by Bali Rai
I nodded.
“I would need onions and garlic and something to spice the dish with,” I replied. “And we would need to prepare the chickens, of course.”
Monsieur Legrand eyed me with interest, watching as I spoke to the Captain.
“You ’ave some English?” he said in a thick accent.
“Some,” I said in my own strong accent.
“This is rare, no?” he added. “I met some Indian in 1915. They don’t speak well English.”
“Better than my French, sir,” I replied, and the two of us returned smiles.
“We would need onions and garlic,” Captain Ashdown told him.
“Ce n’est pas un probléme!” Legrand replied.
I may not have spoken French, but his meaning was clear.
“Do you have chillies?” I asked him. “Or spices?”
“Pardon?”
I looked to Captain Ashdown, but he simply shrugged.
“Chillies,” I said more slowly.
I thought hard and then decided to mimic someone who’d eaten something a little too spicy.
“Like this,” I said, waving a hand before my mouth and pretending to blow air.
When neither man reacted, I tried again, jumping up and down this time. Legrand and Captain Ashdown looked to each other and burst into laughter.
“Il entend les piments et épices,” the Captain finally said.
“Oui oui!” Legrand replied, clapping a meaty and calloused hand against my back. “You ’ave been fooled, yes?”
I shook my head and smiled. Captain Ashdown grinned.
“Sorry about that, old chap,” he said. “I couldn’t resist having a jape. Lovely impression of a Memsahib on her first day in Delhi, however!”
Legrand returned later with fat red chillies, onions and garlic, and green and black peppercorns. He had a young woman with him, his daughter perhaps, and some of the men suddenly discovered a greater interest in our conversation. The young woman wore a long grey dress and her head was covered with a blue scarf. She smiled at me, but said nothing else, as Legrand handed me his wares.
“This is all we have,” he told me. “Bon appétit!”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, “and miss, too.”
The two of them smiled once more, before going on their way.
“Careful,” teased Sadiq, “you’ll end up with French-speaking children!”
“Do not disrespect her that way,” I replied, “she could be our sister.”
Sadiq groaned.
“Calm down,” he replied. “It was only a joke.”
Sadiq was also a cook, both of us having learned from our mothers. He joined me, as we cleaned and portioned several chickens. I first removed the heads and feet, before cutting out the back bone and flattening each bird. Sadiq then cut each bird into eight parts – two breasts, two drumsticks, two thighs and two wings. Finally, we deskinned and deboned as many of the pieces as we could and threw the bones into pots. I began to chop up the garlic and onions, and some potatoes that had been left in the mess tent. Sadiq took oil and began to heat it, before crushing the peppercorns and chillies with a mortar and pestle, making a fiery paste.
“Some masala would be good,” he said, “but this will do.”
“It was decent of Monsieur Legrand to give us the chickens,” I replied. “We can make do.”
“As always, brother,” said Sadiq.
We fried the bones and then added water, a touch of the paste and some onion, in order to make a stock. This took about an hour, and in the meantime, we sat and joked and talked about our situation. Sergeant Buckingham entered the tent just as the stock was ready, and he sniffed the air.
“Oh dear,” he said, seemingly drunk again. “Smells like India…”
I shrugged and pointed at the chickens.
“Captain Ashdown asked that we cook something traditional,” I told him.
“Not my tradition,” the Sergeant snapped. “What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned chicken stew, Khan? I hadn’t counted on being this close to Blighty and continuing to eat that muck you people call food.”
I had no reply, so I waited for him to grow bored and leave. During that pause, I helped Sadiq to find three large pots and set the stock aside. Neither of us spoke. When Sergeant Buckingham finally left, I turned to Sadiq.
“He is always drunk,” I said, and Sadiq nodded.
“Who can blame him,” my friend replied, just as Mush walked in.
“Blame who, and for what?” Mush asked.
When I explained, Mush just laughed.
“How I would love to drink and forget this hell,” he said.
“But it would be haram,” I said, meaning impure. Muslims were forbidden from alcohol, although I knew many who ignored the rules.
Mush scoffed.
“And is this chicken halal?” he asked. “We are in Europe, Fazal. We cannot live by every rule. It is not possible.”
“I have not prayed once since Marseille,” Sadiq told us. “Does that make me less of a Muslim?”
“No,” I replied. “However, that cannot be helped. Drinking whiskey is something else.”
We continued to discuss things as we fried the rest of the onions, garlic and paste, with me guiding Mush. Eventually we threw in the pieces of chicken and potatoes, browned them slightly, and then added the stock.
“Smells good,” said Mush.
“Smells like home,” I replied.
“No,” Sadiq told me. “Nothing here smells of home.”
The Stuka bombers returned before we could try our chicken, with little warning. One minute we were joking around, the next we were rushing for cover, as two bombs exploded all about us. I did not consider my actions, nor hesitate. I bolted from the mess, and raced towards my mules, desperate to get them to safety. They were braying silently, and kicking out their legs, and it took some time to calm them. Another bomb exploded against the chateau and sent stone flying in all directions. Thankfully, we were out of range.
I untied the ropes, as Mush joined me, his face red and drenched in sweat.
“Hurry, brother!” he shouted. “There is another bomber overhead.”
Dragging my mules away from the house was hard work, and time and again, I slipped and fell over. But, Baba soon realised I was helping them and began to put in the effort required. The other two followed his lead, just as I had always done with my real grandfather. It was as though he was with me, guiding me to safety. In that moment, and despite the danger, I realised how much I missed his gruff voice.
At the boundary of the chateau grounds, I relaxed just a little. Even though we were in the open, the bombers seemed to be targeting the central area, around the chateau itself. My comrades were racing to join me, and then a fourth huge explosion rocked the chateau, completely destroying the frontage.
Then, just as quickly as they had arrived, the bombers vanished. I looked about for casualties, but miraculously there were none. Just dazed and confused men standing in shock, and Captain Ashdown leading a team of soldiers, making sure everyone was safe. I turned to my mules and saw them noiselessly braying, and for once, I was glad of their silence. I knelt facing eastwards, closed my eyes, thought of my family and said a quick prayer.
6
We lost fifteen animals, mostly mules and a few horses, several tents, and much equipment, but not a single man. In itself, that was amazing, but when I saw how close we’d come, I was flabbergasted. One of the four bombs had hit the ground about thirty yards from the nearest men. And not a single one was seriously hurt. There were some minor cuts and grazes, but that was all.
“We have been blessed this day,” Sadiq exclaimed. “Inshallah, we will escape this with our lives.”
Many of my comrades were checking their animals, and the rest cleared debris and rubble. The officers were huddled together as dusk fell, and I decided to walk by and listen to their conversation. I worried that they might shout as I approached, but they were too busy discussing somet
hing called Operation Dynamo.
“Stands to reason,” Sergeant Buckingham said. “That’s why they sent us north.”
“No,” Captain Ashdown replied. “Our original mission was to supply the defensive lines, to try and stop the German advance through Belgium.”
“I agree,” said Captain Morrow. “This is purely about circumstances. London has made this call on the hoof, and no mistake.”
“Well,” said Buckingham, “let’s not complain. I’m all for it.”
“But there’s nearly a quarter of a million men in France,” said Captain Ashdown. “How in the name of God can we evacuate them all? The Jerries are right on our tail and won’t just sit by and watch our escape.”
As they went on, I pretended to look for something through a pile of rubble, and then watched as they finished their meeting. Captain Ashdown spotted me and came across.
“Private Khan,” he said in a sombre tone. “I hope you weren’t eavesdropping.”
“No, sir,” I lied. “I was merely…”
“Oh, never mind,” said Ashdown. “You’ll find out soon enough. Was the mess tent hit?”
“No, sir,” I told him. “It is intact.”
“Good,” said the Captain. “Can you organise food for every man, within the next hour or so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And is there enough for tomorrow too?”
“There is more than enough,” I explained.
“Excellent,” he replied. “I’m awaiting orders, but it looks as though we’re moving out. I want everyone on standby to leave within an hour of the order. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Private?”
“Sir…?”
“I like you,” said Captain Ashdown. “You’re a decent chap and hardworking. But don’t ever lie to me again. It’s insubordinate and will serve you no good.”
“Yes, sir!”
I felt sheepish as he left, but I deserved it. Captain Ashdown was loyal and fair, and I had no right to lie to him.
Mush, Sadiq and I gathered our company, alongside Sergeants Buckingham and Davis’s. The men were served quickly, and ate quickly, as darkness drew in. No one commented on the chicken, not even Buckingham, because there was no mood for it. And no time, either. After supper, we worked by torch and candlelight, gathering our belongings and remaining equipment, and getting ready to decamp.
Most of the tents came down, leaving only a few into which most of the men were crammed. Not that we slept. We were too fearful of another bombing, and too apprehensive of the order to leave. None of us were map readers, but we knew that we’d almost reached the north-eastern coast of France. How could we push further, without reaching the sea? And once there, our backs to the Channel, we’d be sitting ducks for the Germans.
I recalled the word evacuate from the officers meeting I’d spied on and wondered what that meant. Where would we go? The only logical step would be east, into Northern Belgium, and into battle. Or west perhaps, and away from the German lines. The alternative was retreat to England, but that made no sense at all. It was a ridiculous notion. I grew fearful then, realising that we might be making a last stand at the coast, faced with a greater enemy, whose firepower and numbers outstripped our own. Two to one, Sid Smith had told me. I couldn’t help but think that our end was in sight.
And that thought sent shivers of dread coursing through my body.
In the morning, I heard a commotion, close to the chateau entrance. There was shouting at first, and then a whistle, followed by the sound of vehicles and at least one motorbike. Fearing the worst, and without a weapon, I armed myself with a hoof pick. It was short but had a sharp spike, and if any German came close enough, it would make a good weapon.
Only, I need not have worried. As I edged closer, I saw Captain Ashdown shaking hands with another British officer, one I had never seen before. The two men exchanged pleasantries, and then the gates opened, and five vehicles entered the compound. They parked side by side and about twenty or so weary-looking troops jumped out. They were wide-eyed and dirty, and immediately asked for water and bread. Captain Morrow called to me.
“Private Khan,” he said. “Any of that chicken left?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Then gather some others and make sure these soldiers are fed,” he ordered. “They’ve been fighting Jerry down the road.”
I nodded and assembled some of my comrades at the mess. We poured the food into bowls, sliced bread, and served it all with butter and water. The soldiers were 8th Battalion Worcestershire Regiment, and most of them seemed friendly as they plodded into the mess. I took charge, making sure each was given a fair share of food, before dishing up for the officers.
“Really good of you, Private,” said their captain, whose name was Haywood. “And rather spicy, too. Very agreeable.”
I left them to it, standing by the entrance. To my left, several of my fellow muleteers were talking in Punjabi, our native tongue. Eventually, a white soldier took exception.
“Here, here!” he called. “Let’s not be having that! Speak English!”
A couple of his friends agreed, but my comrades ignored his request.
“I said speak English!” he insisted. “You foreigners!”
He had dark hair, shaved close to his scalp, and his uniform was thick with dried mud. I glanced at Captain Ashdown, who consulted with Haywood, before coming over.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked the argumentative soldier.
“No, sir,” the soldier replied. “I just want to know what they’re talking about.”
“And why is that your concern?” asked Captain Ashdown.
“Because we’re not in India, sir,” the man replied, smirking at his friends.
Captain Ashdown sighed.
“Nor is this England,” he pointed out, “and yet, here we are, and not a French sentence to be had.”
“I don’t speak French,” the man replied. “We didn’t all get schooled, sir.”
By now, the entire mess had tuned in, including my fellow muleteers.
“I am not responsible for your misfortune,” Captain Ashdown told him. “But, I am responsible for my men. They have travelled thousands of miles to help our cause, and I will not see them disrespected. Is that clear, Private?”
The man bowed his head, his pale skin turning scarlet about the cheeks.
“Private?”
“Yes, sir,” he sheepishly replied.
“Excellent,” said Captain Ashdown. “Now finish your supper and get some rest. We’ve some hard days ahead of us and must stick together. No matter where we were born or schooled.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Private,” he added. “Should you smirk at me again, I shall recommend you for dishonourable discharge. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
7
Later that day, a member of 8th Battalion sought me out. I had walked down to the stream once more and was watching the sun glistening off the water. We had been ordered to head for Dunkirk, and I was killing time, my duties done. When I first saw the soldier, I thought he meant me harm, but I was wrong.
“I wanted to apologise for Watkins,” he said, holding out his hand.
I shook it and shrugged, as the man sat next to me and pulled out a tobacco pipe. He tapped it against a rock several times, before inspecting it.
“There is nothing to apologise for,” I replied. “He was tired, I’m sure.”
“He’s a pain in the backside,” said the man, filling his pipe. “You’re not the first person he’s insulted. We met some Senegalese chaps, fighting for Frenchie, and he took exception to them too. I’m Lieutenant Cummings, by the way.”
“Private Khan,” I replied. “Company 32 of Force K-6, Royal Indian Army Service Corps. Glad to meet you, sir.”
“Rehearsing for when we’re all taken prisoner?” joked Cummings.
“Is our situation so awful?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Cummings replied. “We’ve been fighting a rear-guard action for days. If we move any further north, we’ll become fish. We’ve sustained major losses – men and armaments, and the Germans have got the beating of us. The situation could not be more serious, Khan.”
“I was thinking the same thing, sir,” I admitted, as I watched a brown mouse scurry across the opposite bank and disappear into a hole at the foot of an ancient tree. “And I’m fearful of what lies ahead.”
“You’re being sent to Dunkirk?”
“Yes,” I told him. “After which, there is no land.”
“Can you swim, Private Khan?”
“A little,” I admitted. “Not enough to call it swimming.”
“Then, here’s hoping we don’t have to swim for it!” he jested.
He was tall and broad shouldered in his uniform, with sand-coloured, oiled hair and a wide, bulbous nose. His eyes were the palest blue I’d ever seen, and his forehead and cheeks freckled. His moustache was neat and clipped, and oiled too, and he had a deep pink scar across his left jawline. After a while, he spoke again.
“Always wondered what India was like.”
I smiled at him.
“It is a beautiful place, sir,” I told him. “My region is rich with fertile soil and plentiful rivers. And the weather is far better. The food, too, although you may disagree.”
“Where are you from?”
“Rawalpindi, in the north.”
“Ah,” he said. “I’m from the English Midlands. A place called Malvern Wells. I miss it.”
“I miss my home, too,” I replied.
“Wife, children?” asked Cummings.
“No,” I told him. “I am too young. You?”
Cummings seemed a little forlorn.
“My wife is called Ida, and we have Harry and James,” he replied. “And little Beatrice – she’s three years old. I fear that I may never see them again.”