The Ravi Lancers

by John Masters

  But running into the fellow in the lane just last week was an awkward business, for Fuller had come forward with hand outstretched crying, ‘Major Bateman! I heard you were back. I do hope your wound is not serious.’ Warren had taken the hand, because his mind hadn’t worked quickly enough, and the fellow had practically popped out of the hedge at him. But then he’d thought, this man’s a sodomite, like Sher Singh. He’s as bad as Young Marsh refusing to volunteer, as bad as the girls giving themselves away on Piccadilly. They were all in their way undermining the foundations of society. So he’d said stiffly, ‘Yes, my leg is almost healed now. Good evening,’ and strode on, as Fuller quickly stepped aside for him. He’d just caught the expression on Fuller’s face ... like a child slapped without warning. He’d believed that Warren was his friend, and now he’d been snubbed. Warren gritted his teeth: he wasn’t any bugger’s friend, or any loose woman’s, or any traitor’s.

  That was a bad evening, for he’d arrived home, his face grim, thinking of Fuller, and been met at the door by Joan, white, the light behind her, a telegram in her hand. ‘Tim’s dead,’ she said, ‘shot down over the German lines.’

  Tim was her second brother, recently transferred from the Green Howards to the Royal Flying Corps. Warren could think of nothing to say except, ‘He was doing his duty.’

  Then Joan did the extraordinary thing. She lifted her hand with the telegram in it and dashed it across his face as he stood there in the hall, crying, ‘To hell with duty! Don’t you see it’s destroying what it’s supposed to defend? And turning you all into animals. Worse--into machines! ‘

  She ran upstairs sobbing, her long hair trailing down her back. For a moment Warren thought he’d go up after her, and try to comfort her, but decided that in her present mood she would not accept his comforting.

  ‘I say, are you all right, sir?’

  It was the lieutenant opposite, looking at him with concern. He said shortly, ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘You cried out... in your sleep.’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep,’ he said gruffly. ‘Are we nearly there?’

  It was full dawn now, and the rising sun shone on rumpled fields, shattered buildings, and a huge barbed-wire enclosure holding thousands of tons of ammunition, and millions of boxes and crates, all geometrically divided by duckboarded walks and gravelled roads. Here and there tall lorries were being loaded by working parties. The train drew into St. Omer station. He was back at the war. He stood up with a sense of grim exhilaration. During these weeks lying in bed with his leg in traction, staring at the ceiling, thinking; during those days walking the lanes alone or with Diana--he had digested all that he had seen, at the front and in England. He had worked out what was right and what was wrong. He knew what he had to do.

  At the RTO’s office he found a message directing him to report to the Divisional commander before returning to his regiment, which was at Mennecy. An hour later he was with Major-General Glover, eating a breakfast served by khaki-clad waiters. The general said, ‘Had a good leave, I hope, Bateman.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course I was in bed the first part, which wasn’t much fun.’

  ‘It gave you time to think, though, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The reason I sent for you is that the 8th Brahmins are now nearly back to strength. They’re fit to take their place in the Lahore Brigade.’

  Warren said, ‘And we’d become the Divisional Cavalry again?’

  The general said, ‘No. A regiment of cavalry is absolutely useless to me in trench warfare, whereas I have found the Brahmins invaluable as an extra battalion in my hand, even in the state they’ve been in.’

  Warren thought, as divisional troops his regiment would spend most of its time guarding headquarters, or on fatigue duty, only occasionally being used in action. That was just what the Ravi Lancers did not need--to become semi-ceremonial dogsbodies and odd job men.

  He said, ‘I’d much rather we stayed in the Lahore Brigade, sir.’

  The general nodded. ‘I thought you’d say that. After your excellent showing at St. Rambert, General Rogers wouldn’t want to lose you, either. So we’ll leave it the way it is--you remain in the Lahore Brigade and the 8th Brahmins remain as divisional troops.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  The general began to talk of ibex shooting beyond the Karakorams.

  Warren arrived at Mennecy in the twilight, riding on top of a London bus, the inside full of Fusiliers returning from leave. He stepped down with his belongings, and the bus went on to the Fusiliers’ billets a mile farther south. It was eight o’clock and he asked the first sowar he saw where the officers’ mess was. The man peered at him and said, ‘Arfisar mess?’ He had not saluted and from the tone of his voice Warren realized that he thought it was a private of the Fusiliers who had accosted him. He was in shirt sleeves and wearing a Vaishnavi caste mark on his forehead. Warren said coldly, ‘What is your name, and squadron? I am the commanding officer.’

  The man straightened into salute. ‘I am sorry, sahib. I came with a draft only a month ago.’

  ‘Name and squadron,’ Warren insisted.

  ‘Gokal Ram, B Squadron, huzoor.’

  ‘Who gave you permission to wear a caste mark?’

  ‘It is permitted without special asking, sahib, every day after the last parade and the evening meal. It was much discussed at the last durbar--just after my draft came.’

  Warren said, ‘Show me the officers’ mess now.’

  The sowar led him up the street and pointed out a building at the far end. Like the previous mess, it had been an estaminet. He dismissed the man with an order to remove his caste mark at once, and entered the mess. In the big room the table was not laid, and no mess orderly answered his call, ‘Koi hai!’

  After waiting a few minutes in the dusk he went out the back. The mess dafadar was sitting on a bench in the yard, surrounded by the mess orderlies. They were playing cards by the light of a hurricane lantern set on the end of the bench.

  Warren called, ‘Dafadar! Here! ‘

  The dafadar nearly fell off the bench in his surprise and alarm. He grabbed up his turban, set it on his head, dusted off his tunic and came running. ‘What does the presence want?’

  ‘What time is dinner?’ Warren snapped.

  ‘Eight o’clock, sahib, but...’

  ‘It is past eight now. Why is it not served? Where are the officers?’

  ‘Sahib! ‘ The dafadar said nothing more, standing stiffly at attention.

  Warren said, ‘The officers do not eat in mess, is that it?’

  ‘Yes, sahib,’ the dafadar muttered.

  Warren said, ‘Send the orderlies to bring the officers here, all of them, at once. Tell the khansamah to cook a meal and serve it at eight-thirty, that’s in twenty-five minutes from now. Bring me a whisky and soda.’

  ‘Yes, sahib. Very good, sahib,’ the dafadar stammered.

  Warren turned on his heel and stalked into the building. He sat down, picked up the paper--a copy of the Times of India a month old--and began to read. The mess dafadar and a couple of orderlies scurried around lighting lamps, drawing curtains, dusting off the table, setting a cloth, laying the places, putting out glasses. A uniformed orderly brought him his drink. He eyed the man thoroughly, checking every detail of his dress, before accepting it. One by one the officers came, and each said, ‘Good evening, sir,’ as he entered, sometimes with a muttered word that they were glad to see him back. He noticed that they were all wearing turbans, which they took off and put on the little side table before they sat down. Then they waited, sitting, in silence. At half past eight Warren glanced at his watch, looked up, and said to Krishna Ram, ‘Is everyone here?’

  ‘Everyone except the doctor,’ Krishna said, ‘he has a man very sick he thinks he ought to stay near.’

  ‘Tell him from me to come here at once,’ Warren said.

  Krishna Ram went out. He’s the one responsible, Warren thought. A pleasant young man, but weak.
And being a prince of the blood, the natural ruler of these people, had made it more difficult for him. How could you expect backbone in someone who’s been given all he wanted, without his having to raise his finger, and practically worshipped as a god, since the cradle?

  Ten minutes later the doctor appeared, looking grim, followed by Krishna Ram. Warren stood up and said, ‘When I give an order, Captain Ramaswami, in future you will obey it without delay or question ... Dafadar, serve dinner.’

  They ate dinner in complete silence. Warren could feel the nervous tension building up, in the taut faces, the concentration on their food, the way first one and then another would drop his knife or fork on to his plate or knock over a glass.

  When the pudding plates had been cleared away and coffee served, Warren said, ‘Dafadar, leave the room. Allow no one to enter.’ He waited until the NCO had gone, then said, ‘Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? I would not normally raise disciplinary matters in the mess, since it is our home, but because some of these matters concern the mess itself, I will do so...’ He stared slowly from man to man round the table. ‘I have been gone just seven weeks. When I left you were eating in the mess like the officers and gentlemen you are supposed to be. Today I find you eating in your own rooms, like ... babus. What is the rule about dining in mess? ... You, Pahlwan Ram.’

  The dark-skinned lieutenant started and knocked over his coffee cup. ‘I taught you on the troopship,’ Warren said. ‘Speak up.’ Pahlwan Ram mumbled, ‘Bachelor officers and officers who do not have their wives present in the station will eat all meals in mess, except in action, when they may eat with their squadrons.’

  ‘Note the word will,’ Warren ground. ‘It does not say they may eat meals in mess, it says will. You have been commanding in my absence, Major Krishna Ram. What is your explanation of this state of affairs?’

  ‘Sir...’ Krishna began. Warren waited, his hands clenched on the table top. He’d give the young man such a wound that he’d carry it to his grave.

  ‘I have no excuse, sir,’ Krishna Ram said. ‘I permitted the officers to eat as and where they wished. It is not their fault but mine.’

  ‘We shall discuss this later,’ Warren said. ‘Another matter. Who gave the officers permission to wear turbans?’

  ‘I did, sir,’ Krishna said, ‘the caps make them conspicuous in action. And the turban is our normal headgear.’

  ‘Brigadier-General Rogers specifically ordered all officers to wear caps,’ Warren grated. ‘Has he rescinded that order?’

  ‘No, sir. But he’s seen us in turbans. He hasn’t said anything.’

  ‘Who gave the men permission to wear caste marks?’

  Krishna Ram said promptly, ‘I did, sir. It was discussed at...’

  ‘I know it was discussed at durbar,’ Warren said. ‘By God, this is not a woman’s social club but a regiment, a regiment of Indian cavalry!’ His voice rose and rasped. ‘What is to be done is not decided by everyone sitting round under a banyan tree like a lot of bloody Bengali villagers, but by the commanding officer! ‘

  ‘I was the commanding officer, sir,’ Krishna Ram said quietly.

  ‘You’re not now. Adjutant, rescind those orders tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dayal Ram said.

  Warren again circled the room with his glare. Only old Bholanath and young Krishna Ram met and held his eyes.

  He said, ‘Gentlemen, we are at war. This is already the bloodiest war in history and it has not yet begun to make its real demands on us. Last month the Germans used poisonous gas. Who knows what will come next? We must be prepared to face anything, endure anything! We are going to face death and mutilation not by the scores but by the hundreds, by the thousands. The Germans master themselves by brutal discipline and determination ... and we must match them. The greater the dangers, the more severe the obstacles at which we are going to put our spirit, the more we must train and discipline that spirit. Discipline is not to be slackened because we are at war ... but tightened. Men are not to be punished less severely for crimes, because life is hard--but more severely. We are fighting for our countries and our homes--but the last man shall die, the last village burn, the last blade of grass wither, before we admit defeat. We shall win, at any cost ... I shall inspect the regiment tomorrow, by squadrons, starting at five-thirty a.m. with A squadron. Field Service marching order. Men first, then billets, then stores.’

  He stood up and all the officers stood with him. He went out, as Krishna Ram barked, ‘Officers--salute!’ and told the mess dafadar to show him to his billet.

  But Warren found his orderly Narayan Singh waiting outside, holding Shikari by the collar. Narayan Singh saluted, smiling, and Shikari broke free and jumped up into Warren’s arms, whining and licking his face. ‘There, there,’ Warren said, ‘I’m back ... Good dog. You haven’t changed, have you? ... Down, now! Is this my billet? Good. Give the rissaldar-major-sahib my salaams.’

  ‘Jee-han, huzoor.’

  Next day Warren finished his inspection at four o’clock in the afternoon having been at it all day, except for a two-hour break for lunch and to deal with paper work. When he started he was already wearing on his sleeves the woven crown and star, for before he went to bed the adjutant had come with the news, supposed to have been given him at once but driven out of Dayal’s head by Warren’s reprimands, that he was gazetted a temporary lieutenant-colonel while in command of the Ravi Lancers; and Narayan had at once taken his tunic to the darzi.

  The inspection over, Warren went to the room at the back of the school where his office was set up, and summoned the second-in-command and the rissaldar-major. Then he began to put his notes on the inspection in order. The details--the number of rifles cord-worn or corroded; the state of the men’s boots and clothes; the condition of the webbing equipment and accoutrements--all these he had pointed out to the squadron commanders at the time, and Dayal Ram had made notes so that the deficiencies and defects could be pursued. Now he wanted to get clear in his own mind how he found the regiment. He had barely finished when the orderly announced Krishna Ram and the RM.

  They sat down--Krishna under a portrait of his grandfather in his robes as a Knight Commander of the Star of India that was always carried with the office files and records--and Warren began to speak, in Hindi for the benefit of the RM. ‘The general state of the regiment is good,’ he said. ‘B Squadron has more corroded rifles than any other--nearly double. Captain Himat Singh has been told to take as much care over that as he does over the discipline and training of his men. Dress and drill are good. Billets are generally clean though some men have not been using the latrines. I am issuing orders that any man found urinating or defecating anywhere but in the proper latrine will receive twenty-eight days Field Punishment No. 1. As you know, that means being tied to the wheel of a cart.’

  ‘That will be a great shame, sahib,’ the rissaldar-major said.

  ‘It will,’ Warren said grimly. ‘So, to avoid such shame, let the men learn to go to the latrine, whatever the weather or the time of day. This is not Bustiepore ... What I find lacking in the regiment is the offensive spirit. The bayonet practices I ordered in A and D Squadrons were weak-kneed and feeble. Those men wouldn’t have frightened a French housemaid, and they’re supposed to strike terror into the hearts of German infantry. Get back to what Sergeant Mackintosh taught us, which seems to have been forgotten since we proved it worked at St. Rambert ... In general, all standards must be tightened. Let no man get away with the slightest slackness in dress or deportment. Officers and VCOs will be saluted, at whatever distance they are seen, day and night. No excuse will be accepted. Any officer who does not take a man’s name for failing to salute him will be severely disciplined himself. You were from the Guides, sahib--we must make this regiment as uncompromising as the Guides.’

  ‘Jee-han, huzoor,’ the RM said stolidly.

  Warren turned to Krishna. ‘I want you to see that all desi customs and habits are purged, particularly among
the officers ... Now, I am issuing certain specific orders with the aim of tightening morale, and making the regiment a better fighting machine. First, I am forbidding the doctor to practise or talk about Vedic medicine. I should never have allowed it in the first place. It is nothing but superstitious mumbo-jumbo and it will no longer be tolerated. Second, I am trebling regimental police patrols, day and night, as long as we are in the rear area, to see that none of our men visit houses of prostitution in Longmont and elsewhere. No man is to be allowed out of the billet area without a signed chit from his squadron commander, authorizing him to go to a specific place for a specific purpose, and return by the shortest route. Venereal disease is very low ... only three in the whole regiment ... but that’s too many. Those three men, incidentally, are being transferred to the Service Corps. I will not have our men having any dealing with French women ... Finally, I am abolishing durbars for the duration of our stay in France. They are well suited to conditions of service in India but not to a great war in Europe. They breed dissension and allow the men to think that military orders can be discussed and changed to suit their conveniences or prejudices ... Any questions?’

  Krishna Ram said, ‘I think the men will miss the durbars very much, sir. They bring us all together.’

  ’Yes,’ Warren snapped, ‘for the purpose of rumour-mongering and gossip! I know it’s an old Indian Army custom. I believe the regular regiments are still holding them ... but this regiment is different. Give an inch and they take an ell, because they don’t have the same hard core of discipline as regiments with British officers. That’s all, rissaldar-major-sahib. Krishna Ram, will you stay, please.’