by John Masters
The Yuvraj Krishna Ram ran lightly up the steps and saluted. ‘Stables ready for your inspection, sir.’
Colonel Hanbury said, ‘Major Bateman’s arrived ... Stay with me for Stables, Yuvraj, but afterwards take over A Squadron, as we arranged. And you’ll have to give up your room in the bungalow, too. You’ll be wanting to get settled in, Bateman?’
‘I’d like to attend stables, first, sir,’ Warren said.
The colonel nodded slightly as the Yuvraj stretched out his hand to Warren, saying, ‘Delighted to see you here, sir. We were all so pleased when the colonel told us who had been posted as second-in-command.’
He stepped back and Colonel Hanbury started down the steps, the others following.
An hour and a half later Warren was in his room in the dak bungalow, making notes in a little book while Narayan Singh polished his belt and fixed the Ravi Lancers insignia on to his helmets and uniforms. Warren wrote quickly.
Maj. Krishna Ram--A Squadron--likeable, seems younger than his age, 27, because so eager, keen. Very English in outlook and training. Speaks and reads English perfectly. Educated at home by English tutor. Excellent cricketer.
Maj. Bholanath--C Sqn--50--Rajah’s brother. Old type Rajput, tough, stubborn, can barely read or write. Very capable. Will have trouble with administration in Europe, and with complicated plans and orders.
Captain Himat Singh--B Sqn--35. Nervous, unsure, poor power of command. Educated Lahore University, BA.
Captain Sohan Singh--35--Quartermaster. Fat, greasy, wears glasses. Little English. Son of Basohli merchant. Probably shrewd, possibly crooked.
Captain Sher Singh--D Sqn--28--Relative of Rajah. Educated Lahore University, failed BA. Good looking, big mouth. Very polite. Hand holder. Worse?
Lt. Brian Flaherty--Signal Section--35--Big, powerful, green-eyed, red hair, half-caste (son of Pahari woman and ex-sergeant telegraph official). Chip on shoulder.
Lt. Dayal Ram--Adjutant--29--Tall, handsome, probably a lady-killer. Not well educated. Very athletic, naturally good at all games according to Krishna.
Lt. Mahadeo Singh--38--CO’s galloper--an ex-rissaldar of Hodson’s, retired as no vacancy for rissaldar-major for him, and joined Ravi L. Typical old type VCO. Experienced but uneducated. Poor English.
Lt. Pahlwan Ram--Intelligence Offr--27--Relative of Rajah. Dark, ugly, slight squint. Drinks or dopes or both.
2/Lt. Ishar Lall--A--19--Fine looking youth. Knows nothing but seems willing to learn. Also distant relative of Rajah. Has small scar on chin which is only way of telling him from his twin brother ...
2/Lt. Puran Lall--B--otherwise they’re indistinguishable in manner and appearance. Cheerful young scoundrels.
Regimental Medical officer--not arrived yet.
He closed the notebook and put it in his breast pocket. They were superficial notes, he realized, made after only a few minutes of conversation and observation, but he had to begin somewhere. Tomorrow he’d start on the VCOs. It was a great pity there was no rissaldar-major at the moment. The previous one had been much respected, according to Krishna Ram, but he was sixty. The Rajah had wanted to send him on active service, but the Government of India had insisted on posting a rissaldar-major from the regular army to replace him, and this man hadn’t arrived yet. It would be a disaster, Warren thought, if the newcomer were not an outstanding personality. The VCOs here were a good lot, better overall than the officers, but they lacked a true disciplinary sense. They were too much like elder brothers to the sowars, not their leaders and overseers, responsible for everything they did and did not do.
He was wondering what the men would be doing at this time, when there was a knock on his door. He called, ‘Come in.’
Krishna Ram entered, saluting. ‘A game of kabaddi is just starting, sir. I thought you might like to watch.’
‘Thanks, I would.’ He got up and began putting on his Sam Browne.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, sir,’ Krishna said.
Warren said, ‘An officer’s either in uniform, Krishna, or he’s not.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Krishna said. ‘I’ll get my belt.’
‘It would be better,’ Warren said.
The young man ducked out, returning a minute later wearing his belt and sabre. Warren sighed. As they weren’t going on parade with troops they didn’t need to wear sabres. Well, one thing at a time. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t organized a cricket match,’ he said smiling.
‘It’s my favourite game, the greatest game in the world,’ Krishna said fervently, ‘but rain’s spoiled the grass here, we couldn’t make a pitch ... Do you think there’ll still be county cricket in England next year?’
‘On account of the war? I imagine so.’
‘I’ll spend all my leave from the front watching ... if the war’s still on then.’
Warren and Krishna stood side by side for half an hour watching the men, naked except for tiny loin-cloths, their bodies oiled, run and wrestle and elude each other up and down the barren land between the horse lines and the nearest wheat fields. Clouds piling higher over the Siwaliks and a livid gleam on the remote Himalayan snows promised more rain for the night. The air was very damp, but it was not unbearably hot. The long lines of horses swished their tails in the ‘stables’, and sowars wandered about, singing, or squatted on the ground mending their socks, or dozed on the
ground sheets spread inside the tents.
Happening to glance round at a moment of inaction in the kabaddi Warren noticed a woman gliding between the tents behind him. That was Regimental Headquarters, he knew. The sentry at the end of the row, leaning negligently on his lance, made no move to stop her. Perhaps she was a petitioner come to complain about the troops riding through the crops. She slipped into a tent. Warren thought it was an officer’s, for it stood a little apart. The flap closed behind her. Warren turned back.
Women in the lines was a matter that could easily come up in France. He’d better find out from Colonel Hanbury what his policy was on such things.
The game continued. Warren began to light his pipe. A sharp crack in the air over his head made him duck involuntarily. Immediately afterwards he heard the bang of the rifle. ‘What the hell . . . ?’ he began, then another bullet cracked over his head, but closer. The kabaddi players had hurled themselves on the ground or were racing for the shelter of the trees. Krishna Ram was flat on the ground beside him. He saw then that in the middle of one of the rows of tents a man with a rifle was taking aim, apparently at him, Warren, across the maidan. He was about a hundred and fifty yards away.
‘Stop!‘ Warren shouted. ‘Banduq girne do!’ He felt no fear. The man was trying to kill him, but as he didn’t know him he could have no real intent. He was drunk, or doped, and would not be able to see very straight. He put his pipe in his teeth and walked firmly across the ground, over the prone kabaddi players. Shikari trotted at his side, ears pricked.
‘Drop, sahib!’ a prostrate figure called up to him. ‘He’s gone mad.’
He advanced. Another bullet smacked by, then the man ran forward, to get closer. He was swaying as he aimed. The bullet cracked so close that Warren imagined he could feel the wind of its passage. Shikari barked angrily and darted forward. From the corner of his eye Warren saw men running behind the tents to take the marksman from behind. Then he was almost looking down the muzzle of the rifle, and into the man’s enlarged red pupils. He snapped in Hindustani, ‘Put that rifle down! Attention!’
Slowly a look of puzzlement came over the man’s fuddled face. Slowly he lowered the rifle. Warren realized that Krishna Ram was at his side. Men appeared among the tents, led by a lance-dafadar from the quarterguard with levelled rifle.
‘Wait,’ he commanded them. ‘You ... attention, I said.’
The man placed the butt of the rifle by his bare foot and stood at attention, swaying.
‘Why were you shooting?’ Warren demanded.
‘Sahib ... I don’t know ... I thought... I saw the enemy . . �
��
‘Bhang,’ Krishna said disgustedly, naming the popular North Indian type of hashish. ‘I can smell it on his breath.’
‘Put him in close arrest,’ Warren said. ‘Tell the adjutant to see that he comes before the CO tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir ... You were marvellous, sir! I’ve never seen anything so brave, just walking slowly up to him with your pipe in your mouth. You gave me the courage to get up and follow you.’ Warren said, ‘I knew there wasn’t much danger ... By the way, whose tent is that?’ He indicated the tent inside which as far as he knew, there was still a woman.
‘Dayal Ram’s sir. The Adjutant.’
‘Tell him about the shooting, now, then.’ He walked away. Now Krishna would burst in on whatever was going on inside the tent; and then perhaps he, Warren, would learn what the Ravi Lancers did about officers making love to village women at four o’clock in the afternoon in the middle of camp.
As he neared the dak bungalow he saw a heavily loaded tonga struggling through the mud of the driveway. Two Indians, one fair and one very black, both in uniform, sat in the back. The tonga stopped in front of the quarterguard, the horse’s head hanging. The travellers climbed down. The fair Indian called to the quarterguard commander, ‘Dafadar-ji, where’s the adjutant-sahib’s office?’
By then Warren was close enough to see that the speaker wore the crowns of a rissaldar-major. The black Indian wore a baggy, ill-fitting uniform and the three stars of a captain: an Indian captain would only be in the Medical Service, so this must be the new Regimental Medical Officer. He walked forward, saying, ‘Can I help?’
The black captain turned slowly, looked Warren carefully up and down, as though he were a specimen to be put under a microscope, and then saluted in an ungainly and grudging fashion.
‘I am Captain Ramaswami, Indian Medical Service,’ he said. ‘I am a specialist in gynaecology and working on many important research projects in Madras--important for the women of India--when I was posted to the military side for this European war--which is of no importance to anyone in India.’
Warren introduced himself, thinking that the man was looking for trouble. The sooner they got him back to his gynaecology, the better. ‘Were you trained in India, doctor?’ he asked.
‘No. At St. Mary’s Hospital, London. I am FRCS and MRCP.’
The other man was ten years older, and had probably been very slim when younger, but he was thickening now and there was a little bulge under the faultlessly polished Sam Browne belt. The buckle of the belt was a big silver plaque bearing the cipher of Queen Victoria and in raised metal letters the word guides. He saluted briskly and said, ‘Rissaldar-Major Baldev Singh, IOM, sahib, reporting for duty.’
Warren said, ‘I see you are from the Guides. Were you their rissaldar-major?’
‘No, sahib. I was senior rissaldar. My rank dates from yesterday, with this regiment.’
The adjutant, Lieutenant Dayal Ram, came running up. Warren noticed that he had done up his tunic one button awry. He said, ‘About the shooting, sir ...’
‘Later, Dayal. See that these officers are properly taken care of, and introduced to the CO.’
He turned on his heel and all except the doctor saluted. He went up into the dak bungalow. Now, he thought, we are complete. It remained to turn this collection of human material into a proud and war-worthy regiment of Indian cavalry. He pulled out his watch and saw that it only lacked quarter of an hour to durbar time. Durbar--an informal gathering of the regiment to air grievances and discuss whatever came into mind--was an old Indian Army custom. He was glad to see that the Ravi Lancers observed it.
As he strolled across the maidan he saw that the sowars were already gathering. It was with a small shock that he realized they were all wearing uniform. A durbar was a non-military gathering and normally everyone wore mufti. But, of course, they were on active service now, and no one had any plain clothes, except the suitcases which each officer was allowed to take in the baggage, full of civilian clothes and sports gear. It could not be helped, but he missed the comfortable sense of a family conference which plain clothes gave--the loose white shirts and wrinkled tight-fitting trousers, some men with flowers behind their ears, others wearing garlands round their necks. Some of the men here were wearing garlands, he saw, even though in uniform; also many wore tilaks, caste marks, painted on their foreheads--something which was not permitted in any regular regiment. But why not? There was no reason why a caste mark should have an adverse effect on a man’s efficiency or courage--rather the reverse.
He saw the officers gathered under a tree at the edge of the grove, and went to join them. Colonel Hanbury came down the dak bungalow steps and walked across. As he arrived the six hundred men, who had been squatting on their heels, rose to their feet. All made namasti towards him, with joined palms.
The colonel said, ‘Rest, lads.’ The men again squatted and made themselves comfortable, while the officers and VCOs leaned against trees or sat on chairs that had been brought from the dak bungalow. Shikari lay down at Warren’s feet and rested his head on his paws.
Colonel Hanbury began to speak in slow accurate Hindustani, with little feeling for the language, but perfectly plainly: ‘Jawan-log, I will introduce to you the new officers who have come to join us for the war. Major Bateman ...’ he glanced at Warren, who took a few paces forward. ‘Major Bateman has come to us from the 44th Bengal Lancers, to be our second-in-command. He is a very good polo player, and has served in Burma and on the North West Frontier. Do you want to say a word?’
Warren said, ‘I am proud to have been chosen to serve with this regiment, and look forward to going into action with you.’
The colonel said, ‘Captain Ramaswami, IMS, is our RMO. He is from Madras, but trained in England to become a doctor.’
The captain said in English, ‘I do not speak Hindustani. My native language is Tamil which none of you here will understand. I did not ask to be sent here, as I am a specialist in the diseases of women. However, now that I am here I will look after you as best I can. My second specialty is the study of Vedic medicine, and if anyone wishes to be treated in the ancient ways, I will do so in order to continue my researches.’
Warren noticed the colonel’s frown, and thought, well, why not? If a man wants Vedic treatment, why should he not have it? Why should western ways be forced on him against his will?
The colonel said, ‘Here is our new rissaldar-major. Rissaldar-Major Baldev Singh, IOM, from the Guides. He lives at Mirthal on the banks of the Beas. Like you, he is a Dogra Rajput.’
The RM stepped forward. ‘I am the rissaldar-major,’ he said in a quiet voice, that yet carried. ‘I have twenty-six years’ service with the Sirkar. I have been wounded once and awarded the Indian Order of Merit. I am your rissaldar-major. You will uphold my honour before the sahib log, and I will uphold your caste and faith and honour before the world. Any man may speak to me of a cause affecting his honour at any hour of the day or night, but if it touches upon any other man of the regiment he who wishes to speak shall first tell that other that he intends to speak to me. Such is my word.’
He stepped back. The men had hung on his words intently, Warren noticed. The old RM, who had been replaced, had apparently been a tremendous character, and there was nothing harder than to follow such a figurehead at a time of stress, such as now. But this man had a calm confidence, a power that compelled without domineering, that were most impressive. They had been lucky after all, for there was no more important post in the regiment than rissaldar-major.
The colonel said, ‘Now ... who wishes to speak? ... You. It is Darshan Ram, is it not?’
‘Yes, sahib. Of B Squadron. I have served the Rajah faithfully for thirteen years. I am a marksman and have no punishment on my record. Yet for six years now I have been passed over for promotion. Yesterday my nephew was promoted lance dafadar in A Squadron. My face is blackened.’
The colonel glanced at Himat Singh, who said, ‘There is no disgrace ... we ca
nnot all be promoted ...’ He seemed nervous, Warren thought. He would do better to say outright that the man did not have the temperament for command, or whatever was the reason. ‘Your chance has not gone. You may still be promoted. You are considered whenever there is a vacancy, as is everyone.’
A man in the crowd said, ‘It is right that a man’s years should be taken into account. We are not babes, to be commanded by boys.’
‘Nor by ancient blockheads,’ Krishna Ram cut in. The men shuffled and hissed approval, and the colonel said, ‘Next... Gopal.’
‘I am Dafadar Gopal of the Signal Section. We are going to Fer-rans to fight for the Sirkar and the King-Emperor. That is good. But we will be among heathen, who know not our gods, and might have no respect for our ways. It is in my heart that we might be given improper food, and there will be no redress. Also that we will be unable to perform prayers and ceremonies in the appointed manner. We are Rajputs, Kshatriyas all, and it lies heavy on my heart that we may return unclean, though we go now pure in our faith.’
There was a murmur of agreement, and Warren said, ‘Sir, if I may ... We will be in a division with Sikhs, Mahrattas, Gurkhas, even Brahmins, we shall not be treated differently from them.’
The rissaldar-major stood forward. ‘My sons, I have told you, your honour is in my hands, and mine in yours. Save in one matter only, nothing of our law and customs shall be transgressed without agreement in durbar. That matter is--victory. We are soldiers. Our Pandit-ji will agree that when it is victory or defeat that lie in the balance, then no law or custom shall prevail except that which leads to victory. For we have eaten the Sirkar’s salt.’
Again the crowd of men murmured, but this time as though chanting a low Amen to the RM’s words.
