‘He’s a very good trainer,’ Sher Singh said enthusiastically. ‘My God, I think we are lucky to have a sahib like Major Bateman! It is fortunate, really, that Colonel Hanbury died.’
‘I suppose so. He was an honest gentleman,’ Krishna said, ‘but...’ he shrugged.
‘Too old,’ Sher Singh finished for him. ‘But Major Bateman is a very strong man, he rides like, like ... one of these half-horse men ... like our own Indra-ji! He is ...’
The orderly appeared again: ‘Captain Doctor Sahib, lord.’ Ramaswami’s lantern-jawed black face appeared round the door under the battered and dirty military cap with the badge of the Indian Medical Service on awry. He did not salute but said, ‘Major Krishna Ram, I would like to speak to you.’
‘Come in. Sit down. Anything private?’
‘No.’ The doctor sat down waving away the wine Krishna offered him. ‘I don’t care who knows what I think. If they don’t like it they can only send me back to Madras and my gynaecological research and there’s nothing I would like more ... Something must be done about getting women and entertainment for the men here. It is not as though we were in the front line.’
‘God knows whether we ever will be, unless the general lets us go up as infantry,’ Krishna said. ‘This doesn’t seem to be a cavalry war. That charge at Poucelle succeeded because the front was fluid and because we took the Germans by surprise. Really I don’t think horsemen stand a chance against machine guns, and the number of machine guns being used is increasing as fast as they can be manufactured. And more barbed wire, which is fatal to cavalry ... So you advise, what?’
‘My medical advice is--start a regimental brothel somewhere close to the billet area.’
‘We always used to have one on manoeuvres,’ Sher Singh said. ‘You know that, we’d take out a dozen girls from Basohli. In the old days, before the British, we took girls along, too, when we were fighting Kangra or Chamba.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ Krishna Ram said. ‘Have you spoken to the CO about this?’
The doctor said, ‘No. He wouldn’t permit it, because the women would have to be white.’
‘He’s not like that,’ Krishna said.
The doctor said, ‘Perhaps he was not, once. But he is becoming so now.’
Krishna shook his head uneasily. This sort of talk among the Indian officers, behind the CO’s back, was not quite cricket, though not actually disloyal. Yet he ought to hear what the doctor had to say. He poured himself another glass of wine.
Ramaswami said, ‘That’s all. If something isn’t done about it soon--in a month or so--you may have serious trouble of some kind. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘If anyone can get the CO to agree, the prince can,’ Sher Singh said sententiously.
The doctor rose. He had kept his hat on all the time, and now gave an ungainly salute. ‘You have always taken alcohol?’
Krishna shook his head. The doctor said, ‘You’re drinking more than you should.’
‘I like the taste of it,’ Krishna said defensively, ‘and it does make me feel good, just a couple of drinks.’
‘You’re taking much more than a couple of drinks,’ the doctor said. ‘Liquor also serves to help a man push out of his mind something that is worrying him.’
He saluted again and was gone. ‘He has a nerve,’ Sher Singh said, indignantly, ‘speaking to you like that, highness! I mean--sir!’ Krishna drained his glass, ‘Oh, what the bloody hell does it matter? He is only a black Madrassi yoni doctor, a peerer-up of cunts.’ He poured himself another drink.
Next morning he awoke to a fuzzed head and a furred tongue, but after he had stripped and washed from head to toe in the ice cold water of a bucket, standing in the tiny back yard among derelict pea and tomato plants, he felt better. He dressed with care, praising Hanuman for the glasslike polish on his belt and riding boots and the chinstrap of his peaked cap. After examining his charger and its saddlery he went to the CO’s office, where he had been bidden to meet the acting divisional commander an hour before the King was due to arrive. The CO was already there and a few minutes later Brigadier-General ‘Rainbow’ Rogers rode up accompanied by a General Staff officer.
When he had dismounted he said, ‘Let’s go into your office a moment, Bateman. There are some matters I’d like to discuss before the King arrives. You come too, Krishna Ram.’ Warren Bateman led the way into his office. Warren said, ‘Congratulations, sir.’
The general looked down at the double row of medal ribbons on his left breast. ‘Oh, yes, it was in Divisional orders wasn’t it, about the Cross of Serbia, 5th Class. Pretty ribbon, isn’t it?’
’What are the rest, sir?’ Warren Bateman asked, with every appearance of enthusiastic interest. ‘I never had a chance to ask you on the Nerbudda.’ Krishna looked at his CO with veiled suspicion. Major Bateman was buttering the general up; for on the ship he had said more than once that Rogers was the only man in the army who had managed to amass even one row of ribbons without including a single campaign medal or decoration. And now he had reached two full rows--ten medals, and still not one for battle!
‘This is the MVO, of course,’ the general said, craning his neck eagerly at his own ribbons. ‘And this is the Legion d’Honneur. This is the Belgian Order of St. Leopold. This one’s Russian. This is an Italian order. I was Military Attaché in Rome in 1907. This one ...’--he went hurriedly on to the next, missing one--’This is the Order of Manoel. I had the honour of acting as Aide de Camp to His Majesty the King of Portugal when he came grouse shooting in Scotland in 1905.’ He straightened his back where he sat on the edge of the CO’s table, while the other two stood. ‘Talking of medals, your fellow who led the charge against the German guns at Poucelle is getting a DSO. Can’t remember these Indian names for the life of me.’
‘Captain Himat Singh,’ Major Bateman said. ‘That’s very good news, sir. Our first decoration.’
‘That’s the fellow. And some Indian medal for a few NCOs and troopers. The GSO has the names and details. His Majesty is going to present them this morning. I’m not getting anything, though the Corps Commander said in his dispatch that my plan was of great boldness ... How are you getting on, turning these Indians into officers and gentlemen, Bateman?’
‘Pretty well, I think, sir.’
‘Good. Everyone know how to use a WC decently now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Krishna cut in, ‘Though we have found that a good many of the French WCs are like the ones used in India.’ Warren looked at him sharply, and he was silent. He had, after all, not been asked for his opinion.
‘So they are,’ the general said. ‘Damned Frogs are as bad as Wogs! Ha ha ... Got rather a tricky situation in Longmont. I wish I could leave it till General Glover gets back--he ought to be fit again in another week--but I can’t. A couple of brothels have sprung up there, and we don’t want the sepoys and sowars going to them and getting ideas. I’ve told the Gurkhas, who are nearest, to put strong regimental police patrols into the place. You’d better do the same.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Warren said.
‘And the Fusiliers, sir?’ Krishna asked. ‘They’re closer than either us or the Gurkhas.’
The general looked at him in astonishment. ‘They’re British,’ he said. ‘No reason they shouldn’t patronize Frog whores. As long as we inspect the women regularly, which the RMO of the Fusiliers is doing ...’ He looked at his watch. ‘Half an hour to go. We’d better get ready.’
Major Bateman turned to Krishna as the general left, and snapped, ‘Find out who’s getting decorated. Have them lined up in front of the regiment, directly behind me, unless the GSO 1 orders it done some other way ... And if I want you to give your opinions to the general, I’ll ask you to.’ He strode out, his spurs clashing on the stone floor, before Krishna could speak.
For a moment he experienced an emotion new to him--a generalized anger which he could not point at any one person or thing. But, before it could build up, he was involved in the mounting splendour of an imperial review of a regiment of lancers. There was not the yellow and white of a parade at Basohli, nor the scarlet and blue and gold he had seen when the regulars marched past at Lahore, for the regiment was wearing khaki; but the leather belts and bandeliers winked in the winter sun, and the horses’ coats shone and the heads tossed and the bits jingled while the band played the march, and His Majesty smiled at him. Soon the white and gold enamel cross of the Distinguished Service Order gleamed on Himat Singh’s tunic, and Himat Singh stood a foot taller and rode like Arjun in the skies at the head of B Squadron; and Sowar Ajit Ram and Rissaldar Ram Lall wore the Indian Order of Merit, and half a dozen more the Indian Distinguished Service Medal.
To end the review, the regiment cantered past. From his post alone at the very back of them all, Krishna Ram saw the flanking guidons move past His Majesty standing in a big motor car, General Rogers at his side; then Warren riding to stand beside the car; then the leading squadron, his own old A under the young devil Ishar Lall, cantered past in a shaky line, to the music of
Bonny Dundee
. The ground shook to twenty-four hundred hoofs, the ends of six hundred turbans flew out in the wind, six hundred steel lance points glittered in the wintry sun. The rear rank of D Squadron passed His Majesty. Krishna’s trumpeter rode ahead on his right and Hanuman on his left. He raised the heavy sabre guard from his right thigh, brought it to his lips and, as he looked right, lowered the point out and down to the full extent of his right arm. He was looking straight into the eyes of the King, half hidden under the peak of his red-banded cap. A small man, he thought, but regal. The bearded lips parted in a half smile and one gloved hand touched the peak of the cap. Krishna snapped his eyes to the front, and brought his sabre back to attention. The point hovered in front of his right eye, moving slightly back and forth to the charger’s powerful motion. King of England, he thought. Emperor of India.
Four days later the Hindustan Division moved up the line and into the First Battle of St. Rambert. They were mown down by machine guns, failed to take their objectives, were cut to pieces by German artillery, were then counter-attacked and destroyed by German infantry in overwhelming numbers. Major-General Glover returned from sick leave the day after the debacle. Thirty-six hours later he sent for Warren Bateman and Krishna Ram. In the drawing room of the small chateau where his headquarters was established, the general said, ‘Sit down, both of you ... Do you know how many casualties the Lahore Brigade had at St. Rambert? ... 515 killed and 1,300 wounded. The 8th Brahmins were the worst hit--247 killed, 408 wounded, that’s 655 out of a total strength of 800. The other battalions have adequate reinforcement systems, but the Brahmins don’t, and we can’t post men to them from anywhere else. The brigade is due to go back up the line in three weeks or less, and it will be ready, except the Brahmins. There’s been no task for divisional cavalry since the war of movement ended and we settled into the trenches. I foresee no suitable task in the immediate future, either. You know I’m an infantryman--40th Pathans--but that’s the unfortunate fact ... I have received the Corps Commander’s approval to pull the 8th Brahmins out of the Lahore Brigade and keep them in divisional reserve until they can be built up--if ever. You will replace them in the Lahore Brigade ... fighting as infantry. This is what you asked General Rogers for, isn’t it, when he was acting for me?’
Krishna’s first feeling was of dismay ... to lose their beautiful horses, to trudge in the mud instead of riding in splendour. But for some weeks now, as the ambulances came endlessly past from the front, he had felt uneasily aware that he was not doing what he had come to France to do. Also, the horses suffered horribly when exposed to modern explosives. He himself had volunteered for this war, but they had not.
Beside him, Warren Bateman said, ‘Thank you, sir. It’ll take a little time to teach the men bayonet drill. We’ll need to be issued with infantry equipment. Otherwise I don’t think there’ll be any difficulties ... We’ll miss our horses, of course, but if we have to give them up to get into the fighting, we’re happy to do so.’
‘Good man!’ the general said heartily, ‘I knew I could rely on you ... And you, Yuvraj, I hope you’ll explain to your grandfather the necessity of this change.’
‘I will, sir. How long do you think we will be infantry?’
The general hesitated, then said, ‘It may be a long time. The Army Commander thinks that if the 8th Brahmins can’t be properly reinforced, they had better be sent back to India. So count on a long haul.’
‘That’s the only way to tackle a change as big as this,’ Warren said. ‘Is that all, sir?’
‘Yes. Brigadier-General Rogers is expecting you at his headquarters. Good luck.’
Warren Bateman sat at the head of the table in the back room of the estaminet, methodically carving up the piece of meat on his plate. It was supposed to be hare, shot by the Terrible Twins on a recent shoot a few miles farther south, but it had not been hung long enough to be tender. Blankets covered the window. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and dark; it was four days to Christmas. The officers, like the men, were eating dinner early, because the regiment was due to move up the line later that evening. A winter wind blew in under the warped door, and the stone flags chilled his feet even through the boots and thick socks he was wearing. Like the other officers he didn’t wear field boots now, only hobnailed infantry marching boots, or fur-lined boots sent out by friends and relatives--in his case by his sister Diana--and thick woollen socks knitted by the same loving womenfolk. The sowars had no relatives in England and he had long ago asked his mother to arrange something, a request which resulted in a flood of mittens and socks, of which he had ordered that the first allotments should go to Ramaswami for use in the RAP.
The rumble of lorries passing down the street was continuous, punctuated now and then by the tramp of marching men and the squeal of bagpipes or the thud of a drum to give the step. Some of the infantry sang
Tipperary
as they passed, some went by in silence.