The Ravi Lancers
Page 9
Next a tall man stood up, palms joined, and said, ‘Sowar Daulat Ram, C Squadron. The Lord Vishnu came to me in the night, and bade me give away all that I own and meditate by the banks of Holy Ganga for the next twenty years. I have spoken to the major-sahib asking for my release.’
Old Major Bholanath said, ‘And I bade you speak up in durbar that we may all know whether it is the god that calls you, or the war that affrights you.’
Warren listened intently. This you would hardly hear in a regular regiment, and certainly not when the regiment was actually on its way overseas.
Daulat Ram spoke earnestly to the men around him, his hands spread beseechingly: ‘I am not afraid, friends. You know me. I was happy as a sowar. My wife and children know nothing of this. But the god has spoken and I must obey.’
‘Let him go,’ one called, and another, ‘He is giving up his pay,’ and another, ‘Even if it be that he has no stomach for the war, let him go. We would not want his comradeship.’
The colonel listened a few moments longer and then held up his hand. ‘You may go, Daulat Ram. See the adjutant tomorrow ...’
Another man stood up. He had just received word that his father had died in the hills and he must go back at once for the burning, and to look after the land, but he would send his brother, who had served five years in the regiment, to take his place ...
Next, there was a rumour that the regiment would not receive batta as they were not Sirkar’s troops. Was this so?
Could the sowars be allowed to go barefoot when on stable sentry at night as they were much more comfortable that way than in army boots?
‘Also,’ the fat Quartermaster broke in seriously, ‘it will save wear and tear on the boots, which will last longer.’
The men chuckled at that one, and the colonel said, ‘Stable sentries may go barefoot as long as we are in India. But not once we land in France. You must remember that there it will be cold and wet much of the time. Also, we will be wearing thick serge uniforms, that are to be issued us when we reach Bombay, together with all our other war equipment... Next?’
It was over at last, and the sun had set as Warren walked back to the dak bungalow at Colonel Hanbury’s side. The colonel said, ‘A good durbar on the whole. These men need to be handled differently from ours, Bateman. They see no British police, commissioners, soldiers, and of course our law does not run here.’ He shook his head, ‘I hope General Glover does not insist on too much ...’ He did not finish his sentence. He went on, ‘As soon as you have had dinner, please get all the particulars of our entraining strengths, baggage weights, and so on. Tomorrow, early, ride to Pathankot to prepare for our entrainment, with the railway authorities. We shall arrive the day after tomorrow.’
He turned into his room, looking tired and old, as Warren saluted.
Late August 1914
Warren looked down the row of officers seated at a long table in the officers’ dining saloon, nodded at Krishna at the other end, and began his talk. ‘Very well, gentlemen. This is the ordinary way a table is laid for dinner. Take the glasses first. The small glass--this one--is for sherry, which is served with the soup. Then this ...’
The troopship rolled steadily north westward. Warren spoke on, thinking, most of them know all this already and even if they don’t, why should they be forced to comply with our customs? They were grown men, part of a civilization considerably older than the European. But yesterday, Brigadier-General ‘Rainbow’ Rogers, the senior officer on board, had seen Lieutenant Mahadeo, the ex-rissaldar, eating rice with his hand, and had told Colonel Hanbury to get his officers house-trained without delay. They were taking it very well, thanks mainly to Krishna Ram’s attitude--all except Flaherty, the Anglo-Indian, who was staring with a surly mien at the empty plate before him, his head bowed.
‘.. Take up knife and fork, like this ... Not like a dagger, Ishar Lall, more like a pencil... Try it, Flaherty.’
‘I’m not a desi, sir,’ the big man said sullenly. ‘I know how to use knives and forks.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Warren said, ‘and so do other officers here. Now please join us in our little exercise.’
He smiled slightly and Flaherty picked up his knife and fork with an ill grace. Warren thought, why is it not possible to work out behaviour proper to Indian gentlemen and see that the officers conform to that? Old Bholanath was muttering in Hindi, ‘This is a silly way to eat ...’
The prince broke in sharply, ‘You must not speak Hindi at table, uncle. Otherwise those of us who are not fluent in English will never become so.’
‘I’m sorry, Yuvraj,’ the old major said sweeping up his moustaches. ‘I am as stupid as a water buffalo.’ He spoke in Hindi.
Captain Sher Singh leaned across the table and said officiously to Puran Lall, ‘You should eat, even pretending, with the mouth closed, like Major Bateman-sahib showed us.’
‘Yes,’ Krishna Ram said, ‘but although the VCOs and men use the word “sahib” of us, we do not use it of ourselves.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Sher Singh said obsequiously, half bowing. Warren had noticed the slip and decided to speak to Sher Singh about it privately; but Krishna couldn’t stand the fellow, and now that Warren had known him for three weeks he could see why. Sher Singh, besides being effeminate, was a man who said yes sir, no sir, you’re marvellous sir, to your face, and the opposite behind your back. He and Pahlwan Ram were the problem officers of the regiment.
The SS Nerbudda ploughed on up the Red Sea. The temperature was 105 in the shade and the humidity 99 per cent. The Nerbudda’s speed through the water was eleven knots, which was precisely the speed of the following wind. The black smoke from the single funnel hung in a dense pall over the ship, cutting out the sun without reducing the heat. The hot-weather drill uniforms had been handed in at Bombay, and cold-weather serge issued. The results were so intolerable that even General Rogers, however grudgingly, had had to give permission for all ranks to appear in shirt sleeves at all meals and parades except officers’ dinner at night. Even so, large dark stains showed where everyone round the table was sweating, though the fans whirled noisily overhead.
The lesson in table etiquette finished, Warren said, ‘Now, gentlemen, we have a more delicate subject to go into ... how to use the WC. If you’ll follow Major Krishna Ram to the officers’ bathroom section on the main deck he’ll explain why. Carry on, Yuvraj.’
The officers filed out, Flaherty frowning and Mahadeo looking guilty. Warren lit his pipe and sat back, wiping his forehead. The reason for this embarrassing and insulting interlude was that an officer of the Royal Oxford Fusiliers, who were also on board, had complained that he had found one of the lavatory seats covered with shit. It was assumed that a Ravi officer was responsible, for were they not used to squatters? Was it not known that in first-class trains even educated Indians climbed up on to the seat and squatted there, often missing the bowl in consequence? After receiving the general’s order, Colonel Hanbury had talked it over with Warren and Krishna and decided to leave the explanations to the latter, as it would come better from him. It probably was Mahadeo, Warren thought, who had perhaps never even seen a seat-type lavatory, for Krishna had told him there were none in Ravi, not even in the palace, because his grandfather would not permit it. So now the officers were being shown how to defecate, and even to urinate, like Europeans. He prayed that none of the Fusilier officers would chance to go to the bathroom section while the lesson was going on. They found the ‘black sahibs’ funny enough without giving them more fuel for their prejudices.
Shikari stuck his head round the open door of the saloon. Warren pointed the stem of his pipe at him and said, ‘Out!’ The head quickly withdrew. He’s just trying it on, Warren thought. He’s intelligent enough to know that this is the dining room, where he’s never allowed. He was a bit of a nuisance on board, to tell the truth, what with the little special kennel that had to be made for him, the arrangements for his litter, the difficulty of exercising him.
The colonel of the Royal Oxford Fusiliers was walking up and down the deck, his hands behind his back. He saw Warren and called him over. ‘No, don’t put away your pipe ... You have some playful young officers in your regiment, don’t you, Bateman?’
Warren said carefully, ‘What do you mean, sir?’ Privately he thought, what have the Terrible Twins been doing now? The day after the troopship left Bombay they had managed to sound a false-alarm boat drill, and yesterday they had climbed the foremast and spent an hour jammed in the crow’s nest with the seaman on watch, to the immense rage of the captain.
The colonel said, ‘One of my officers went to sit down in his deck chair this morning, and it collapsed under him. He heard giggling nearby, and thought it was one or two of your people.’
‘It might have been, sir,’ Warren said. ‘Do you want me to investigate?’
‘Not officially, or I’d have spoken to Colonel Hanbury. I just wanted to tell you privately that this officer, and others, for that matter, don’t like being made fools of by black men. We are a regiment of British infantry, you know.’
‘Yes, sir. But ... our people are officers, too.’
‘Of course. Of course. But just see that they keep their tricks to themselves, will you? It’ll be better for everybody, in the long run.’ He nodded in sign of dismissal and Warren relit his pipe, which had gone out. He’d have to speak privately with Krishna Ram about this. It was a damned shame to treat the Terrible Twins differently just because they were Indians, yet ... there it was. He himself did not quite know how to handle the problems that came up, and he was living in this new situation. How much harder must it be for a red-faced captain of British infantry, long accustomed to think of all Indians as niggers, and even of the Indian Army regulars as Black Horse or Black Foot? He settled himself into a deck chair, first looking to see that it had not been tampered with, and dozed off.
At ten that night, soon after dinner was over, he set off on an inspection of the troop decks, making each squadron commander accompany him in turn. Though it was a little cooler on the upper decks as soon as the sun went down, in the troop decks it seemed just as hot, or hotter. A swell from the port side was making the ship roll steadily. The hot metal groaned rhythmically, and with the metal, the men jammed in the hammocks, all swinging slowly to and fro in the roll. Warren crawled under the rows of hammocks, every now and then sticking his head up between them, to peer by the light of the naked electric bulbs overhead, into the face of a sowar. ‘Are you all right, lad? Are you comfortable?’
‘I am well, sahib.’
‘Are you comfortable, son?’
‘It is hot, sahib. Otherwise, I am comfortable.’
‘Can you sleep?’
‘I have learned now, sahib. At first, I could not.’
‘Where are this man’s boots, Major Krishna Ram? They’re supposed to be on the deck under his hammock, with his lifejacket, in case of alarm.’
‘Rissaldar-sahib, where are this man’s boots ... ?’
The sweat poured down inside Warren’s shirt and off his forehead. A dismal groan sounded from nearby, followed by retching and the sound of pouring liquid. ‘There’ll be a lot of that tonight,’ he said. ‘See that the men clean it up themselves, at once. You’d better get the squadron sweepers on duty, too.’ To himself he thought, my God, you could cut the smell here with a knife--of digestive gases, garlic and curry farts, and the bodily odours of six hundred men compressed between steel decks barely seven feet apart.
Captain Himat Singh met him at the beginning of B Squadron’s area. He was trying to hold down his queasiness, and looked pale green in the light. Warren asked the same questions, made the same points. At the end he said, ‘These hammocks seem closer together than A’s. Closer than when I inspected the day after we sailed. Have you got some extra men in your section?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What is it then?’
The pale Himat Singh looked ever more unhappy. ‘It’s the gora paltan, the Fusiliers, sir ... Their company commander said we were occupying ten feet across the deck that was properly his.’
‘And you moved back?’
Himat Singh seemed to be searching for words before he finally said, ‘Yes, sir.’
They were talking stooped across the body of a sowar who may or may not have been asleep, the steel deck tight over their heads. Warren was furious. The bloody weakling, to let himself be bullied like that!
He controlled himself, and said, ‘You were wrong to do that. It’s not you who suffers, but your men. They hardly have room to breathe.’
‘I know, sir ... but he was a major and he was so definite.’
Warren sighed. ‘Listen ... you are not Himat Singh, an ordinary man like any other man in the street. You are the commander of B Squadron of the Ravi Lancers. Every time you speak you speak for a hundred men, who have no other voice. In whatever concerns them, speak louder, for they speak through you.’
Himat Singh hesitated a long time and then said, ‘Sir ... they have spoken.’
‘What do you mean?’ Warren said irritably.
‘They knew the extra ten feet across the ship really belongs to us, but when my rissaldar ...’
‘That’s Ram Lall, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir ... When he suggested I should complain to you, the men said No, that the gora log needed the space more than they did because they were not born to the heat, as we are.’
Warren said, ‘You mean you let your rissaldar and the sowars decide what to do? That’s not the way to command a squadron. You decide, and you order, and you see that your orders are obeyed...’
Himat Singh licked his lips and seemed about to say something more, but changed his mind, except to say, ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Well, I’ll sort this out tomorrow. We can’t do anything now.’
A gust of air, at first seeming like the breath of a furnace but still welcome as a change from the vomit-laden oven stillness in the troop decks, blew down the ventilator shafts. The ship was circling into the wind, and for the next twenty minutes would steam in the opposite direction, just to blow air through the hold, troop decks, and engine room. The manoeuvre was performed twice each day and twice each night, and without it many men would have died of heatstroke. Two privates of the Fusiliers were already dangerously ill from it.
Warren went on with his inspection of the squadrons. Then to the hold, heavy with the dense smell of manure and horse urine, and the stable sentries vomiting in the corners where the stable refuse was piled to be carried up long steel ladders, and thrown overboard every dawn. Then to the kitchens where the captain of the ship had grudgingly allotted some coal-burning range space for the use of the Ravi Lancers’ cooks. At last he had seen every man and every horse of the regiment, and it was nearly one o’clock. He found the officers’ saloon open, the blackout curtains drawn. Krishna Ram and Himat Singh were there, tall glasses beside them. He flopped into a chair at their table and ordered a chota peg.
Himat Singh jumped up immediately and said, ‘I’m just going to bed. Good night, sir.’ He hurried out, his head bent.
Warren stirred his drink and glanced at Krishna Ram. ‘What are you having? Nimbu pani? On a night like this you need something stronger. Not a damned breath of air, and still a hundred.’
‘Sir, I...’
‘I don’t mean it, Krishna. I know you don’t drink.’
‘Mr. Fleming warned me very strongly about the danger of drinking, sir ... My father drank a great deal. He drank himself to death, my mother says. But ... I’d like to drink with you, sir.’
‘Are you sure? Good. Steward, a chota peg for Major Krishna Ram here.’
When the drink was brought and Krishna had sipped it apprehensively, he muttered, ‘It’s not at all sweet, is it?’
‘It’s not meant to be. S
weet drinks are for women ... Why did Himat Singh leave in such a hurry?’
‘He was telling me about the affair of the troop deck space, sir. And what he had done, and not done. He is very ashamed of himself.’ Warren drank slowly. ‘He has no self confidence, that’s his trouble. He seems to be incapable of acting on his own initiative. He has to find out first what everyone else thinks. That’s no way to command troops, especially Indian troops.’
Krishna Ram hesitated just as Himat Singh had, at the end, in the troop decks; but he did at last find the words he wanted. ‘I think it’s our panchayat system. All important questions in our villages are decided by a panchayat, a council of five elders. They are advised by anyone who has special knowledge or interest, and that sometimes means the whole village. We really don’t have a single village headman as you do in British India.’
Warren nodded. ‘We found we had to have one man to deal with, who could be held responsible, and he had to be given authority to carry out the policy.’
‘Of course,’ Krishna Ram said hastily. ‘I am sure that works better ... but the panchayat is what our people are used to, and it’s very hard to make them change their attitudes. These things are in their minds, in their souls, sir, although they cannot easily speak about them--especially in English ... It is a hard job to change such attitudes.’
Warren said, ‘We don’t want to change them ... at least I don’t. I can’t see why it should be necessary to abolish your ways. Some of them just have to be put aside for the duration, because they don’t fit into a modern army or a modern war. Afterwards everyone can go back to the old ways.’
‘If we can, sir,’ Krishna Ram said, ‘and if we want to. We may have learned the European ways and found them better. I certainly hope so.’
‘You really do?’
‘Of course, sir. There is much that I would be sad to see the end of ... even panchayats ... but nothing will really change or improve until our ways of thinking are changed. Better education, for instance. Better health and more real medical care, not the old superstitions. Better care of women and babies. Sanitation, hygiene ..’