and also, Chacha-ji, you will be happy—there are eighteen other Punjabis here—many from Jullundur and some from Ludhiana and Hoshiarpur. We met many of them in Stockton at Vaisakhi celebrations. There are so few that I do not want to think ill of any of them, but sometimes I wish they were not so obliging or that they mixed more with the Anglos. Sometimes the local boys mock our dastars, sometimes I feel that we are fighting them instead of the Germans. But our superiors don’t like that behavior and now the Americans have left us alone. So you were right, Chacha-ji. There is still race prejudice, but I don’t think it is of real consequence. The Negro boys stay by themselves in another part of the camp, and we do not see them much. We are told they will fight separately from us, yet be just as fierce. We are told the army functions better that way. Perhaps that is the case.

  Yours,

  Jeetu

  Camp Lewis, Washington

  5 November 1917

  My esteemed Jivan Chacha-ji:

  My greetings to everyone. Please let Karak Chacha know, it is as he said to me before I left. I must watch my back here. Two days ago, in the line for mess a big Anglo fellow, a boy with a scar on his arm from an old knife fight—his name is Riker—shoved me to the side. “Get out of my way,” he said, “and let a real man pass.” I am not a small person, you know that. But this man is so large that he could look even you, Chacha-ji, straight in the eyes. Harry and my regular group had already eaten and left. Perhaps that is why this fellow thought that he could intimidate me. That is the sort of man he is—once I heard him mocking the Italians, who are small in stature and also sit together amongst themselves as we do. Another time I heard him speaking against the Jews, also the Irish.

  He took hold of me by my shirt and shoved me aside, and not one of the bystanders came to help me. This affected me very much. I cannot lie to you. It reminded me of what you said by the cantaloupe field the night before I left. When he shoved me I felt so humiliated that I lay with my back on the floor, looking up at all of the other boys. When I stood up, they all turned back to their line, their lunches, their stupid talk. How can it be that not one of them would help me? I thought that I should do the proper thing and take the affair to my commanding officer. Then I remembered something that you said, Chacha-ji: Never stand behind a horse or in front of an official. Both will kick you.

  I went to that fellow, Riker, and challenged him to a wrestling match. We held the match outdoors in the marching grounds. Harry organized everything. Please tell Karak Chacha that all his years of wrestling instruction were not in vain. With everyone looking on, Hindustanees and Japanese and Italians and Americans too—I pinned that Riker using Karak Chacha’s techniques. The others were cheering like mad! What a feeling that was!

  It has been more than a week since this battle and that Riker has not bothered me again. And others look at me differently now. Some of the American boys even invited me to come with them to have some fun in town. I think I am the first Hindu boy they have asked.

  There are twenty-six Hindustanees who are here now. I know them all like brothers and there is a great feeling of camaraderie between us.

  Yours,

  Jeetu

  Camp Lewis, Washington

  3 December 1917

  Esteemed Jivan Chacha-ji:

  Two more of our people have arrived today. Can you believe, almost thirty of us are here. We talk a great deal about why we have enlisted. I am sorry to fight the Germans when they wanted to help Ghadar, but they have to be stopped. As Sikhs we cannot allow them to kill civilians and take over Europe. Why Ghadar was so misguided in falling for their lies, I do not know. There is constant talk that the United States government will make citizens of us. Whether true or not, the training they give us is good, and it is not at all like fighting for the British king. I know that was your worry. Here we are free of humiliating restrictions and official race prejudice. You cannot say the same of the English system. You will point out that for the Negroes, it is the same here as it is for us with the English. You are right, Chacha-ji. In that, you are right. But I cannot keep myself from taking advantage of the opportunity that I have found here.

  I am in the Ninety-First Division, and we have been given a nickname of the Wild West Division, and for that we all feel a lot of pride. Not only because there are so many cowboys among us (we hail from Washington, Nevada, California, Oregon, Utah, Montana, Wyoming), but also because we are unlike boys from other parts of the country. We have tamed a wilderness and most of us think nothing of desert heat. Who else can say that?

  Yours,

  Jeetu

  Camp Merritt, New Jersey

  25 April 1918

  Esteemed Jivan Chacha-ji,

  Have you heard the news about Pandit RamChandra? On the last day of the Hindu-German trial, he was shot dead. And it was by none other than a fellow trusted Ghadarite! It does not seem possible that he was the same man who spoke at our farm that afternoon, who slept in the same bed that Karak Chacha sleeps in. I am thankful you did not allow me to go with him. I can freely admit that now, my pride is no longer preventing me from admitting it. Around the camp, I can see the effect of this news. People again are looking at me with distrust. I hope it will pass. It must pass; there is no other way.

  Yours,

  Jeetu

  Camp Merritt, New Jersey

  22 June 1918

  Dear esteemed Jivan Chacha-ji,

  We will “ship out” in a few days. From Camp Merritt we will march eight miles to the Hudson River, then take a ferry to the docks at Hoboken, New Jersey, and then board a steamer to the coast of Ireland, finally to arrive in Liverpool, England. It is only now, when I am on the verge of leaving, that I understand all that you were worried about.

  But, in the camp, something has happened, Chacha-ji. We all came as separate people, and now we are leaving as something united—all of us, although we may come from different countries. You may say we are fighting a common enemy, and sometimes that makes men falsely united. But it is more than that. There are Germans who are here with me. Now they will go and fight people of their same blood. How can that happen, Chacha-ji? How can something man-made go against something that was given to us by God, our own flesh and blood? And yet to all these men it feels right, that we will all fight together for this country. If you put me with one of those Imperial Valley boys who was my schoolmate, you could not tell the difference. I can talk like they do, eat like they do, laugh at their jokes and they laugh at mine. You have always said they were good people. Now it may be that I will die in their company. It may be that one of them loses his life to save mine or that I lose my life to save his. It is war, and we are fighting together on the same side, and we are American soldiers.

  I have done something, Chacha-ji. I hope you do not think badly of me. I have filed to become a citizen. In doing this, I have also cut my hair and shaved my beard. I know you will be furious with me. But, Chacha-ji, to be a U.S. citizen and a Sikh, simultaneously, does not seem possible. I pray that you will forgive me.

  All of our people who are in the camp want one thing—to become citizens of the United States and to stop living in the shadows. From the beginning, the government has promised this to the recruits. Why else did President Wilson go with those immigrants in the parade that day to George Washington’s home, showing them off to the entire country? Perhaps it is the go
vernment taking advantage of us, but we should take advantage of this chance.

  With my army service, I can file for citizenship without a statement of intention and without need of proving that I have lived here for five years. It is true that in this enterprise I have disobeyed you from the start. But I feel that I did not act without reason. After the war is over I want to be part of this society, I want to vote. Is this country not founded on the same principles that we believe as Sikhs? Independence, honor, optimism, justice—do we not believe in those too?

  My military service will change how the locals see us, I am sure of it. You have said yourself that we must buy many war bonds. You tell me that, because I am here, Clive and Jasper Davis come with pies and tarts that their wives have baked. Clive brought you a rented mule when ours was lame. Do not be too angry with me, Chacha-ji.

  They have given us blue laundry bags into which we are to put all our things—the books that I brought with me, the photograph of Mother, the compass that you gifted me years ago. I am to put everything inside that makes me Amarjeet Singh Gill, son of Gurubhir Singh, Tarkpur, Ludhiana District. The army says that it will keep this bag safe until I come back. I come from a family of warriors, Chacha-ji. You told me once that if I do my work well, Waheguru will steep my 5 fingers in melted butter and my labors will be rewarded. I remember every day these words. Please pray for my welfare.

  In chardi kala,

  Amarjeet

  La Courtine, France

  24 July 1918

  Esteemed Chacha-ji,

  I am writing from an American artillery camp. We are leaving tomorrow for a two-day train ride to the front. Some men are filled with bravado, at least on the surface, for no one wants to show their fear or any sign of weakness. But when they smoke their cigarettes, sometimes their hands shake.

  Every step of the way we draw closer to where we will meet our fate. But despite this, we are not unhappy. We are a group of buddies, all of us one people. One fellow says something, then another says a joke in response, it is an entertaining time-pass.

  It is true that there are some disagreeable sorts. Harry says that our sergeant, Sam Pinkerton from Fredonia, is a nasty chap, and that may be so. Not one Japanese or Hindu or Italian or Greek or Slovak or Jew ever liked Sam Pinkerton, because he doesn’t like us. But yesterday Everett Pike from El Centro said to me, “You fellas aren’t half-bad, ya know that?” He was talking to me and Chola Singh and I thought, what a world this is—that two boys from the same town could not talk to each other at the schoolhouse, but across the earth they can talk and laugh while watering their horses at a mud hole.

  Yours,

  Amarjeet

  War Zone, Western Front

  29 September 1918

  Dear esteemed Jivan Chacha-ji,

  We are in territory that was won only three days ago at great cost to our men. Tomorrow, we will advance to the front. Our own company’s soldiers will go over the top. I will be providing them with artillery cover, and I pray that I will do well for them.

  Chacha-ji, I do not know what I am made of. I do not know if I will be able to kill a German, if needed, while looking him in the eye. I do not know if I will be one of those soldiers who must be threatened by his officer at gunpoint, in order to stand and fight. I do not bear any ill will toward those German farmer boys on the other side of the line. Once I kill one of them, will I want to keep killing many more? Will the appetite to kill overtake me?

  Every day we feel as if we are at the edge of our lives, looking at what has gone past, at our childhoods, at our families. They are ordinary and beautiful at the same time. How can this be?

  Yours,

  Amarjeet

  21

  January 1918

  ON SUNDAY MORNINGS, ESPERANZA WOULD VISIT HER PREGNANT YOUNGER sister, and Ram would see Alejandro drop her off in a wagon after they had attended mass. When Rosa was eight months pregnant and felt too uncomfortable to make the trip into town, Esperanza would bring a basket filled with freshly made tortillas wrapped in cloth, fully prepared so that Rosa need not work. Often Ram would be at the home, talking finances with Karak. He would hear Esperanza tell Rosa of news from the barrio, or of their madrina in Algodones, and the cousins who lived on both sides of the border. The family was close, Ram knew, and cultured too. Rosa had learned piano from her musician father. She read books.

  One Sunday, while Ram and Karak sat on the porch reviewing accounts from the most recent sale of cotton, Esperanza arrived with another woman. She was slender, tall, and looked past Karak and Ram as if the men were not present.

  “My cousin,” Esperanza said, smiling, but this woman barely glanced at them. Ram knew this would offend Karak, but Karak said nothing as they entered the house. From their seats on the porch, Ram could see Rosa sitting in her favorite chair. He saw her eyes grow wide and brighten when she noticed this new woman on the threshold.

  “¿Prima, eres tú, Adela?” Rosa exclaimed.

  “¿Quíen más?” the unfamiliar voice said.

  “Eeeow!” A torrent of Spanish followed, but Ram could understand only some: they had not seen each other in six years, and to the other woman—this Adela—Rosa was as pretty as she had been as a young girl.

  Ram and Karak looked up from their work. They could hear Rosa show off the house: the Persian rug, the piano, the icebox—which contained ice delivered every two days—the stove. Karak cleared his throat; Ram knew he had minded the entire interaction. He felt a tinge of disdain at how quickly Karak’s life had been overtaken by these Mexican women. How he had not even been greeted as this stranger entered his own home.

  “Rosa is happy,” Ram said, hoping to restore Karak’s dignity.

  Karak grunted. They continued with their calculations. From the back door, the women emerged and walked to the other house. Ram and Karak finished their work. Karak announced that he would rest on one of the outside cots. After that, they could visit Fredonia Park together.

  Ram wandered to the animal shed, thinking that he would hitch a mule up to the buckboard. The mare had come up lame two days before and she had refused oats since yesterday morning. He heard a soft footstep in the dirt and looked up to find the new woman at the shed door. She nodded at him.

  Ram entered the mare’s stall to feed her again but she put her ears back; he had never gotten on well with horses. In Lyallpur, the work had been done by oxen who were calm and sturdy and slow to excite, and that had suited Ram. The mare missed Amarjeet. Nothing could be done about that. Adela entered the stall too and spoke to Ram in quick Spanish and glanced at him, but he did not understand. Something in her manner discouraged him from asking her to repeat her words. What was the woman doing here?

  She talked softly to the horse while touching her nose, running her hand along the injured leg. The horse would never have allowed him to do that. How could she take such liberties when she had just arrived as a guest, when the other women were chattering away at the Eggenberger house, as they were supposed to?

  She reached down and picked up the horse’s hooves, one by one. “The horse is hurt,” he said slowly in Spanish.

  She answered him, but, again, he could not understand. Her tone did not seem polite.

  “Stop!” he said. “We called for the veterinarian.”

  The Mexican workers understood his Spanish, and Ram was very proud of that, but this woman did not stop what she was doing. She bent down to touch both of the front legs, one at a time, and shot him a piercing glance. She reached for the lead and attached it to the mare’s harness.

  “What do you think you are doing?” he said quickly in Punjabi, not caring if she did not understand him, only wanting to be more sure of himself. The alarm in his voice surprised him. He was glad she couldn’t understand what he said. She spoke swiftly back at him. Was she angry too, now? Then she turned abruptly and led the horse outside. Ram would not dare put a hand on a strange woman, but he marched out of the shed to find Jivan near the pond, washing his hands and
face.

  “Do you know that new Mexican girl is inside the shed, taking away the mare?”

  “Taking away the mare?” Jivan still had soap in his eyes, and he blinked rapidly.

  “She has looked at the horse’s feet and is talking to it and petting its face and now she is taking the rope and leading it away.”

  “No, no,” said Jivan, sucking his teeth. “I asked her to examine the horse.” He added gently, “A horse has hooves, Ram.”

  “What does she know about hooves or feet? She’s a Mexican village girl.”

  “Rosa told me that she is very knowledgeable. Her father cared for the horses on a hacienda in Chihuahua. I thought she could help immediately instead of us waiting for two days for the veterinarian.”

  “But we must still have the veterinarian!”

  Jivan looked at him with surprise.

  “I insist on it,” Ram declared.

  “He will come,” Jivan said mildly. “But let the girl look.”

  Ram did not go back, and he did not go into town to join the other men in Fredonia Park. He sat with Kishen on the porch, sifting lentils for dinner. He saw the woman and Jivan lead the mare in a circle, then stand in front to inspect the way that it stood. The woman showed Jivan something on the horse’s leg, pointing to the area just above the hoof. When feeding the animals later that day, Ram saw a cloth had been tied there. A pungent smell rose from it. At dinner, Jivan told Ram and Karak the Mexican woman’s instructions: the horse should be allowed to rest completely for five days.