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Talbot-Mundy-Hira-Singh-When-India-Came-to-Fight-in-Flanders.txt
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Talbot-Mundy-Hira-Singh-When-India-Came-to-Fight-in-Flanders.txt
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HIRA SINGH
WHEN INDIA CAME TO FIGHT IN FLANDERS
BY TALBOT MUNDY
Author of
King--of the Khyber Rifles, The Winds of the World, etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
J. CLEMENT COLL
PREFACE
I take leave to dedicate this book to Mr. Elmer Davis, through whose
friendly offices I was led to track down the hero of these
adventures and to find the true account of them even better than the
daily paper promised.
Had Ranjoor Singh and his men been Muhammadans their accomplishment
would have been sufficiently wonderful. For Sikhs to attempt what
they carried through, even under such splendid leadership as Ranjoor
Singh's, was to defy the very nth degree of odds. To have tried to
tell the tale otherwise than in Hira Singh's own words would have
been to varnish gold. Amid the echoes of the roar of the guns in
Flanders, the world is inclined to overlook India's share in it all
and the stout proud loyalty of Indian hearts. May this tribute to
the gallant Indian gentlemen who came to fight our battles serve to
remind its readers that they who give their best, and they who take,
are one.
T. M.
One hundred Indian troops of the
British Army have arrived at Kabul,
Afghanistan, after a four months'
march from Constantinople. The men
were captured in Flanders by the
Germans and were sent to Turkey in the
hope that, being Mohammedans, they
might join the Turks. But they
remained loyal to Great Britain and
finally escaped, heading for Afghanistan.
They now intend to join their
regimental depot in India, so it
is reported.
New York Times, July, 1915
Hira Singh
CHAPTER I
Let a man, an arrow, and an answer each go straight. Each is his own
witness. God is judge.--EASTERN PROVERB.
A Sikh who must have stood about six feet without his turban--and
only imagination knows how stately he was with it--loomed out of the
violet mist of an Indian morning and scrutinized me with calm brown
eyes. His khaki uniform, like two of the medal ribbons on his
breast, was new, but nothing else about him suggested rawness.
Attitude, grayness, dignity, the unstudied strength of his
politeness, all sang aloud of battles won. Battles with himself they
may have been--but they were won.
I began remembering ice-polished rocks that the glaciers once
dropped along Maine valleys, when his quiet voice summoned me back
to India and the convalescent camp beyond whose outer gate I stood.
Two flags on lances formed the gate and the boundary line was mostly
imaginary; but one did not trespass, because at about the point
where vision no longer pierced the mist there stood a sentry, and
the grounding of a butt on gravel and now and then a cough announced
others beyond him again.
"I have permission," I said, "to find a certain Risaldar-major
Ranjoor Singh, and to ask him questions."
He smiled. His eyes, betraying nothing but politeness, read the very
depths of mine.
"Has the sahib credentials?" he asked. So I showed him the permit
covered with signatures that was the one scrap of writing left in my
possession after several searchings.
"Thank you," he said gravely. "There were others who had no permits.
Will you walk with me through the camp?"
That was new annoyance, for with such a search as I had in mind what
interest could there be in a camp for convalescent Sikhs? Tents
pitched at intervals--a hospital marquee--a row of trees under which
some of the wounded might sit and dream the day through-these were
all things one could imagine without journeying to India. But there
was nothing to do but accept, and I walked beside him, wishing I
could stride with half his grace.
"There are no well men here," he told me. "Even the heavy work about
the camp is done by convalescents."
"Then why are you here?" I asked, not trying to conceal admiration
for his strength and stature.
"I, too, am not yet quite recovered."
"From what?" I asked, impudent because I felt desperate. But I drew
no fire.
"I do not know the English name for my complaint," he said. (But he
spoke English better than I, he having mastered it, whereas I was
only born to its careless use.)
"How long do you expect to remain on the sick list?" I asked,
because a woman once told me that the way to make a man talk is to
seem to be interested in himself.
"Who knows?" said he.
He showed me about the camp, and we came to a stand at last under
the branches of an enormous mango tree. Early though it was, a Sikh
non-commissioned officer was already sitting propped against the
trunk with his bandaged feet stretched out in front of him--a
peculiar attitude for a Sikh.
"That one knows English," my guide said, nodding. And making me a
most profound salaam, he added: "Why not talk with him? I have
duties. I must go."
The officer turned away, and I paid him the courtesy due from one
man to another. It shall always be a satisfying memory that I raised
my hat to him and that he saluted me.
"What is that officer's name?" I asked, and the man on the ground
seemed astonished that I did not know.
"Risaldar-major Ranjoor Singh bahadur!" he said.
For a second I was possessed by the notion of running after him,
until I recalled that he had known my purpose from the first and
that therefore his purpose must have been deliberate. Obviously, I
would better pursue the opportunity that in his own way He had given
me.
"What is your name?" I asked the man on the ground.
"Hira Singh," he answered, and at that I sat down beside him. For I
had also heard of Hira Singh.
He made quite a fuss at first because, he said, the dusty earth
beneath a tree was no place for a sahib. But suddenly he jumped to
the conclusion I must be American, and ceased at once to be troubled
about my dignity. On the other hand, he grew perceptibly less
distant. Not more friendly, perhaps, but less guarded.
"You have talked with Sikhs in California?" he asked, and I nodded.
"Then you have heard lies, sahib. I know the burden of their song. A
bad Sikh and a bad Englishman alike resemble rock torn loose. The
greater the height from which they fall, the deeper they dive into
the mud. Which is the true Sikh, he who marched with us or he who
abuses us? Yet I am told that in America men believe what hired
Sikhs write for the German papers.
"No man hired me, sahib, although one or two have tried. When I came
of age I sought acceptance in the army, and was chosen among many.
When my feet are healed I shall return to duty. I am a true Sikh. If
the sahib cares to listen, I will tell him truth that has not been
written in the papers."
So, having diagnosed my nationality and need, he proceeded to tell
me patiently things that many English are in the dark about, both
because of the censorship and because of the prevailing superstition
that the English resent being told--he stabbing and sweeping at the
dust with a broken twig and making little heaps and dents by way of
illustration,--I sitting silent, brushing away the flies.
Day after day I sought him soon after dawn when they were rolling up
the tent-flaps. I shared the curry and chapatties that a trooper
brought to him at noon, and I fetched water for him to drink from
time to time. It was dusk each day before I left him, so that, what
with his patience and my diligence, I have been able to set down the
story as he told it, nearly in his own words.
But of Risaldar-major Ranjoor Singh bahadur in the flesh, I have not
had another glimpse. I went in search of him the very first evening,
only to learn that he had "passed his medical" that afternoon and
had returned at once to active service.
* * * * * * *
We Sikhs have a proverb, sahib, that the ruler and the ruled are
one. That has many sides to it of which one is this: India having
many moods and minds, the British are versatile. Not altogether
wise, for who is? When, for instance, did India make an end of
wooing foolishness? Since the British rule India, they may wear her
flowers, but they drink her dregs. They may bear her honors, but her
blame as well. As the head is to the body, the ruler and the ruled
are one.
Yet, as I understand it, when this great war came there was
disappointment in some quarters and surprise in others because we,
who were known not to be contented, did not rise at once in
rebellion. To that the answer is faith finds faith. It is the great
gift of the British that they set faith in the hearts of other men.
There were dark hours, sahib, before it was made known that there
was war. The censorship shut down on us, and there were a thousand
rumors for every one known fact. There had come a sudden swarm of
Sikhs from abroad, and of other men--all hirelings--who talked much
about Germany and a change of masters. There were dark sayings, and
arrests by night. Men with whom we talked at dusk had disappeared at
dawn. Ranjoor Singh, not yet bahadur but risaldar-major, commanding
Squadron D of my regiment, Outram's Own, became very busy in the
bazaars; and many a night I followed him, not always with his
knowledge. I intended to protect him, but I also wished to know what
the doings were.
There was a woman. Did the sahib ever hear of a plot that had not a
woman in it? He went to the woman's house. In hiding, I heard her
sneer at him. I heard her mock him. I would have doubted him forever
if I had heard her praise him, but she did not, and I knew him to be
a true man.
Ours is more like the French than the British system; there is more
intercourse between officer and non-commissioned officer and man.
But Ranjoor Singh is a silent man, and we of his squadron, though we
respected him, knew little of what was in his mind. When there began
to be talk about his knowing German, and about his secrecy, and
about his nights spent at HER place, who could answer? We all knew
he knew German.
There were printed pamphlets from God-knows-where, and letters from
America, that made pretense at explanations; and there were spies
who whispered. My voice, saying I had listened and seen and that I
trusted, was as a quail's note when the monsoon bursts. None heard.
So that in the end I held my tongue. I even began to doubt.
Then a trooper of ours was murdered in the bazaar, and Ranjoor
Singh's servant disappeared. Within an hour Ranjoor Singh was gone,
too.
Then came news of war. Then our officers came among us to ask
whether we are willing or not to take a hand in this great quarrel.
Perhaps in that hour if they had not asked us we might have judged
that we and they were not one after all.
But they did ask, and let a man, an arrow, and an answer each go
straight, say we. Our Guru tells us Sikhs should fight ever on the
side of the oppressed; the weaker the oppressed, the more the reason
for our taking part with them. Our officers made no secret about the
strength of the enemy, and we made none with them of our feeling in
the matter. They were proud men that day. Colonel Kirby was a very
proud man. We were prouder than he, except when we thought of
Ranjoor Singh.
Then, as it were out of the night itself, there came a message by
word of mouth from Ranjoor Singh saying he will be with us before
the blood shall run. We were overjoyed at that, and talked about it
far into the night; yet when dawn had come doubt again had hold of
us, and I think I was the only Sikh in the regiment ready to swear
to his integrity. Once, at least a squadron of us had loved him to
the death because we thought him an example of Sikh honor. Now only
I and our British officers believed in him.
We are light cavalry. We were first of all the Indian regiments to
ride out of Delhi and entrain at a station down the line. That was
an honor, and the other squadrons rode gaily, but D Squadron hung
its head. I heard men muttering in the ranks and some I rebuked to
silence, but my rebukes lightened no man's heart. In place of
Ranjoor Singh rode Captain Fellowes, promoted from another squadron,
and noticing our lack of spirit, he did his best to inspire us with
fine words and manly bearing; but we felt ashamed that our own Sikh
major was not leading us, and did not respond to encouragement.
Yet when we rode out of Delhi Gate it was as if a miracle took
place. A stiffening passed along the squadron. A trooper caught
sight of Ranjoor Singh standing beside some bullock carts, and
passed the word. I, too, saw him. He was with a Muhammadan bunnia,
and was dressed to resemble one himself.
The trooper who was first to see him--a sharp-eyed man--he died at
Ypres--Singh means lion, sahib--now recognized the man who stood
with him. "That bunnia," said he, "is surely none other than the
European who gave us the newspaper clippings about Sikhs not allowed
to land in Canada. See--he is disguised like a fool. Are the police
asleep," said he, "that such thieves dare sun themselves?"
It was true enough, sahib. The man in disguise was German, and we
remembered again that Ranjoor Singh knew German. From that moment we
rode like new men--I, too, although I because I trusted Ranjoor
Singh now more than ever; they, because they trusted no longer at
all, and he can shoulder what seem certainties whom doubt unmans. No
word, but a thought that a man could feel passed all down the line,
that whatever our officer might descend to being, the rank and file
would prove themselves faithful to the salt. Thenceforward there was
nothing in our bearing to cause our officers anxiety.
You might wonder, sahib, why none broke ranks to expose both men on
the spot. I did not because I trusted Ranjoor Singh. I reasoned he
would never have dared be seen by us if he truly were a traitor. It
seemed to me I knew how his heart must burn to be riding with us.
They did not because they would not willingly have borne the shame.
I tell no secret when I say there has been treason in the Punjab;
the whole world knows that. Yet few understand that the cloak under
which it all made headway was the pride of us true ones, who would
not own to treason in our midst. Pride and the shadow of shame are
one, sahib, but who believes it until the shame bears fruit?
Before the last squadron had ridden by, Captain Warrington, our
adjutant, also caught sight of Ranjoor Singh. He spurred after
Colonel Kirby, and Colonel Kirby came galloping back; but before he
could reach Delhi Gate Ranjoor Singh had disappeared and D Squadron
was glad to the last man.
"Let us hope he may die like a rat in a hole and bring no more shame
on us!" said Gooja Singh, and many assented.
"He said he will be with us before the blood shall run!" said I.
"Then we know whose blood shall run first!" said the trooper nearest
me, and those who heard him laughed. So I held my tongue. There is
no need of argument while a man yet lives to prove himself. I had
charge of the party that burned that trooper's body. He was one of
the first to fall after we reached France.
Colonel Kirby, looking none too pleased, came trotting back to us,
and we rode on. And we entrained. Later on we boarded a great ship
in Bombay harbor and put to sea, most of us thinking by that time of
families and children, and some no doubt of money-lenders who might
foreclose on property in our absence, none yet suspecting that the
government will take steps to prevent that. It is not only the
British officer, sahib, who borrows money at high interest lest his
shabbiness shame the regiment.
We were at sea almost before the horses were stalled properly, and
presently there were officers and men and horses all sick together
in the belly of the ship, with chests and bales and barrels broken
loose among us. The this-and-that-way motion of the ship caused
horses to fall down, and men were too sick to help them up again. I
myself lay amid dung like a dead man--yet vomiting as no dead man
ever did--and saw British officers as sick as I laboring like
troopers. There are more reasons than one why we Sikhs respect our
British officers.
The coverings of the ship were shut tight, lest the waves descend
among us. The stench became worse than any I had ever known,
although I learned to know a worse one later; but I will speak of
that at the proper time. It seemed to us like a poor beginning and
that thought put little heart in us.
But the sickness began to lessen after certain days, and as the
movements grew easier the horses were able to stand. Then we became
hungry, who had thought we would never wish to eat again, and double
rations were served out to compensate for days when we had eaten
nothing. Then a few men sought the air, and others--I among them--went
out of curiosity to see why the first did not return. So, first
by dozens and then by hundreds, we went and stood full of wonder,
holding to the bulwark for the sake of steadiness.
It may be, sahib, that if I had the tongue of a woman and of a
priest and of an advocate--three tongues in one--I might then tell
the half of what there was to wonder at on that long journey. Surely
not otherwise. Being a soldier, well trained in all subjects
becoming to a horseman but slow of speech, I can not tell the
hundredth part.
We--who had thought ourselves alone in all the sea--were but one
ship among a number. The ships proceeded after this manner--see, I
draw a pattern--with foam boiling about each. Ahead of us were many
ships bearing British troops--cavalry, infantry and guns. To our
right and left and behind us were Sikh, Gurkha, Dogra, Pathan,
Punjabi, Rajput--many, many men, on many ships. Two and thirty ships
I counted at one time, and there was the smoke of others over the
sky-line!
Above the bulwark of each ship, all the way along it, thus, was a
line of khaki. Ahead of us that was helmets. To our right and left
and behind us it was turbans. The men of each ship wondered at all
the others. And most of all, I think, we wondered at the great gray
war-ships plunging in the distance; for none knew whence they had
come; we saw none in Bombay when we started. It was not a sight for
the tongue to explain, sahib, but for a man to carry in his heart. A
sight never to be forgotten. I heard no more talk about a poor
beginning.
We came to Aden, and stopped to take on coal and water. There was no
sign of excitement there, yet no good news. It was put in Orders of
the Day that the Allies are doing as well as can be expected pending
arrival of re-enforcements; and that is not the way winners speak.
Later, when we had left Aden behind, our officers came down among us
and confessed that all did not go well. We said brave things to
encourage them, for it is not good that one's officers should doubt.
If a rider doubts his horse, what faith shall the horse have in his
rider? And so it is with a regiment and its officers.
After some days we reached a narrow sea--the Red Sea, men call it,
although God knows why--a place full of heat and sand-storms, shut
in on either hand by barren hills. There was no green thing anywhere.
There we passed islands where men ran down to the beach to
shout and wave helmets--unshaven Englishmen, who trim the lights. It
must have been their first intimation of any war. How else can they
have known of it? We roared back to them, all of the men on all of
the ships together, until the Red Sea was the home of thunder, and
our ships' whistles screamed them official greeting through the din.
I spent many hours wondering what those men's thoughts might be.
Never was such a sight, sahib! Behind our ships was darkness, for
the wind was from the north and the funnels belched forth smoke that
trailed and spread. I watched it with fascination until one day
Gooja Singh came and watched beside me near the stern. His rank was
the same as mine, although I was more than a year his senior. There
was never too much love between us. Step by step I earned promotion
first, and he was jealous. But on the face of thing's we were
friends. Said he to me after a long time of gazing at the smoke, "I
think there is a curtain drawn. We shall never return by that road!"
I laughed at him. "Look ahead!" said I. "Let us leave our rear to
the sweepers and the crows!"
Nevertheless, what he had said remained in my mind, as the way of
dark sayings is. Yet why should the word of a fool have the weight
of truth? There are things none can explain. He proved right in the
end, but gained nothing. Behold me; and where is Gooja Singh? I made
no prophecy, and he did. Can the sahib explain?
Day after day we kept overtaking other ships, most of them hurrying
the same way as ourselves. Not all were British, but the crews all
cheered us, and we answered, the air above our heads alive with
waving arms and our trumpets going as if we rode to the king of
England's wedding. If their hearts burned as ours did, the crews of
those ships were given something worth remembering.
We passed one British ship quite close, whose captain was an elderly
man with a gray beard. He so waved his helmet that it slipped from
his grasp and went spinning into the sea. When we lost him in our
smoke his crew of Chinese were lowering a boat to recover the
helmet. We heard the ships behind us roaring to him. Strange that I
should wonder to this day whether those Chinese recovered the
helmet! It looked like a good new one. I have wondered about it on
the eve of action, and in the trenches, and in the snow on outpost
duty. I wonder about it now. Can the sahib tell me why an old man's
helmet should be a memory, when so much that was matter of life and
death has gone from mind? I see that old man and his helmet now, yet
I forget the feel of Flanders mud.
We reached Suez, and anchored there. At Suez lay many ships in front
of us, and a great gray battle-ship saluted us with guns, we all
standing to attention while our ensigns dipped. I thought it strange
that the battle-ship should salute us first, until I recalled how
when I was a little fellow I once saw a viceroy salute my
grandfather. My grandfather was one of those Sikhs who marched to
help the British on the Ridge at Delhi when the British cause seemed
lost. The British have long memories for such things.
Later there came an officer from the battle-ship and there was hot
argument on our upper bridge. The captain of our ship grew very
angry, but the officer from the battle-ship remained polite, and
presently he took away with him certain of our stokers. The captain
of our ship shouted after him that there were only weaklings and
devil's leavings left, but later we discovered that was not true.
We fretted at delay at Suez. Ships may only enter the canal one by
one, and while we waited some Arabs found their way on board from a
small boat, pretending to sell fruit and trinkets. They assured us
that the French and British were already badly beaten, and that
Belgium had ceased to be. To test them, we asked where Belgium was,
and they did not know; but they swore it had ceased to be. They
advised us to mutiny and refuse to go on to our destruction.
They ought to have been arrested, but we were enraged and drove them
from the ship with blows. We upset their little boat by hauling at
the rope with which they had made it fast, and they were forced to
swim for shore. One of them was taken by a shark, which we
considered an excellent omen, and the others were captured as they
swam and taken ashore in custody.
I think others must have visited the other ships with similar tales
to tell, because after that, sahib, there was something such as I
think the world never saw before that day. In that great fleet of
ships we were men of many creeds and tongues--Sikh, Muhammadan,
Dorga, Gurkha (the Dogra and Gurkha be both Hindu, though of
different kinds), Jat, Punjabi, Rajput, Guzerati, Pathan, Mahratta--who
can recall how many! No one language could have sufficed to
explain one thought to all of us--no, nor yet ten languages! No word
passed that my ear caught. Yet, ship after ship became aware of
closer unity.
All on our knees on all the ships together we prayed thereafter
thrice a day, our British officers standing bareheaded beneath the
upper awnings, the chin-strap marks showing very plainly on their
cheeks as the way of the British is when they feel emotion. We
prayed, sahib, lest the war be over before we could come and do our
share. I think there was no fear in all that fleet except the fear
lest we come too late. A man might say with truth that we prayed to
more gods than one, but our prayer was one. And we received one
answer.
One morning our ship got up anchor unexpectedly and began to enter
the canal ahead of all the ships bearing Indian troops. The men on
the other ships bayed to us like packs of wolves, in part to give
encouragement but principally jealous. We began to expect to see
France now at any minute--I, who can draw a map of the world and set
the chief cities in the proper place, being as foolish as the rest.
There lay work as well as distance between us and France.
We began to pass men laboring to make the canal banks ready against
attack, but mostly they had no news to give us. Yet at one place,
where we tied to the bank because of delay ahead, a man shouted from
a sand-dune that the kaiser of Germany has turned Muhammadan and now
summons all Islam to destroy the French and British. Doubtless he
mistook us for Muhammadans, being neither the first nor the last to
make that mistake.
So we answered him we were on our way to Berlin to teach the kaiser
his new creed. One man threw a lump of coal at him and he
disappeared, but presently we heard him shouting to the men on the
ship behind. They truly were Muhammadans, but they jeered at him as
loud as we.
After that our officers set us to leading horses up and down the
deck in relays, partly, no doubt, to keep us from talking with other
men on shore, but also for the horses' sake. I remember how flies
came on board and troubled the horses very much. At sea we had
forgotten there were such things as flies, and they left us again
when we left the canal.
At Port Said, which looks like a mean place, we stopped again for
coal. Naked Egyptians--big black men, as tall as I and as
straight--carried it up an inclined plank from a float and cast it by
basketfuls through openings in the ship's side. We made up a purse
of money for them, both officers and men contributing, and I was
told there was a coaling record broken.
After that we steamed at great speed along another sea, one ship at
a time, just as we left the canal, our ship leading all those that
bore Indian troops. And now there were other war-ships--little ones,
each of many funnels--low in the water, yet high at the nose--most
swift, that guarded us on every hand, coming and going as the sharks
do when they search the seas for food.
A wonder of a sight, sahib! Blue water--blue water--bluest ever I
saw, who have seen lake water in the Hills! And all the ships
belching black smoke, and throwing up pure white foam--and the last
ship so far behind that only masts and smoke were visible above the
sky-line--but more, we knew, behind that again, and yet more coming!
I watched for hours at a stretch without weariness, and thought
again of Ranjoor Singh. Surely, thought I, his three campaigns
entitled him to this. Surely he was a better man than I. Yet here
was I, and no man knew where he was. But when I spoke of Ranjoor
Singh men spat, so I said nothing.
After a time I begged leave to descend an iron ladder to the bowels
of the ship, and I sat on the lowest rung watching the British
firemen at the furnaces. They cursed me in the name of God, their
teeth and the whites of their eyes gleaming, but their skin black as
night with coal dust. The sweat ran down in rivers between ridges of
grime on the skin of their naked bellies. When a bell rang and the
fire doors opened they glowed like pictures I have seen of devils.
They were shadows when the doors clanged shut again. Considering
them, I judged that they and we were one.
I climbed on deck again and spoke to a risaldar. He spoke to Colonel
Kirby. Watching from below, I saw Colonel Kirby nod--thus, like a
bird that takes an insect; and he went and spoke to the captain of
the ship. Presently there was consultation, and a call for
volunteers. The whole regiment responded. None, however, gave me
credit for the thought. I think that risaldar accepted praise for
it, but I have had no opportunity to ask him. He died in Flanders.
We went down and carried coal as ants that build a hill, piling it
on the iron floor faster than the stokers could use it, toiling
nearly naked like them lest we spoil our uniforms. We grew grimy,
but the ship shook, and the water boiled behind us. None of the
other ships was able to overtake us, although we doubted not they
all tried.
There grew great good will between us and the stokers. We were
clumsy from inexperience, and they full of laughter at us, but each
judged the spirit with which the other labored. Once, where I stood
directing near the bunker door, two men fell on me and covered me
with coal. The stokers laughed and I was angry. I had hot words
ready on my tongue, but a risaldar prevented me.
"This is their trade, not ours," said he. "Look to it lest any laugh
at us when the time for our own trade comes!" I judged that well
spoken, and remembered it.
There came at last a morning when the sun shone through jeweled
mist--a morning with scent in it that set the horses in the hold to
snorting--a dawn that smiled, as if the whole universe in truth were
God's. A dawn, sahib, such as a man remembers to judge other dawns
by. That day we came in sight of France.
Doubtless you suppose we cheered when we saw Marseilles at last. Yet
I swear to you we were silent. We were disappointed because we could
see no enemy and hear no firing of great guns! We made no more
commotion than the dead while our ship steamed down the long harbor
entrance, and was pushed and pulled by little tugs round a corner to
a wharf. A French war-ship and some guns in a fort saluted us, and
our ship answered; but on shore there seemed no excitement and our
hearts sank. We thought that for all our praying we had come too
late.
But the instant they raised the gangway a French officer and several
British officers came running up it, and they all talked earnestly
with Colonel Kirby on the upper bridge--we watching as if we had but
an eye and an ear between us. Presently all our officers were
summoned and told the news, and without one word being said to any
of us we knew there was neither peace as yet, nor any surpassing
victory fallen to our side. So then instantly we all began to speak
at once, even as apes do when sudden fear has passed.
There were whole trains of trucks drawn up in the street beside the
dock and we imagined we were to be hurried at once toward the
fighting. But not so, for the horses needed rest and exercise and
proper food before they could be fit to carry us. Moreover, there
were stores to be offloaded from the ships, we having brought with
us many things that it would not be so easy to replace in a land at
war. Whatever our desire, we were forced to wait, and when we had
left the ship we were marched through the streets to a camp some
little distance out along the Estagus Road. Later in the day, and
the next day, and the next, infantry from the other ships followed
us, for they, too, had to wait for their stores to be offloaded.
The French seemed surprised to see us. They were women and children
for the most part, for the grown men had been called up. In our
country we greet friends with flowers, but we had been led to
believe that Europe thinks little of such manners. Yet the French
threw flowers to us, the little children bringing arms full and
baskets full.
Thenceforward, day after day, we rode at exercise, keeping ears and
eyes open, and marveling at France. No man complained, although our
very bones ached to be on active service. And no man spoke of
Ranjoor Singh, who should have led D Squadron. Yet I believe there
was not one man in all D Squadron but thought of Ranjoor Singh all
the time. He who has honor most at heart speaks least about it. In
one way shame on Ranjoor Singh's account was a good thing, for it
made the whole regiment watchful against treachery.
Treachery, sahib--we had yet to learn what treachery could be!
Marseilles is a half-breed of a place, part Italian, part French.
The work was being chiefly done by the Italians, now that all
able-bodied Frenchmen were under arms. And Italy not yet in the war!
Sahib, I swear to you that all the spies in all the world seemed at
that moment to be Italian, and all in Marseilles at once! There were
spies among the men who brought our stores. Spies who brought the
hay. Spies among the women who walked now and then through our lines
to admire, accompanied by officers who were none too wide-awake if
they were honest. You would not believe how many pamphlets reached
us, printed in our tongue and some of them worded very cunningly.
There were men who could talk Hindustanee who whispered to us to
surrender to the Germans at the first opportunity, promising in that
case that we shall be well treated. The German kaiser, these men
assured us, had truly turned Muhammadan; as if that were anything to
Sikhs, unless perhaps an additional notch against him! I was told
they mistook the Muhammadans in another camp for Sikhs, and were
spat on for their pains!
Nor were all the spies Italians, after all. Our hearts went out to
the French. We were glad to be on their side--glad to help them
defend their country. I shall be glad to my dying day that I have
struck a blow for France. Yet the only really dangerous man of all
who tried to corrupt us in Marseilles was a French officer of the
rank of major, who could speak our tongue as well as I. He said with
sorrow that the French were already as good as vanquished, and that
he pitied us as lambs sent to the slaughter. The part, said he, of
every wise man was to go over to the enemy before the day should
come for paying penalties.
I told what he had said to me to a risaldar, and the risaldar spoke
with Colonel Kirby. We heard--although I do not know whether it is
true or not--that the major was shot that evening with his face to a
wall. I do know that I, in company with several troopers, was
cross-examined by interpreters that day in presence of Colonel Kirby and a
French general and some of the general's staff.
There began to be talk at last about Ranjoor Singh. I heard men say
it was no great wonder, after all, that he should have turned
traitor, for it was plain he must have been tempted cunningly. Yet
there was no forgiveness for him. They grew proud that where he had
failed they could stand firm; and there is no mercy in proud men's
minds--nor much wisdom either.
At last a day came--too soon for the horses, but none too soon for
us--when we marched through the streets to entrain for the front. As
we had marched first out of Delhi, so we marched first from
Marseilles now. Only the British regiments from India were on ahead
of us; we led the Indian-born contingent.
French wives and children, and some cripples, lined the streets to
cheer and wave their handkerchiefs. We were on our way to help their
husbands defend France, and they honored us. It was our due. But can
the sahib accept his due with a dry eye and a word in his throat?
Nay! It is only ingratitude that a man can swallow unconcerned. No
man spoke. We rode like graven images, and I think the French women
wondered at our silence. I know that I, for one, felt extremely
willing to die for France; and I thought of Ranjoor Singh and of how
his heart, too, would have burned if he had been with us. With such
thoughts as swelled in my own breast, it was not in me to believe
him false, whatever the rest might think.
D Squadron proved in good fortune that day, for they gave us a train
of passenger coaches with seats, and our officers had a first-class
coach in front. The other squadrons, and most of the other
regiments, had to travel in open trucks, although I do not think any
grumbled on that score. There was a French staff officer to each
train, and he who rode in our train had an orderly who knew English;
the orderly climbed in beside me and we rode miles together, talking
all the time, he surprising me vastly more than I him. We exchanged
information as two boys that play a game--I a move, then he a move,
then I again, then he.
The game was at an end when neither could think of another question
to ask; but he learned more than I. At the end I did not yet know
what his religion was, but he knew a great deal about mine. On the
other hand, he told me all about their army and its close
association between officers and men, and all the news he had about
the fighting (which was not so very much), and what he thought of
the British. He seemed to think very highly of the British, rather
to his own surprise.
He told me he was a pastry cook by trade, and said he could cook
chapatties such as we eat; and he understood my explanation why
Sikhs were riding in the front trains and Muhammadans behind--because
Muhammadans must pray at fixed intervals and the trains must
stop to let them do it. He understood wherein our Sikh prayer
differs from that of Islam. Yet he refused to believe I am no
polygamist. But that is nothing. Since then I have fought in a
trench beside Englishmen who spoke of me as a savage; and I have
seen wounded Germans writhe and scream because their officers had
told them we Sikhs would eat them alive. Yes, sahib; not once, but
many times.
The journey was slow, for the line ahead of us was choked with
supply trains, some of which were needed at the front as badly as
ourselves. Now and then trains waited on sidings to let us by, and
by that means we became separated from the other troop trains, our
regiment leading all the others in the end by almost half a day. The
din of engine whistles became so constant that we no longer noticed
it.
But there was another din that did not grow familiar. Along the line
next ours there came hurrying in the opposite direction train after
train of wounded, traveling at great speed, each leaving a smell in
its wake that set us all to spitting. And once in so often there
came a train filled full of the sound of screaming. The first time,
and the second time we believed it was ungreased axles, but after
the third time we understood.
Then our officers came walking along the footboards, speaking to us
through the windows and pretending to point out characteristics of
the scenery; and we took great interest in the scenery, asking them
the names of places and the purposes of things, for it is not good
that one's officers should be other than arrogantly confident.
We were a night and a day, and a night and a part of a day on the
journey, and men told us later we had done well to cross the length
of France in that time, considering conditions. On the morning of
the last day we began almost before it was light to hear the firing
of great guns and the bursting of shells--like the thunder of the
surf on Bombay Island in the great monsoon--one roar without
intermission, yet full of pulsation.
I think it was midday when we drew up at last on a siding, where a
French general waited with some French and British officers. Colonel
Kirby left the train and spoke with the general, and then gave the
order for us to detrain at once; and we did so very swiftly, men,
and horses, and baggage. Many of us were men of more than one
campaign, able to judge by this and by that how sorely we were
needed. We knew what it means when the reenforcements look fit for
the work in hand. The French general came and shook hands again with
Colonel Kirby, and saluted us all most impressively.
We were spared all the business of caring for our own baggage and
sent away at once. With a French staff officer to guide us, we rode
away at once toward the sound of firing--at a walk, because within
reasonable limits the farther our horses might be allowed to walk
now the better they would be able to gallop with us later.
We rode along a road between straight trees, most of them scarred by
shell-fire. There were shell-holes in the road, some of which had
been filled with the first material handy, but some had to be
avoided. We saw no dead bodies, nor even dead horses, although
smashed gun-carriages and limbers and broken wagons were everywhere.
To our right and left was flat country, divided by low hedges and
the same tall straight trees; but far away in front was a forest,
whose top just rose above the sky-line. As we rode toward that we
could see the shells bursting near it.
Between us and the forest there were British guns, dug in; and away
to our right were French guns--batteries and batteries of them. And
between us and the guns were great receiving stations for the
wounded, with endless lines of stretcher-bearers like ants passing
to and fro. By the din we knew that the battle stretched far away
beyond sight to right and left of us.
Many things we saw that were unexpected. The speed of the artillery
fire was unbelievable. But what surprised all of us most was the
absence of reserves. Behind the guns and before the guns we passed
many a place where reserves might have sheltered, but there were
none.
There came two officers, one British and one French, galloping
toward us. They spoke excitedly with Colonel Kirby and our French
staff officer, but we continued at a walk and Colonel Kirby lit a
fresh cheroot. After some time there came an aeroplane with a great
square cross painted on its under side, and we were ordered to halt
and keep quite still until it went away. When it was too far away
for its man to distinguish us we began to trot at last, but it was
growing dusk when we halted finally behind the forest--dusky and
cloudy, the air full of smoke from the explosions, ill-smelling and
difficult to breathe. During the last three-quarters of a mile the
shells had been bursting all about us, but we had only lost one man
and a horse--and the man not killed.
As it grew darker the enemy sent up star-shells, and by their light
we could sometimes see as plainly as by daylight. British infantry
were holding the forest in front of us and a road that ran to right
of it. Their rifle-fire was steady as the roll of drums. These were
not the regiments that preceded us from India; they had been sent to
another section of the battle. These were men who had been in the
fighting from the first, and their wounded and the stretcher-bearers
were surprised to see us. No word of our arrival seemed to reach the
firing line as yet. Men were too busy to pass news.
Over our heads from a mile away, the British and French artillery
were sending a storm, of shells, and the enemy guns were answering
two for one. And besides that, into the forest, and into the trench
to the right of it that was being held by the British infantry there
was falling such a cataract of fire that it was not possible to
believe a man could live. Yet the answering rifle-fire never paused
for a second.
I learned afterward the name of the regiment in the end of the
trench nearest us. With these two eyes in the Hills I once saw that
same regiment run like a thousand hares into the night, because it
had no supper and a dozen Afridi marksmen had the range. Can the
sahib explain? I think I can. A man's spirit is no more in his belly
than in the cart that carries his belongings; yet, while he thinks
it is, his enemies all flourish.
We dismounted to rest the horses, and waited behind the forest until
it grew so dark that between the bursting of the star-shells a man
could not see his hand held out in front of him. Now and then a
stray shell chanced among us, but our casualties were very few. I
wondered greatly at the waste of ammunition. My ears ached with the
din, but there seemed more noise wrought than destruction. We had
begun to grow restless when an officer came galloping at last to
Colonel Kirby's side and gave him directions with much pointing and
waving of the arm.
Then Colonel Kirby summoned all our officers, and they rode back to
tell us what the plan was. The din was so great by this time that
they were obliged to explain anew to each four men in turn. This was
the plan:
The Germans, ignorant of our arrival, undoubtedly believed the
British infantry to be without support and were beginning to press
forward in the hope of winning through to the railway line. The
infantry on our right front, already overwhelmed by weight of
artillery fire, would be obliged to evacuate their trench and fall
back, thus imperiling the whole line, unless we could save the day.
Observe this, sahib: so--I make a drawing in the dust. Between the
trench here, and the forest there, was a space of level ground some
fifty or sixty yards wide. There was scarcely more than a furrow
across it to protect the riflemen--nothing at all that could stop a
horse. At a given signal the infantry were to draw aside from that
piece of level land, like a curtain drawn back along a rod, and we
were to charge through the gap thus made between them and the
forest. The shock of our charge and its unexpectedness were to serve
instead of numbers.
Fine old-fashioned tactics, sahib, that suited our mind well! There
had been plenty on the voyage, including Gooja Singh, who argued we
should all be turned into infantry as soon as we arrived, and we had
dreaded that. Each to his own. A horseman prefers to fight on
horseback with the weapons that he knows.
Perhaps the sahib has watched Sikh cavalry at night and wondered how
so many men and horses could keep so still. We had made but little
noise hitherto, but now our silence was that of night itself. We had
but one eye, one ear, one intellect among us. We were one! One with
the night and with the work ahead!
One red light swinging near the corner of the forest was to mean BE
READY! We were ready as the fuse is for the match! Two red lights
would mean that the sidewise movement by the infantry was under way.
Three lights swinging together were to be our signal to begin.
Sahib, I saw three red lights three thousand times between each
minute and the next!
The shell-fire increased from both sides. Where the British infantry
lay was such a lake of flame and din that the very earth seemed to
burst apart; yet the answering rifle-fire was steady--steady as the
roll of drums. Then we truly saw one red light, and "EK!" said we
all at once. EK means ONE, sahib, but it sounded like the opening of
a breech-block. "Mount!" ordered Colonel Kirby, and we mounted.
While I held my breath and watched for the second light I heard a
new noise behind me, different from the rest, and therefore audible--a
galloping horse and a challenge close at hand. I saw in the light
of a bursting shell a Sikh officer, close followed by a trooper on a
blown horse. I saw the officer ride to Colonel Kirby's side, rein in
his charger, and salute. At that instant there swung two red lights,
and "DO!" said the regiment. DO means TWO, sahib, but it sounded
like the thump of ordnance. "Draw sabers!" commanded Colonel Kirby,
and the rear ranks drew. The front-rank men had lances.
By the light of a star-shell I could plainly see the Sikh officer
and trooper. I recognized the charger--a beast with the devil in him
and the speed of wind. I recognized both men. I thought a shell must
have struck me. I must be dead and in a new world. I let my horse
edge nearer, not believing--until ears confirmed eyes. I heard
Colonel Kirby speak, very loud, indeed, as a man to whom good news
comes.
"Ranjoor Singh!" said he; and he took him by the hand and wrung it.
"Thank God!" he said, speaking from the heart as the British do at
times when they forget that others listen. "Thank God, old man!
You've come in the nick of time!"
So I was right, and my heart leapt in me. He was with us before the
blood ran! Every man in the squadron recognized him now, and I knew
every eye had watched to see Colonel Kirby draw saber and cut him
down, for habit of thought is harder to bend than a steel bar. But I
could feel the squadron coming round to my way of thinking as
Colonel Kirby continued talking to him, obviously making him an
explanation of our plan.
"Join your squadron, man--hurry!" I heard Colonel Kirby say at last,
for taking advantage of the darkness I had let my horse draw very
near to them. Now I had to rein back and make pretense that my horse
had been unruly, for Ranjoor Singh came riding toward us, showing
his teeth in a great grin, and Captain Fellowes with a word of
reproof thrown back to me spurred on to meet him.
"Hurrah, Major Ranjoor Singh!" said Captain Fellowes. "I'm damned
glad to see you!" That was a generous speech, sahib, from a man who
must now yield command of the squadron, but Captain Fellowes had a
heart like a bridegroom's always. He must always glory in the
squadron's luck, and he loved us better than himself. That was why
we loved him. They shook hands, and looked in each other's eyes.
Ranjoor Singh wheeled his charger. And in that same second we all
together saw three red lights swinging by the corner.
"TIN!" said we, with one voice. Tin means three, sahib, but it
sounded rather like the scream of a shell that leaves on its
journey.
My horse laid his ears back and dug his toes into the ground. A
trumpet sounded, and Colonel Kirby rose in his stirrups:
"Outram's Own!" he yelled, "by squadrons on number One--"
But the sahib would not be interested in the sequence of commands
that have small meaning to those not familiar with them. And who
shall describe what followed? Who shall tell the story of a charge
into the night, at an angle, into massed regiments of infantry
advancing one behind another at the double and taken by surprise?
The guns of both sides suddenly ceased firing. Even as I used my
spurs they ceased. How? Who am I that I should know? The British
guns, I suppose, from fear of slaying us, and the German guns from
fear of slaying Germans; but as to how, I know not. But the German
star-shells continued bursting overhead, and by that weird light
their oncoming infantry saw charging into them men they had never
seen before out of a picture-book!
God knows what tales they had been told about us Sikhs. I read their
faces as I rode. Fear is an ugly weapon, sahib, whose hilt is more
dangerous than its blade. If our officers had told us such tales
about Germans as their officers had told them about us, I think
perhaps we might have feared to charge.