Then they were standing up with their boots full of water, heavy coats dripping and bodies shivering.
‘Come on, come on, buckets in and water out, buckets in and water out …’
The sounds of noses being blown and small tins being filled with water and emptied time after time arose all along the trenches that night until dawn came up, and the damp got into the soldiers’ bones deeper than the Indians, reared in hot weather, had ever known before. A mile away they could see movement in the enemy lines.
The taste of the trenches had driven out the cheer that Naim had kept up for so long. He was in a nasty mood when Thakur Das told him to douse the small fire of damp twigs that he had managed to light in the trench.
‘Leave me alone,’ he said to the havaldar.
‘We don’t want to make too much smoke,’ Thakur Das said as he went and crushed the half-lit twigs under his boots.
Naim tore off his helmet and flung it to the ground. Then he threw his rifle at the havaldar. The rifle brushed past Thakur Das and hit the mud, where it stood straight up against the trench wall. ‘Here, take it away,’ he shouted.
Thakur Das looked at him with a steady gaze for a minute, then he shrugged his shoulders and turned away. A soldier sitting by the second machine-gun, his face lined with dirt, said to his companion, ‘The lance naik wants to be court-martialled.’ The sun was up. The woods stood, peacefully green and still, above the sleepless, dirty, wet heads of the soldiers, and a thin steam was rising from the earth along the edges of the trenches. Some twigs were smouldering from an earlier fire where a soldier sat trying to dry his socks while Thakur Das chewed on a hard biscuit with mouthfuls of water from his canteen. When he had finished, Thakur Das picked up Naim’s rifle.
‘Do you think there are not enough enemies already in the field?’ He tossed the rifle to Naim. ‘Here, you will need this.’
Naim caught the rifle in the air and sat down in the trench to nibble on a biscuit.
The cavalry units were withdrawn that day, but no orders came for the machine-gunners. At night the sky became overcast, and soon afterwards it began to snow. It was the Indians’ first sight of snow. Sticking their heads out of the trenches, they kept looking for half the night at the snow falling over the woods and settling there. They had covered the trenches with whatever pieces of cloth they could lay their hands on. When they tired of watching the snowfall in the still air, the soldiers sat and, in the slightly raised temperature, they felt encouraged to take off their shirts, vests and socks and hold them over the damp and dying fires, hoping to dry them. Thakur Das was trying repeatedly to scrape the mud off his boots with the help of his bayonet, unmindful of the fact that the mud had long been cleared and the bayonet point was beginning to score the leather. Naim stood, resting his weight on the bayonetless rifle stuck under his armpit, and looked out, remembering the time he first saw the snowfall in Simla when he was small. They were staying in the house of one of his uncle’s friends during the long summer holidays. They had taken a trip one day up into the high mountains and he saw the snow falling there in the middle of August. Down in Simla, the house was built in the side of a hill and it has a wooden veranda overhanging a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. A cat had had kittens and lived on the veranda, and when it rained a kassi flowed right opposite the house with the water running from the top of the hill to the bottom and the water was so clear he could see the pebbles underneath from where he stood on the veranda. He had a friend his own age, the son of the house, what was his name? Yes, Deepak. As the rain stopped they would go down to the kassi to pick up coloured pebbles that had been swept down from the top while Deepak’s sister Nirmal sat atop a boulder and played the harmonica. At that age they were Naim’s only friends. Where were they now? What might have happened to them? Standing there, surrounded by a vast, hidden sea of men, he felt utterly alone. A slow, unaccountable anger that had been rising and falling inside him all day had settled in the pit of his stomach. His legs were trembling under him from standing too long, and he found that he was starving.
The attack began the next day. The plan was to go like this: No. 3 Double Company, which was in possession of the Hollebeke trenches under the command of Major Humphrey, would advance and encircle six hundred yards of the front; No. 1 Company under Captain Adair would take Rumbeke, and as soon as No. 2 Company came alongside they would commence the attack, the right flank heading towards the farm on contour 30; two platoons of No. 3 Company, along with the machine-gun section now led by Captain Dell, would support the fire coming from the trenches around the farm; No. 3 Company, minus the two platoons, and No. 4 Company would wait in reserve behind the farm. The firing started at three o’clock. They faced the enemy machine-gun and rifle fire. The artillery was still silent on either side.
Captain Dell, binoculars to his eyes, was walking along the machine-gun positions. The noise of firing was echoing from the western hills, and the air was weighted with the smell of gunpowder.
‘Thirty-nine degrees south-east. Fire!’ shouted Captain Dell.
Naim pressed the trigger. The bullets fell well short of the enemy trenches, throwing up small stones and larger pieces of earth.
‘Blast,’ said the commander and turned to look towards the OP’s position. ‘Idiot,’ he said. ‘Cease fire!’ He fixed his binoculars once again at the enemy. ‘Forty-two degrees south-east. Fire!’
This time their fire was right on target. The line of enemy heads disappeared below the trench line. A couple of arms were thrown in the air and a soldier leaped up as if he had been shoved powerfully from beneath. The second burst got him straight in the body. He rolled over for a yard and lay still and flat on level ground.
‘Well done,’ shouted Thakur Das. ‘Fire!’
Naim felt the sensation of the blood circulating rapidly in his veins. He increased the pressure of his finger on the trigger. ‘Load up the belt,’ he said.
‘Do not overheat the guns.’ Captain Dell was speaking into his binoculars. ‘They are your best friends, do not let them melt away, give them a break …’
Rifle and machine-gun shots were piercing the air, the atmosphere was hazy with dust and powder, and the sunlight reflected off the dead enemy soldier’s helmet.
In late afternoon the artillery opened up from behind with rapid fire. The enemy fire stopped for a time. Adjusting and readjusting his binoculars, Captain Dell shouted the order, ‘Company, advance.’
Two soldiers pulled up the machine-gun while Thakur Das handed its tripod to a third. Naim’s soldiers picked up their machine-gun and ran forwards, crouched over. A burst of fire whistled over their heads. One of Thakur Das’s soldiers threw up his arms, rose momentarily on his heels and fell to the ground. The entire detachment dropped to their bellies. A second burst of fire came inches above their backs. Gripped by terror, they tried at first to hide behind small stones, then dug their heads into the earth, but in the face of heavy and accurate enemy fire they eventually had to retreat. Half-wet earth and grit entering and blocking their nostrils, they were slithering backwards on their stomachs like wounded snakes. They were almost back at their trenches when a soldier, propelled upright by the impact of a burst of fire, spun round and fell back into the trench. A bullet hit the magazine of a machine-gun behind which Naim had been sheltering his face and smashed it.
They refixed their guns in the trenches and, following Captain Dell’s sharp, angry orders, opened fire. The wounded soldier, holding his stomach with both hands, cried, ‘Water.’ Someone put their canteen to his mouth. He took a mouthful but the water flowed back out of the corners of his lips. He was looking with a fixed gaze at what seemed to be nothing at all. Casualties of the aborted attack: two men and a machine-gun.
A part of the company led by Captain Wilson lost its way and ended up to the right of 2 Company. At dusk the captain asked for assistance and was promised two platoons of 4 Company. But before they arrived he took a direct hit in the head and died instantly.
I
n view of more important events on the right flank, the break-up of the division became inevitable. The next morning the regiment was ordered to withdraw from their positions and go to the north of Hollebeke. In the evening two companies were called back to occupy trenches A and B again. For two days it went on like this. A third of the artillery, chiefly comprised of six-inch Howitzers, was knocked out. Then came the German attack.
The Second Bavarian Corps was massing its troops in the section where the Third Cavalry Brigade was dug in; 129’s two companies were in the forward lines and were to be relieved at seven in the morning by the 5th and 6th Lancers, while No. 1 Company had just relieved No. 2, which was pulled back into reserve. The enemy attack added to the generally unsettled situation, and in the face of heavy artillery bombardment No. 2 Company had to retreat to take refuge behind the farm. Captain Dell’s company was still in position. It had lost half its men, enemy batteries were pounding the position, and it was some time since the section commander’s last round of the trenches, which were largely blasted and broken. In answer to the enemy’s Big Berthas, the smaller six-inch guns were proving to be no match. The enemy front lines were fast advancing towards them. Five hundred yards away they could see soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms. The company had five machine-guns, all firing. One by one they soon fell silent. It was still a couple of hours before sundown, and the wind blowing over the previous night’s snow carried a smell of blood and gunpowder along with the groans of the wounded and the dying. The noise of the artillery’s continuous barrage bored holes into the men’s brains, driving them to the verge of insanity.
‘Put in a belt,’ Thakur Das ordered.
Two soldiers quickly finished slipping in bullets and fitted the belt to the magazine.
‘Is that all?’ asked Thakur Das, looking at the heap of empty belts.
‘Rahim has gone to fetch more.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘About a half-hour.’
‘Riaz, you go,’ Thakur Das said.
The soldier hesitated for a moment, looking around, his eyes vacant with fear.
‘Go on, only one gun’s left. You want to die like a rat?’
Riaz heaved himself out and started crawling back to the ammunition hut. Thakur Das and Naim saw, along the barrel of their gun, the line of enemy soldiers showing signs of advancing towards them. Thakur Das hurriedly went over to the next machine-gun, where he found the bodies of four soldiers, their faces smeared with dirt and contorted in death. A half-spent belt hung by its magazine. Thakur Das tried its trigger. He swore and came back.
‘Jammed,’ he said.
‘Can’t we use that belt somehow?’ Naim asked him.
‘Have you not had MG training?’
‘I have.’
‘Why do you ask then?’
‘Just asking,’ Naim said, his silent gaze crowded with other questions.
A shell landed thirty yards behind the trench and Riaz flew up like a jumping fish and lay still. Thakur Das and Naim kept looking at him for a minute and saw no movement. A second shell came down three feet away from their faces and a wall of earth lifted Thakur Das into the air. He fell back, still inside the trench, his mouth and nose full of dirt. He lay there for a few seconds, too stunned to breathe. Then he started coughing and blowing his nose. Rubbing his eyes furiously to clear them, he sat up.
‘Are you …?’ Naim inquired.
‘Yes, yes, I am alive. I have tasted dirt in all my holes many times before.’
‘The gully is demolished,’ Naim said to him.
‘I can see …’
A third shell dropped at a safe distance, but still buried them with clods of earth. The two of them dug the machine-gun out of the debris.
‘No bullets,’ Thakur Das said. ‘Riaz is gone.’
Naim understood what he meant. Securing his rifle around his shoulder, he climbed out of the trench and started a slow crawl back to the ammunition dump. Rifle, machine-gun and artillery fire made a roof over his head. He passed the body of Riaz. Riaz’s abdomen was open and part of his intestines was sticking out. Naim averted his face to avoid smelling the steam rising from the torn gut. Next he came across Rahim, who had been hit in the neck and blood had collected in a puddle, his sightless eyes staring from his head. Naim took a mouthful of snow from the ground and kept crawling. A few minutes later he approached the temporary hut erected with odd bits of wood and foliage from the forest hidden in a cluster of trees, where three soldiers were busy filling the bullet holes, taking the ammunition from wooden boxes and slipping them into the leather belts. Halting for a second outside the entrance, Naim heard them laughing. He made a noise that alerted the soldiers inside. They jumped up, rifles at the ready.
‘Who goes there?’
‘Friend,’ Naim replied and stepped into the hut. He could see the laughter still hovering around their faces. ‘Belts ready?’
‘All ready, lance naik.’
‘What is the joke?’ he asked.
The men burst out laughing. ‘Shams was telling us about this bull of his who used to kidnap cows and bring them home.’
‘You talk about naughty bulls at a time like this?’ Naim said solemnly.
The men went on laughing. ‘Any time is a good time,’ one of them said, ‘and this is the best time, ha ha ha ha!’
Naim knew then that these men, hearing the earth blasted for days, had stopped caring. He was grateful that they hadn’t stopped working. He slung four loaded belts on his back. ‘Keep working,’ he said to them as he went out. ‘We shall need a lot more of these.’
The belts were one too many for him to carry. He gritted his teeth and kept crawling with them on his back up to the trenches. He passed an L-shaped trench where a machine-gun stood silent. ‘Friends,’ he called out, ‘men, you want ammunition? You want bullets?’
He got no answer and carried on. Daylight was fading quickly. He was now in sight of his machine-gun, which was still firing. Thakur Das’s head was bobbing up and down; he was using the last belt sparingly, firing short bursts at a time. Naim was exhausted but happy that he had enough ammunition on him to keep the gun firing for a good while. He knew that Thakur Das would be happy with his work.
He was a dozen feet away from his trench when he saw a whole line of soldiers from the opposite trenches spring up as if thrown out of the earth and come running towards him, their guns blazing. He dug his head into the ground and shouted, ‘Havaldar, don’t get up. They are coming –’
Thakur Das’s head bobbed up for a second. Naim felt his left hand going numb. ‘Don’t get up,’ he shouted, ‘stay in the gully, run to the right –’
Thakur Das stood up. ‘Naim, are you hurt?’
‘No,’ he said. At the same time he saw blood pouring out of his arm. ‘I don’t – know,’ he stammered. ‘Get down, Thakur, run to your right –’
Thakur Das climbed out of the trench and ran towards Naim.
‘Ohh … go back,’ Naim moaned.
At that moment Thakur Das was hit in the back by one bullet after another, his body jerking from head to foot three times in quick succession, until he opened his arms, as if to hug someone, and fell on top of Naim with all his weight. Naim remembered two things before he passed out: wishing Thakur Das would get off him, but Thakur Das, flat as a slab, wouldn’t budge; and seeing, in the back of his mind, just as he heard a deafening explosion behind him in the cluster of trees, the laughing faces of three men talking of a kidnapping bull back in someone’s village.
When he came to, he was still lying underneath Thakur Das and he realized that he had lost consciousness for only a few minutes. He also knew that their trenches were now occupied by the enemy. But no fire was coming from there. Behind him he could only hear the roar of his own artillery shelling the ground far beyond the trenches where he and Thakur Das had been. With a huge heave, he moved from beneath Thakur Das’s body, threw off the ammunition belts and started a terrified crawl backwards, expecting the enemy fire to
come at any moment. Night had fallen. In the dark, he reached a safe distance, stood up and started running until he reached the artillery batteries. He saw a horse bleeding from the chest and two men tending to it. He approached an officer.
‘Friend,’ he shouted. ‘Lance Naik Naim Ahmad, 129 Baloch, machine-gun detachment, section number –’
‘All right, lance naik,’ the officer said, ‘speak.’
‘Our position has fallen to the enemy, sir. All the men are dead. The guns are in enemy hands.’
In the thin light of a sliver of moon, the officer wiped his brow with his white, faintly trembling fingers. ‘Report to the adjutant,’ he said.
Pressing his hand on his bleeding left forearm, Naim went towards where he thought the brigade headquarters might be.
CHAPTER 10
THEY FOUGHT ON in Belgium and France for a year. In the month of July, the regiment was pulled out and ordered to go to East Africa. They spent a few days in Marseille where they were to board ship.
It had been a sunny, warm day and Naim had been out strolling along the city streets, which were crowded with men, women and children. A horse-cart, loaded with baskets of vegetables, passed. A few yards ahead, the horse’s hooves slipped on the road surface and it fell awkwardly with its legs spread out in all four directions. People gathered on the roadside, women uttering small, brief cries of pity and horror. The farmer and his helper, putting the strength of their backs behind it, first helped up the horse and then started picking up spilled heads of cabbage, parsnips and other vegetables from the road. Some more people gathered on the other side. Suddenly Naim saw a figure in the crowd, walking away. He was a heavy-set man in a crumpled army uniform. There was something in the way he walked and the line of his shoulders that was recognizable. Naim caught up with him. The man turned round.
‘Mahindroo!’ Naim cried in surprise.
‘Neem!’ Mahinder Singh answered.
The Weary Generations Page 13
