The Ravi Lancers

by John Masters

  He struggled out, shivering, to a scene of desolation that he would not have credited even twenty-four hours ago. The regiment lay like debris all over the two ploughed fields. Some horses stood and some lay, and the bivouacs were dotted everywhere, with no visible order. Everything was a dull browny black, and everything coated with mud. Rain dripped from the trees around the field and smoke curled up from the chimneys of La Chapelle, two hundred yards away. A column of GS wagons and field kitchens was moving into the field out of the road, led by Captain Sohan Singh, the quartermaster. That was a most welcome sight, Krishna thought, though how Sohan Singh had managed to come up so soon, and find the regiment after the night’s chaos, was a mystery.

  Dayal Ram arrived, saluting. He looked fit and cheerful in spite of everything, Krishna noted. He was a menace with the women and got himself and others into endless trouble over them--he remembered the camp at Kangrota, the afternoon the sowar ran amok and shot at Major Bateman--but he was a good officer, impossible to panic.

  ‘Orders in the estaminet this end of the village, sir, as soon as the CO comes back from brigade. He was sent for at 5 a.m.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Tired.’ The adjutant made a very Indian gesture of sleeping, that contrasted comically with his clipped British moustache and cap.

  Krishna walked stiffly across the field and into the village. The officers gathered in the estaminet, huddling into the small front room, which still showed traces of recent habitation by its rightful owners. Colonel Hanbury limped in and sat down heavily. His breathing was shallow and uneven, his skin was an unpleasant greenish colour in the grey light.

  ‘We are to march at 0700 hours,’ he said dully. ‘The Lahore Brigade, with ourselves in the lead and under command, is moving up on the left of VIII Corps ready to exploit a breakthrough hourly expected ... I told the general we must have time to feed men and horses, and get more rest, but the general said we must march. It is our first chance.’

  And the general’s, Krishna thought: if all went well he might soon be Brigadier-General Rogers DSO, MVO.

  ‘The horses are bad, tired,’ Major Bholanath said. ‘They were good before, even in Marseilles. But this--spoiling them quickly.’

  ‘What about the men?’ The colonel looked at the black doctor. Captain Ramaswami spread his hands and said, ‘They’re tired. The squadron commanders can tell you. But they are young. They will be all right after a few hours’ rest. All except you,’ he added bluntly. ‘You are not at all fit.’

  The old colonel said, ‘I did not ask your opinion on that, Captain Ramaswami.’ He turned to the quartermaster, ‘When and where are brigade opening a ration point, Sohan?’

  ‘I have three days’ food and fodder here, sah! ‘ the fat little man said rubbing his hands like a bazaar salesman. Krishna looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘Has the supply column come up, then?’

  ‘No, sah. But ... I am having rations! All for distribution now. With sahib’s permission I going now tell quartermaster dafadars to draw at once ... Bahut mehrbhani, sahib! ‘ He ducked out of the room before the colonel could say yes or no. Krishna thought that he must have ‘found’ the rations in the night when everyone else was sleeping; and he didn’t want to tell the CO any more.

  ‘What is the situation at the front, sir?’ Krishna asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Colonel Hanbury said. ‘As soon as I am told anything more, I shall pass it on.’

  Krishna returned to find his squadron ravenously eating hot rice from the field kitchens, together with margarine from huge cans, jam, and chocolate, and the horses all had their noses deep into their feed bags. Then the sun began to dissolve the ground mist, the rain ended, and the trumpets were sounding Mount. A little later came the Advance. He led A Squadron on to the road, reflecting that B Squadron was still lost.

  The mist was a shimmering fading carpet of white over rain-pearled grass. The fields began to take colour, pale green, dark brown, as the light strengthened. The river of lance points flowed on above the mist. The air shook to the boom and thud of gunfire, now right, now left, and always to the front. There was confusion, the same as the day before, but now everything and everybody moved in one direction, towards the light crack of the field guns ahead. Gradually, as they passed heavy batteries in action, they advanced under a rumble of shells flying over them towards the unseen enemy.

  Near eleven in the morning, after a long advance, Krishna heard the distinctive rattle of small arms fire from close to the right front.

  The regiment halted and the colonel rode forward. Half an hour later a brigade galloper dashed up and Major Bateman rode forward with him, his face stern. Twenty minutes after that the officers were called up for orders.

  Major Bateman said, ‘Gentlemen, I am very sorry to have to tell you that Colonel Hanbury died of a heart attack just now, at brigade orders. We will have a burial service for him here after the battle, if we can. Meantime, I am in command of the regiment until a new CO is appointed ... The enemy are holding that low rise of land in front there. VIII Corps is attacking now. The Lahore Brigade is to advance on their left, with ourselves on the left of the infantry. Our objective is the line of the road Echallon-Poucelle-Hazedon, which runs across the front behind the high ground. The 71st Punjabis will be on our right. Dividing line, inclusive to us, is the road Semur-Poucelle. Starting line is a farm track at the near edge of those woods there. Starting time is 1200, noon, that is ten minutes from now. We will move one squadron up, in the order C, RHQ, A, D. The Military Police are looking for B Squadron but I’m afraid they might be anywhere ... This will be our first action, gentlemen. I know I can rely on you to see that we acquit ourselves worthily. Good luck.’ He saluted his officers as they wheeled their horses and trotted back to their posts.

  A few minutes later C Squadron walked past, old Bholanath at its head. He saluted Krishna with his drawn sabre as he passed, and called in Hindi, ‘We shall redden our swords for the Rajah today, highness. And in memory of the colonel-sahib.’

  Krishna drew his heavy sabre and looked at it curiously. Would it really soon be red with blood ... European blood? What would it feel like to take a back cut at a German? What did they look like? He had seen pictures of men in spiked helmets, but where were these Germans? He had expected to see them drawn up on the hills, with guns somewhere behind, and perhaps standards flying.

  The CO’s trumpeter sounded Walk-March and the squadrons, in line of troop columns, moved out from the shelter of scattered copses, and on to the ploughed fields.

  Looking to his right Krishna saw the khaki lines and the glittering bayonets of the 71st Punjabis. The rattle of machine gun fire increased in that direction, and he saw men fall. Then he heard the crack of bursting shells and the infantry lines began to waver. The Punjabis were coming under increasing fire. He looked to his left. There should be nothing in that direction ... but there was. He pulled out his binoculars and stared. His horse’s jogging mane made it hard to see, but he could clearly make out lance points ... and the men were wearing turbans. Indian cavalry? He spurred up beside Warren Bateman and pointed. Major Bateman looked, and said, ‘B Squadron coming home to roost.’

  Himat Singh cantered up, his squadron in column of route behind him, and began to gabble, ‘B Squadron reporting, sir ... I don’t know where we lost the regiment ... I heard that ... I’m very sorry..

  Major Bateman said, ‘We’ll go into that later. Follow A Squadron, in line of troop columns. Krishna, tell him the orders.’

  The sound of artillery fire increased and the Punjabis seemed to be halted. The Ravi Lancers rode on across the high expanse of Artois. Ten minutes later they reached their objective. The squadron commanders gathered at RHQ.

  A brigade galloper arrived, clods of mud flying from his horse’s hoofs and handed Warren Bateman a message. Warren read it, then turned to his officers. He said, ‘We’ve been ordered to destroy the enemy guns that are holding up the Punjabis. I’m going to leav
e C and D Squadrons here while I tackle the guns with B and A ... The guns are on the hillside ... look, you can see one of them, there, about a mile from here. They are said to be protected by a platoon of infantry, but no machine guns. We’ll take them from the rear, from behind that line of trees. B Squadron will lead. I’ll follow with A. Both squadrons in line. Charge when we leave the trees.’

  ‘Can A lead, sir? ... I’m afraid ... I’ll do something wrong, and ...’ Himat Singh began miserably.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Warren Bateman snapped, ‘you’ll lead, and you will do it well. Move out, now. We’re right behind you.’

  A moment later B Squadron trotted past and spread out into line. Krishna called, ‘A Squadron--trot!‘ His charger’s powerful muscles rippled into the rhythm and he posted easily in the saddle, his sabre blade on his shoulder. Glancing back he saw the line of lances coming steadily on. In front, Himat Singh’s men rode in perfect line, covering a front of a hundred yards.

  They were in the shelter of a fold in the ground. The land began to rise slowly. B Squadron rode into the line of trees, then suddenly they were all out of the sheltering wood, the trumpet was blaring Charge! , and there were the guns ... two ... three ... four of them! They were galloping hard, mud flying, bullets cracking about their ears as the German infantry realized their danger and began firing. Now the grey figures at the guns began to tug at the wheels and trails as the lance points swung down. A horse, three horses fell in B Squadron, and there was a man rolling like a shot rabbit. ‘Hold your men tight, Krishna,’ Warren Bateman shouted at him.

  A gun flash caught his eye and a shell shrieked by, but there was no gap in the ranks of B Squadron; another, and he saw a man blasted from his horse, his head leaping one way and his torso another. Then B Squadron were over the infantry and into the gunners, lances thrusting and the gunners trying to shelter behind the shields and under the limbers. He saw a German officer with drawn pistol take a galloping sowar’s lance in the chest, to be lifted four feet off the ground, and then fall as the sowar expertly swung up his lance butt and dropped the body off. The infantry were scattered, running, a few sowars galloping after them.

  ‘They’ve done it!’ Warren Bateman cried exultantly. ‘Take your squadron to the top of the hill there, Krishna. Dismount there and hold it. I’ll be up with you in a minute.’

  Krishna swung his squadron out with a sweep of his arm, and cantered round the melee by the guns and up the hill. Bullets clattered by as the horses leaned into the slope, but they did not seem to be aimed at the squadron. Krishna saw, as he neared the crest, that they were behind the enemy lines, and the Germans down there were beginning to react to the threat from the engulfed battery. Then a machine gun opened up from close range to his left. The stream of bullets was clacking somewhere overhead, but any second now the gunners would correct their aim. Searching, he saw the gun in the open about two hundred yards to his left, near a ruined hayrick. The stream of bullets dropped lower. A man went down, two horses were struggling to rise. The squadron couldn’t reach the crest of the hill, let alone hold it, while that machine gun was still in position. The bullets banged like hammers all round. Another man fell, clutching his shoulder and gasping in agony. Krishna began to sweat with anxiety. What should he do? Continue? Retreat? He gritted his teeth, shouted, ‘Left front! Charge! ‘

  He galloped down at the machine gun, his squadron in a ragged line behind him. The bullets all seemed to be aimed at him personally now, so that he felt he was riding into a steel hailstorm. Then the thick barrel was under him. He leaned far down, and cut fiercely at the machine gunner’s neck. Blood spouted as high as Krishna’s eyes, then he was past, the sabre again on his shoulder. There were no more bullets, only the overturned gun and seven still, grey bodies. Krishna wheeled his squadron back to the hill top. Almost at once Major Bateman cantered up. Sweat stained his tunic, his horse was flecked with foam, and he, too, had blood on his sabre. Field gun shells began to burst close to the hill top. Major Bateman said, ‘We’re pulling back.’

  Krishna felt a wild exultation. He had charged and won! He cried, ‘But, sir, we’re behind them!’

  Two more shells burst nearby, and Major Bateman said, ‘I know, but the infantry attack failed and the Punjabis had to pull back, too. There’s a two mile gap between them and us now. The Huns are getting ready to cut us off. Get mounted and withdraw at a trot, the way we came.’

  Four shells burst among the squadron as they mounted, and four men fell. Machine gun fire began again, but from far off and inaccurate. Major Bateman said, ‘Blow the trot, trumpeter! Get moving! ‘

  Rissaldar Shamsher Singh cried, ‘We must carry back our dead, sahib! ‘

  ‘No!’ Major Bateman shouted, ‘the Germans are not Afridis to mutilate them. Leave them ... and any men too seriously wounded to ride. They will be well looked after! ‘

  The rissaldar hesitated and then said something to a dafadar, which Krishna could not hear. As the troops began to trot away down the slope, Major Bateman already ahead of them, Krishna saw the dafadar hack a finger off each of the ten men dead on the hill. Then he stuffed the fingers into empty ammunition pouches and rode after the squadron. When Krishna saw that all his men had gone, several wounded being held in their saddles by comrades close on either side, he followed with Hanuman, his trumpeter, and his bodyguards.

  The squadron trotted past the abandoned guns and the bodies huddled over trail and barrel, and soon caught up with B Squadron. On the original objective C and D fell in, and the regiment rode on towards the rear, each squadron in extended line, under desultory shell fire. Major Bateman called the squadron commanders to him. He said, ‘Well done, all of you. Tell the sowars so, when you get a chance ... How many prisoners did you take, Himat? ‘

  ‘Eight, sir. They’re on their own horses.’

  ‘Did you shoot the other horses, the gun team’s?’

  Himat Singh said, ‘Sir ... I gave the orders ...’

  ‘I didn’t see any dead gun horses.’

  ‘Sir, I

  ‘Look, Himat, when I give an order it’s to be obeyed! ‘

  ‘The men ... they couldn’t seem to bring themselves to kill the horses, sir.’

  ‘So the Huns will be able to use them again. My God, Himat Singh, this is war! ... See that those prisoners are sent back to Brigade Headquarters as soon as possible. They may have useful information. I’m going there now to report. Krishna, take the regiment back to where I gave orders this morning.’

  He cantered off. Himat Singh said, ‘The regiment will be different now, with him in command. Colonel Hanbury was a good man, but Major Bateman ... marvellous ... I never thought I could do it ... lead a charge. I wasn’t afraid, I was just sure I would do it wrong ... charge the wrong enemy, something like that ... but with him ... you know, highness, I felt him there behind me, willing me to succeed ... and I did! ‘

  ‘You certainly did. Major Bateman will probably put you in for a decoration.’

  The two officers were returning to their own positions, at that moment riding past the flank of C Squadron where the eight German artillerymen, bare-headed and unarmed, were riding on five horses, escorted by three sowars. Suddenly the Germans turned, as one man, and headed back. The path of their flight took them straight at Krishna. He could not get out of the way, or draw his sabre, before he was knocked off his plunging horse. He lay on the ground, his hands over his head until the sound of hoofs faded. Then Hanuman was on the ground beside him and he heard heavy grunts and swearing in Hindi. He stood up and cleared the mud from his eyes just in time to see the last of the eight Germans, by then a hundred yards back, go down under a tremendous sabre slash from a C Squadron jemadar. Now all eight of them lay dead, crumpled, twisted, three headless, two armless, all impaled to the ground which the sowars were still thrusting into the inert lumps. His bodyguards were at his side, crying, ‘Are you hurt, highness? Did they touch you?’

  ‘No ... they were only trying to escape.’
r />   ‘They rode at you, highness. They betrayed the trust we had in them. They are dead!’

  ‘I see,’ Krishna said climbing slowly back into his saddle. He heard Himat Singh say harshly, ‘Shoot the Germans’ horses. Go on!’ The shots rang out. The squadrons rode on towards the rear.

  Young Puran Lall rode up beside Krishna, and saluted elaborately with his sabre. ‘A German’s neck is no tougher than a Muslim’s,’ he said, grinning. He put away his sword and said, ‘Is my brother all right, lord?’

  “Yes. He didn’t have much to do today.’

  ‘May I talk to him? We have a bet on as to who would kill the most Germans in our first charge. I got three.’

  ‘How much is the bet for?’

  ‘Ten thousand rupees, highness.’

  Krishna whistled and shook his head as the young man rode away. War was such a personal matter to these people, his people. He saw again the blind fury of the lancers at the Germans who they thought had made an attack on him, their prince and son of the Sun: the same men had shown no anger at the machine gunners and artillerymen who had killed and wounded so many men in A and B Squadrons. And here were the Terrible Twins turning a battle into a personal duel. He saw the German’s neck where his sabre’s edge had cut through, and the spouting blood. He saw Colonel Hanbury, a dead man in the saddle. He shook his head desperately but the visions would not go, and hovered ahead of him, his personal view of the day, as the regiment entered a lane and rode now in column of route, the lance points red in the afternoon sun.

  December 1914

  Krishna Ram, once more second-in-command of the Ravi Lancers, paced slowly down C Squadron’s stable lines with his great-uncle. The rissaldar-major and the salutri (veterinary jemadar) walked at their heels. The horses were picketed in a long line across the first fields out of St. Hubert-sur-Yevre. A hazy sun patterned the ground and the backs of the horses with the shadows of bare boughs.