It was an almost impossible task to fathom Indian opinion, and some believed the task not worth undertaking, given the vastness of the country and its heterogeneous population. In 1916 an invalided army officer, attached to the staff of Sir Archdale Earle, Chief Commissioner for Assam, kept a record of his superior’s routine, six-month tour of his district.40 It was an arduous trek made easier by a train equipped with offices and a kitchen, a steam yacht which carried the official party up the Brahmaputra and, a recent innovation, motor cars. Nevertheless, Sir Archdale still had to rely upon hill ponies and elephants to reach inaccessible districts, just as his predecessors had done.
The changes of scenery and the variety of people encountered reminded the army officer that crossing India was the same as traversing Europe from the Spanish coast to the steppes of Russia. Britain was the master of what was in all but name a continent which contained a jumble of races, languages, religions, customs, different social and economic hierarchies, and extremes of wealth and poverty. This diversity had, of course, been long recognised and had never prevented the British and educated Indians from making generalisations which treated the country and its people as one.
The officer on Earle’s staff was no exception. Reflecting on the different races he had encountered, he fell back on familiar stereotypes: the ‘laughter-loving Pathans, the dignified Sikh, or the courteous Rajput of the old military school’. Along the journey there were also reminders that large areas of India had been scarcely affected by the Raj. Head-hunting Naga chiefs appeared before the Commissioner, one knowing enough English to ask him for some whisky. By contrast, there were the sophisticated, educated Bengalis with whom it was less easy to gain rapport:
The less courteous are the younger gentlemen, mostly of the legal profession, who affect patent leather boots, talk pedantic English, and know more about the Cosmic Experience than God ever intended them to.
Many of these educated and talkative fellows were Bengali office-seekers who presented their cards to the commissioner (‘Mr Das Dutta, Pleader [failed MA], living opposite the Medical Hall’) and begged for government posts for themselves and their kinsfolk. Making friendly contact and establishing relations with this sort of Indian presented considerable problems for the British official class which, by and large, prized moral character above learning. According to Major-General Sir Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of the Boy Scout movement, the trouble was that the Indian schools had not bothered to instil into their pupils ‘a sense of honour, of fair play, of honesty, truth and self-discipline’. Mere ‘Scholastic education’ encouraged ‘priggishness and swelled the head’.41
Baden-Powell’s views on Indian education were shaped by his experience there in the 1880s, when he had been a cavalry subaltern. By 1914 this period had acquired the lustre of a golden age, at least in the minds of those who compared it with the present. Then the Raj had been firm and strong and Indians knew their places in the scheme of things, as Baden-Powell told his mother:
I like my native servants, but as a rule niggers seem to me cringing villains. As you ride or walk along the middle of the road, every cart or carriage has to get out of your way, and every native, as he passes you, gives a salute . . . If you meet a man in the road and tell him to dust your boots, he does it.
These public tokens of subjection did not trouble Baden-Powell, whose mind-set then and for the rest of his life was that of a not-very-bright captain of a public-school First XV, but it disturbed others, who realised how it could poison relations between British and Indians. The ‘brusqueness of manner’ and ‘harshness of command’ of many officials upset Indians of all classes, according to Sir Bampfylde Fuller.42 His opinion was echoed by a younger member of the ICS, Malcolm Darling, who believed that, ‘This absurd chosen-race complex of the British is one of our worst characteristics,’ and impeded the development of friendships between the races.43
But, as with India itself, it is impossible to make generalisations. Isolation among a population which could never be wholly trusted bred arrogance and a feeling that any form of concession would be interpreted as appeasement and weakness. Prestige mattered at every level and had to be carefully preserved. While Fuller may have been aware of the harm done by his countrymen’s sharpness of manner, he was also conscious that allowing Indians to mix socially with white women disparaged the latter. After all, Indian men refused their womenfolk the same freedom, keeping them from British company. One commentator doubted whether ‘more intimate contacts’ would change much and, if pursued, would lead to a familiarity which would dilute British prestige.44 On the other hand, there were those like Darling who convinced themselves that a relaxation of his countrymen’s aloofness would improve relations between them and those Indians who, to a large extent, shared in British culture.
In 1914, the gulf between rulers and ruled appeared as wide as ever and unbridgeable:
All the concrete and tangible blessings that British rule has ever conferred on India are as dust when weighed against the incontrovertible fact that we are not of their blood, and do not look out upon the world with their eyes.45
Terrorist outrages, an irresponsible and hostile popular press, and the emergence of a body of nationalists who wished to wrest power violently from the British, added up to an impression that in 1914 the Raj was more unsafe than at any time since the Mutiny. A form of representative government had been grafted on to a paternal bureaucracy, and observers were already seriously discussing the possibility that the British might leave India, although no one could predict when or in what circumstances.
Uncertainty as to India’s future could not have come at a worse time for Britain, whose self-confidence was wavering. Ever since the 1880s, its hitherto unrivalled position as an industrial and global power had been called into question. Its naval supremacy challenged by Germany, and with a stagnant economy, early-twentieth-century Britain looked out on a world full of virile competitors jockeying for colonies, markets and influence. Never before had India been so important; it was the keystone of the empire and, if it was lost, the rest of the empire would quickly dissolve – and with it, Britain’s status as a global power.
PART SIX
DISTURBANCES AND
DEPARTURES:
1914 – 48
1
True to Our Salt: India
and the First World War,
1914 – 18
I
India was never so united as it was in August 1914. Old tensions and animosities were suspended and representatives of every race, religion and caste publicly declared their loyalty to the King Emperor and willingness to join the struggle against Germany. In the spirited words of The Times, ‘the swords of the martial Princes leapt from the scabbard’ and there was a heartening response from the middle classes. Even Tilak, lately released from prison, added his voice to the chorus, insisting that henceforward ‘our sense of loyalty . . . is inherent and unswerving’.1 Mohandas Gandhi, then little-known in India, rallied his countrymen in London, who pledged themselves to render such ‘humble assistance as we may be considered capable of performing as an earnest of our desire to share the responsibilities of membership of a great Empire, if we would share its privileges’.2 The implication was clear: if India took its share and more of the imperial war effort, it would prove itself worthy of self-government. Other Indian interests were involved in the war. It was, for better or worse, an integral part of the British empire and would face unknown repercussions if Britain was defeated. Better the devil you know . . .
The nationalists were right in their assessment of the war: it was a struggle in which the future of the British empire was at stake. As the European crisis unfolded during the second half of July 1914, Britain was cramped for manoeuvre, for whichever way events led, the empire was imperilled. Imperial interests ruled out British neutrality since an Austro-German victory over France and Russia would lead to a shift in the balance of naval power against Britain, and a redistribution of overseas colonie
s in Germany’s favour. Moreover, in defeat France and Russia might easily revive old antagonisms against a power which had left them in the lurch. This point was made by the Russian government, which hinted that one consequence of British non-intervention would be fresh confrontations in Central Asia and Persia. The security and preservation of the empire dictated that Britain fought alongside the Dual Alliance, and German infraction of Belgian neutrality on 1 August gave the Cabinet both the excuse for entering the conflict and a bonus in the form of a moral cause which would win support at home and throughout the empire.
India was about to take a journey into a dark, unknown world. As in Europe, no one as yet had any clear idea of the nature of modern war, let alone its capacity to shake and transform societies and economies. In theory, India’s contribution to the imperial war effort was manpower. In 1911 the Committee for Imperial defence had proposed the dispatch of two Indian infantry divisions and one cavalry brigade to Europe, where they would be deployed alongside the British Expeditionary Force in defence of the Franco-Belgian border. Thereafter, an enlarged Indian army would act as a strategic reserve and, if they materialised, would be deployed on new fronts as well as undertaking its usual duties on India’s frontiers. Substantial Indian forces in France presented no logistical problems as they could rely on Britain for arms, ammunition, rations, transport and medical facilities.
This was fortunate, for any large Indian force dependent on India for its supplies was bound to find itself in trouble. In 1914, India was primarily a producer of raw materials, principally cotton, jute, rice, tea, wheat and hides. It could manufacture uniforms and clothing and small quantities of rifle and low-calibre artillery ammunition, but its metal output was low and it possessed no engineering, machine-tool or chemical industries. All were vital for a modern army which needed heavy artillery, high-explosive shells, precision fuses and limitless supplies of machine-gun and small-arms ammunition. As the war progressed, there was an increasing need for motor transport, and here India was woefully deficient; in 1914 there was just one motor ambulance available for the Mesopotamian campaign. Lorries had to be imported from Britain, as did all wireless, telephone and telegraph equipment. All these items were desperately needed by British forces on the Western Front, where their enemy was strongest, and so it was inevitable that India’s demands were a low priority. Moreover, the dominant strategic doctrine favoured a concentration of resources for the war against Germany rather than their dispersal to those subsidiary Middle Eastern and East African theatres where Indian troops were deployed in large numbers.
Short of war materials and the wherewithal to make them, India was strong in manpower and, at the beginning at least, there was a steady flow of recruits to the colours. For the Indian professional soldier going to war was a simple matter of adherence to ancestral tradition and fulfilling his obligations to the King Emperor. Writing from the trenches of northwestern France in September 1915, Havildar Hirram Singh told his family: ‘If I die I go to Paradise. It is a fine thing to die in battle. We must honour him who feeds us. Our dear government’s rule is very good and gracious.’ If he survived, he would return with ‘prizes, land, medals [and] distinctions’. The same ideals inspired Pirhan Dyal, also serving in France, who wrote home, ‘We must be true to our salt and he who is faithful will go to paradise.’ Traditions of caste and clan mingled with loyalty to George V. ‘Who remembers a man who dies in his bed?’ asked a Jat havildar, then recovering from wounds. ‘But it is our duty as Khastris to kill the enemy and then a man becomes a hero.’ ‘It is the duty of the Rajputs to show courage,’ one assured his kinsmen. In June 1915 an Afridi sepoy, ashamed by reports that over 100 men from his tribe had deserted from the Bannu garrison, lamented: ‘It is the business of men to fight. Now the Afridis have become like women.’3 Like their sisters in Britain, Indian women urged their menfolk to fight bravely. Three brothers, stationed in Egypt at the end of 1914, were reminded by their sister of what was expected from them. ‘War is the task of young men, to sport with death upon the field of battle, to be as a tiger and to draw the sword of honour and daring.’4
Ancient martial instincts were as strong as ever and the heart of the Indian soldier appeared sound. The Indian army’s muscles and brain were less healthy, and not up to the exertion demanded by modern warfare. This was unsurprising, for the Indian military machine had been developed over the past fifty years with one end in mind: defending and policing the frontier. For this reason, recruitment had been confined to the ‘martial races’ who were more than a match for their counterparts in the borderlands and might possibly stand up to Russian troops, although senior officers from Roberts downwards had misgivings about this. Fighting efficiency had been maintained by periodic reforms, including the merging of the old presidency armies and the introduction of modern weaponry.
As in the Company days, great emphasis was laid on the leadership of British officers, who alone possessed that strength of character which commanded the respect of Indian soldiers and gave them the will to fight. As the Mutiny had been judged in large part the consequence of officers having lost touch with their men, their successors were made to master their languages, religious customs and culture. Whereas the Company officer had survived with a vocabulary full of expressions which ensured his own physical comfort and the obedience of his servants, the modern officer learned the idiom of practical command and his men’s welfare. Among the phrases which Lieutenant W. L. Maxwell of the 10th Bengal Lancers had to translate for an exam in 1884 were: ‘Has there been any cholera in that station lately?’ and ‘I hear that a woman of the suddar bazaar fell into a well and was drowned.’5
Some things did not change. The British officer still had abundant time for arduous athletic relaxation in the manner of his predecessors, and Maxwell’s diaries and letters are crammed with references to hunting trips, exercising his horses and the social rituals of cantonment life. Polo was an obsession with all cavalry regiments (and many infantry) and was played enthusiastically at every opportunity. Nothing stood in the way of a chukka (polo round); once, when Maxwell’s regimental pitch was waterlogged, the players took over, and presumably churned up, the brigade parade ground. What very quickly had become the most popular game among British officers was an adaptation of the ‘wild mêlée’ of horsemen witnessed by Colonel Durand in the Hunza valley in 1892. Riders dismounted and picked up the ball after a goal for it to count and, in the process, the opposing team were free to knock down or ride down the scorer. After a chukka, the losing side was obliged to dance in front of the winners, adding to their humiliation.6 These robust features were dropped from the game by British officers and rules were drawn up which formalised the chaos of its Indian prototype. Team colours were introduced, with Maxwell’s 10th Lancers appearing in purple, black, red and yellow jerseys. Gear, harness and a string of polo ponies made the game a costly and therefore exclusive pastime, confined to the richer officers, a fact reflected in a contemporary doggerel:
There’s a regiment in Poona,
That would far rather sooner
Play single-handed polo,
A sort of ‘solo polo’
Than play a single chukka
With a chap that wasn’t pukka.
Rules of conduct ossified into arcane mysteries characterised the milieu of the Indian officers’ mess, although this was changing by 1914, much to the regret of General Sir George Younghusband. In the old days when an officer wished to share a drink with another, he ordered the mess sergeant to take a bottle and glass to him. Now, officers stood each other drinks, ‘for all the world as if one of His Majesty’s Officers’ Messes was a public house, or American bar’. Some taboos survived; officers never smoked in uniform when on duty, even though Younghusband generously conceded that a ‘matter of life or death’ cigarette might occasionally be permitted. Subalterns and captains continued to address each other by their surnames, the major as ‘major’ and the colonel as ‘sir’ or ‘colonel’. As in the public schoo
ls, from which they derived, these codes served to purge what Younghusband called ‘priggishness’ and ‘caddishness’ of the newcomer, but could never cure the ‘bad hat or untameable bounder’ who was usually encouraged to leave his regiment quietly.7
Absurd as they may seem to modern eyes, polo mania and mess conventions had their value. The latter generated a tight cohesion among officers and the former kept them fit and improved their horsemanship; Indian cavalrymen charged many times during frontier campaigns and did so again between 1914 and 1918, but with far less effect. Prowess in energetic sports had now become part of the imperial mystique, according to one visitor to India, who believed that ‘the innate love of sport’ was ‘equally necessary for the life of Englishmen and for supremacy over the natives’.8
II
When put to the test, the qualities fostered by the Indian army had more than proved themselves on the frontier, but it was mentally and physically unprepared for the modern war it was asked to fight in Mesopotamia. The invasion of this outlying Turkish province had been suggested by the Committee for Imperial Defence in 1906 and again five years later. The strategic objective was Basra, at the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, but there was a knot of imperialists inside the Indian government who looked further towards large-scale Indian immigration into southern Mesopotamia, where agricultural colonies would be established.9 This ambitious scheme ran counter to Delhi’s regional policy and was temporarily shelved.
As ever, the Indian government regarded the integrity of the Turkish empire as the key to its security. Not only did Mesopotamia, the Persian Gulf and Arabia form a barrier on India’s western flank, but their overlord, the Ottoman sultan, Abdul Hamid V, was the Caliph (khalifa), acknowledged by India’s Sunni Muslims as spiritual successor to Muhammad and empowered to declare a jihad in defence of Islam. His well-being and that of his empire were concerns close to the hearts of Indian Muslims, who had expressed strong disapproval of the lack of British support for Turkey during the Graeco-Turkish war of 1897 and more recent Balkan conflicts. On each occasion, European aggression against the last remaining Muslim power was interpreted as a threat to Islam. And yet, while wishing to be seen as Abdul Hamid V’s friend, the Indian Foreign Department was taking out an insurance policy against war with Turkey by making covert approaches to his Arab rulers in Arabia and the Gulf.
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