Private's Progress (18 page)

After a month of desultory reading Stanley was added to the duty officer roster, but word came shortly that he was to go on to the Intelligence depot at
Chotanagar
. He went, on advice, to the Officers’ Shop and on his kit allowance fitted himself out with a fair
proportion
of the monstrous equippage traditionally
considered
necessary for travel and field operations in the East. There was a mighty bed-roll, with blankets and the heavy quilt, in a gaudy yellow, known as a
rezai.
His camp bed had a mahogany frame and was of considerable weight, but when he got into the train he became aware of the inadequacy of his outfit.

In the compartment was an Indian Army captain in a blue flannel shirt, and an Indian civilian gentleman. These were clearly connoisseurs of Indian travel. The former had, in addition to an array of tin trunks, two outsize vacuum flasks for hot and cold liquids, hampers of fruit and a Primus stove. The Indian civilian
gentleman
had brass pots of ghi and aromatic powders and sauces, a dangerous little spirit lamp, and a bottle of water, with which last he retired for an hour at dawn to the lavatory. In his waking hours he sat up on his bunk, feet tucked under him in the folds of white muslin with which he was swathed, nodding and smiling to himself behind his glasses—steel-rimmed, with pale-blue wool wrapped round the bridge.

The Indian officer, a Captain Khan, ignored him, spat cheerfully and frequently out of the window, and fried himself eggs. These he would from time to time offer to Stanley, and he conversed heartily, with curiously integrated English idioms.

“Vell, old boy,” he said. “You’re going to
Chotanagar
? It is damn awful place. Fifty-fourth Cavalry are there. They’re an absolute shower, old boy. Not enough bull, you know. It’s a terrible country. All backward, like Old Father Time over there. Don’t you agree, old boy? A few times doubling round the e-square would wake these johnnies up, eh? You have read Jorrocks? It is damn fine book. Do you mind my asking, old boy? Are you Escotch? My squadron commander, Major Laurie, he is Escotch, and a damn good chap. Do you play polo, old boy?”

At stops he would send off for strange sweetmeats and haggle over the price. When Stanley left the train at a
junction to join the narrow-gauge line to Chotanagar he rapidly organised three porters, rejecting summarily the first two to appear, gave Stanley a final fried egg rolled in a chupati and shook hands.

“Vell, old boy,” he said cheerfully, “here you are. Play hell with those bastards if they don’t stay with your kit till train leaves. Look in at my regiment if you ever come to Dahmpore, and remember to meet my cousin-brother Asan if you go on leave to Naini Tal. He is B.A. of Punjab University and military contractor.”

The Anglo-Indian engine-driver leaned out of the cab in his white topee, jerked the train a foot forward to throw off any hesitant hangers-on, and the great express steamed slowly out.

The friendly brown features of Captain Khan
projected
from the window.

“
Salaam
aliakam,
old boy,” he called. “Keep off the Nasik whisky. Only drink Escotch.”

The cantonment at Chotanagar was a more settled and opulent place than the war-expanded shanty town at Delhi. A number of spacious stone-built barracks and messes graced the cantonment, and around them grew large and shady trees. From the Clive Hospital at one end to the white houses of the richer contractors at the far fringe, it was well established and contented. The Indian cavalry lines were less well appointed and Captain Khan must have been disgusted at the lack of a polo ground. The bazaar was compact and
uninteresting
, and between these two areas lay two cinemas, the Elphinstone and the Bijou, both with corrugated iron roofs and with one projector apiece, so that in each
there was a ten-minute interval, halfway through a film, for the reels to be changed. They changed their programmes daily, showing Indian films on alternate days. Sometimes an advertising procession for an Indian epic would pass Stanley’s verandah. A man playing Eastern music uninhibitedly on a saxophone, would be followed by a bicycle-wheeled barrow
exhibiting
posters, behind which came two other men with drums, crying their wares. Once they brought an elephant past, too, a man riding on its neck, and the animal’s sides and rump covered, as if a perambulating grey blackboard, with chalked exhortations in the Devanagri script.

Stanley, like every other officer on the station, became a constant cinemagoer, and from the two-rupee basket chairs saw an endless round of Westerns and Technicolor musicals, enlivened by enthusiastic whistles and appreciative cries of “Woor!” from the British Other Ranks in front.

Then, on the day that Stanley’s pay statement came through from England, news came of the atom bomb.

On the surrender of the Japanese the draft of
translators
was gathered together and packed off to busy themselves in interrogations and the preparation of War Criminal trials. But Stanley was destined never to join them. With the characteristic fortune of a man forever singled out to be left on the fringes, the Depot letter announcing to G.H.Q. Stanley’s availability and qualifications disappeared in a minor train robbery. A duplicate sent later was accidentally used by a staff cautain to jam open an office door at Delhi.

Stanley himself ate some suspect mangoes, contracted dysentery, and spent two months worsening and then recovering under the ever-turning fans of the Clive Hospital. From here he emerged considerably thinner, and after a month on duties so light as to appear pointless, sent in an application for a Class B release.

A
FTER
S
TANLEY’S APPLICATION
for release was submitted the Depot at once began employing him intensively while it had the chance. He was immediately appointed health officer and became inmersed in
problems
on cookhouse wire-mesh doors and the spraying of stagnant water. His turn for orderly officer seemed to come round rather more frequently, and often at weekends. Thus it was that he came to be duty officer on a certain Saturday night. The duties of the orderly officer at the Chotanagar Depot were irritating but not onerous, except for a drive with the ration truck to the market at six-fifteen in the morning. Stanley closed his eyes during the ride in the big Ford while the Scots driver, foot hard down, skimmed through a bemused and sleepy bazaar, poking his head out and shrieking:
“
Oot
the
way
,
ye
hoor, y
e!
”
In the evening there was guard mounting, with a peculiarly helpless intellectual sergeant, and at ten this man reported to Stanley: “Sir, there’s a truck gone from the vehicle lines.”

Stanley paraded the entire guard and sent them to look for it, but at eleven the truck came back, edging into the lines between two of the mud huts known as “bashas”. Two men got out, and these the sergeant brought to Stanley.

“Isles and Bailey, sir,” he said.

“What’s the explanation?” asked Stanley.

The man Isles, a large shifty fellow, began in an engaging tone.

“See, what it was, sir, if you don’t mind me saying, this was my truck, being I’m a driver and seeing I was being posted tomorrow I thought I’d have a last run, and my mate come too. I loved that truck, sir. I looked after it….”

Stanley interrupted with difficulty.

“What about you?” he said to Bailey.

“Same as ’im, sir,” he said.

“But you weren’t the driver too?”

“No, like ’e said, sir.”

“No,” put in Isles, resting his hands now on the table. “No, I
loved
that truck. I said to Private Bailey here, ‘Franky,’ I said, ‘I just got to ’ave a last run out. Won’t do no ’arm.’ And, sir, I brought it back after all.”

The intellectual sergeant behind them was alternately raising his eyes heavenwards in despairing gestures and smiling and shaking his head at Stanley.

“Put them in the Guard-Room,” said Stanley.

“Sir, if I might say, my posting——” began Isles.

“Keep quiet,” said Stanley. “March them away.”

And in the morning he reported the thing to the assistant adjutant, who was thinking of Esther Williams at the Elphinstone cinema the previous night, and answered neglectingly. The Sunday went by sleepily, with Isles and Bailey peeling potatoes and Stanley pleased at his energy and decisiveness.

On the Monday morning the adjutant, just back from leave, looked at the list for C.O.’s Orders, leapt up and roared for Stanley.

“Where’ve you been?” he shouted furiously, when Stanley arrived at the headquarters. “What? Having a
bath
?
You’re a bloody fool, that’s what you are.”

“Sir?” said Stanley. “But I always have a bath in the mornings.”

“Not that,” shouted the adjutant. “These two men you put in the Guard-Room. Do you know what you’ve done? We’ve been trying to get rid of these horrible men for months; they cause nothing but trouble. I had it all fixed for them to go on a draft yesterday to Malaya and now you’ve ballsed up the whole issue.”

“They said they were being posted,” agreed Stanley.

“They
told
you?” the adjutant exploded afresh. “You
knew
?
Well, why the hell didn’t you bloody well get them packed off and send the charge on with them. What a prize clot! If you knew the trouble we had getting a unit to take them. We’ve hardly dared breathe in case something stopped it. Well, you just bloody well go with them to Calcutta and bloody well catch up their bloody draft, and if they’ve embarked and gone off from there by boat, bloody well wait till the next boat and take them to Malaya, but deliver them you shall. Get the orderly-room sergeant to make out a warrant for you. Off you go, quick. The C.O.’s swearing blue bloody murder about it. And if they ever come back you’ll damned well take them back again.”

Stanley went off dismally and packed a grip. He had only twenty rupees and tried to borrow some money, but it was nearly the end of the month and such lieutenants as were in were stricken with a dire poverty. There was no time to search further, for his train left in an hour and there was a truck to the station to be ordered.

Outside the guardroom Isles and Bailey saluted him cheerfully.

“’Ullo, sir,” said Isles. “You coming, too? Fancy.”

“Morry and me are all packed up ready, sir,” said Bailey.

“Shut up, both of you,” said Stanley.

He had a first-class warrant, while they were to go second-class, and there thus seemed no way of being an effective escort, even though they were under arrest. For the four-hour trip on the narrow gauge to the junction they sat in the same carriage as Stanley,
whistling
vigorously, but when they changed to the express their ways parted.

“You are each responsible for each other, remember,” Stanley told them when they had settled in a carriage, and was going back to his own when they said:

“Sir, what about grub, sir?”

“Buy it,” said Stanley, annoyed with them.

“Sir, we got no ready, eh, Franky? Not enough for snouts, let alone dinners and that. All we got from the cookhouse is these sandwiches and we’ve got ’ow long, ’ave we?”

“Till Wednesday morning,” said Stanley.

He gave them ten of his rupees and went back to his carriage. From time to time on the two-day journey Stanley went along the train at stops to see if they were still there. At first he could not locate them, but he found they had moved into another carriage farther along, with two W.A.C.I.s, and seemed to be having a party. The blinds were down, but he looked in the
door-window
, and was greeted by Isles, who smelt strongly of spirits. The W.A.C.I.s had a gramophone, and Bailey
was dancing slinkily in the confined floor space with one of them. Stanley thought it better to leave them. He would, in any case, have found difficulty in making himself heard.

At eight the next morning Bailey, with a black eye, stood outside his door and saluted. The W.A.C.I.s had left the train in the night.

“Sir,” said Bailey. “We got no breakfast.”

Stanley remembered regretfully the lectures on Feeding the Men First and gloomily parted with three rupees eight annas.

“That’s the lot,” he announced. “You damn well fend for yourselves on this. There’s no more to come.”

“Sir,” acknowledged Bailey, saluting gracefully.

Stanley lived for the next twenty-four hours on bananas and dry bread.

The express finally pulled into Howrah Station at Calcutta two hours late. The three of them, famished, with a total of twelve annas, lugged their kit to the R.T.O.’s office. Isles had lost his steel helmet, and Bailey a haversack, but Stanley was relieved to see that they still had their rifles.

“Transit camp?” said the R.T.O. “Nothing laid on at the moment. How many blokes have you got? B.O.R.s or I.O.R.s? Well, take them into the
compound
and I’ll see about a truck. There are riots on; everyone has to go by truck.”

Stanley took the two defaulters into a temporary wired compound by the station entrance and they sat waiting on sandbags.

“Cheeses you, don’it?” remarked Isles. “Roll on pay day. ’Ere, sir, ’ow long do we wait ’ere?”

“I don’t know,” said Stanley.

“I dunno what the panic is,” said Isles. “They
always
’ave bloody riots ’ere.”

“The —— wogs go on riot,” said Bailey. “So we got to wait ’ere till ’alfway Christmas for some —— truck. Innit all right?”

“
And
no breakfast,” put in Isles.

The compound was full of Indian Other Ranks, chatting to each other round piles of equipment.

After an hour there were no trucks, and Stanley went up to one of the Indian sentries at the gate.

“Is there some officer I could get in touch with?” he asked.

The sentry grinned helpfully and came to
attention
.

“Sahib?”

Stanley repeated it.

“Sahib
,
no
malam,”
said the sentry.

“R.T.O. then?” asked Stanley.

“
R
.
T
.
O
.
sahib
gaya
.”
The sentry waved vaguely. “
Gaya
.”

“—— roll on,” said Isles. “Gorn orf somewhere.”

“Owbout us getting the stuff round ourselves?” suggested Bailey. “Only my stomach …”

“I think that’s a good idea,” said Stanley.

The sentry reluctantly let them out and they hunted for civilian transport. All the tonga drivers were contemptuous of the twelve annas. One spat.

“Well, I can’t see no —— riot,” said Isles.

Sandbags were piled outside one or two of the station offices, but the life of the city seemed to be going on uninterrupted around them.

Finally they spotted an old man with a two-wheeled handcart. Isles and Bailey immediately went across and dumped their kit in it.

“Gillo, grandad,” said Isles. “Up the old transit camp.”

The old man began a slow and dignified
expostulation
, but Isles waved the twelve annas at him, saying “Dekko, dekko”, and the old man nodded gravely, turned the barrow round and began pushing. The three white men walked behind, hungry and hot, but the old man’s pace slackened and they all three lent a hand with the pushing.

In time the people in the streets thinned out and they found themselves approaching a throng of white-clad Indians in Gandhi caps at a street crossing, all facing towards the left. They appeared to be the back of an audience, and as the party approached they could hear snatches of a voice, out of sight down the side street, haranguing.

The old man began protesting vigorously and trying to tug the barrow back, but Isles and Bailey, avid for a cookhouse breakfast in the transit camp, overrode this and continued to push. As they came nearer, Stanley noticed that all the shops were closed and heavily shuttered. The old man was mumbling fearfully, half distracted, but Isles and Bailey pushed on unperturbed, apart from an occasional “Jibberao, for Christ’s sake” in soldier’s Urdu, to silence the old man, and at the edge of the crowd they began calling out “Excuse me! Mindger backs”, and then, “Out the —— way, you black bastards.” They pushed in complete unconcern through the interminable mass of men, who were
absorbed by the speaker, and who for the most part fell back automatically, if a little testily.

Stanley’s apprehension grew, but in time they worked their way right through, and beyond into more
shuttered
streets. The old man now began pushing again, very vigorously, looking over his shoulder, anxious to get clear. They emerged into the broad, shabby boulevards of a military area, and after a while the old man pointed to a group of buildings and said, “
Trunsicump
, trunsicump.”

“Oh, so that’s it,” said Isles. “What an ’orrible sight. Still, be some grub.”

They removed their kit from the barrow at the gate and gave the old man his annas. Stanley, footsore now, went into the headquarters block and sweated up the stairs with the documents. The adjutant was not in, but the duty officer was found.

“Two bodies?” said the duty officer. “Fair enough.”

He called for a sergeant-major and indicated the two men sitting on their kit bags below.

“I don’t know if they shouldn’t go under close arrest,” said Stanley. “You’ll see there’s a charge-sheet for them included.”

“Ah, yes,” said the duty officer. “We’ll see about it. O.K., I’ll shove ’em in. Where are you going to stay, old boy? Not here, if I were you. Everyone stays at the Splendid.”

“Well,” said Stanley. “I’ve no money.”

“Bad luck, old boy,” commiserated the orderly officer. “Best thing is to contact the field cashier at Fort William. When you get to the Splendid contact Charlie and he’ll fix you up.”

“But I ought to get back,” said Stanley. “My adjutant …”

“Why the hurry, old boy?” The duty officer waved a languid hand. “
Ma
ñ
ana
.
Why not stay a couple of days? There are the riots, you know. Perfectly good excuse. Well, all the best.”

Stanley said good-bye, passed Isles and Bailey
hurriedly
, glad to be rid of them, and went out of the gates to look for a conveyance to Fort William. The old man with the barrow was still there, leaning exhausted on its handles. When he saw Stanley he came over and began:

“Sahib,
ek
rupee.”

“Oh, go away, for God’s sake,” said Stanley,
conscious
only of his stomach. But the old man persisted, all traces of fatigue gone, salaaming with one hand and tugging Stanley’s sleeve with the other.

“Sahib,
ek
rupee.”

He seemed to be asking an extra rupee for Stanley’s grip having been on the barrow too.

“Do you take it I was an extra passenger?” said Stanley, irritably. “
Jao
,
jao
.
I helped push your wretched barrow part of the way.”

He looked about hopelessly for a tonga or a taxi. Though there were riots in some parts of the city, and military traffic was limited, the place was big enough for life to go on normally in other parts, and indeed, there were taxis passing, all old, open American touring cars, driven with
é
lan
by turbaned, bearded Sikhs. Stanley finally saw one empty and hailed it. As he jumped in the back seat with his grip, the old man
released
his hold and began roaring at two urchins
whom he had suddenly noticed trying to prise the solid rubber tyres off his barrow’s wheels.

“Fort William, please,” said Stanley, and the Sikh shot forward and droned at fifty miles an hour down the road.

The field cashier advanced Stanley two hundred rupees and he emerged from the fort to pay the huge Sikh, waiting vigilantly by his car.