Books: Hira Singh
T >>
Talbot Mundy >> Hira Singh
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19
Numbers were as nothing that night. Speed, and shock, and
unexpectedness were ours, and lies had prepared us our reception. D
Squadron rode behind Ranjoor Singh like a storm in the night--swung
into line beside the other squadrons--and spurred forward as in a
dream. There was no shouting; no war-cry. We rode into the Germans
as I have seen wind cut into a forest in the hills--downward into
them, for once we had leapt the trench the ground sloped their way.
And they went down before us as we never had the chance of mowing
them again.
So, sahib, we proved our hearts--whether they were stout, and true,
as the British had believed, or false, as the Germans planned and
hoped. That was a night of nights--one of very few such, for the
mounted actions in this war have not been many. Hah! I have been
envied! I have been called opprobrious names by a sergeant of
British lancers, out of great jealousy! But that is the way of the
British. It happened later, when the trench fighting had settled
down in earnest and my regiment and his were waiting our turn behind
the lines. He and I sat together on a bench in a great tent, where
some French artists gave us good entertainment.
He offered me tobacco, which I do not use, and rum, which I do not
drink. He accepted sweetmeats from me. And he called me a name that
would make the sahib gulp, a word that I suppose he had picked up
from a barrack-sweeper on the Bengal side of India. Then he slapped
me on the back, and after that sat with his arm around me while the
entertainment lasted. When we left the tent he swore roundly at a
newcomer to the front for not saluting me, who am not entitled to
salute. That is the way of the British. But I was speaking of
Ranjoor Singh. Forgive me, sahib.
The horse his trooper-servant rode was blown and nearly useless, so
that the trooper died that night for lack of a pair of heels,
leaving us none to question as to Ranjoor Singh's late doings. But
Bagh, Ranjoor Singh's charger, being a marvel of a beast whom few
could ride but he, was fresh enough and Ranjoor Singh led us like a
whirlwind beckoning a storm. I judged his heart was on fire. He led
us slantwise into a tight-packed regiment. We rolled it over, and he
took us beyond that into another one. In the dark he re-formed us
(and few but he could have done that then)--lined us up again with
the other squadrons--and brought us back by the way we had come.
Then he took us the same road a second time against remnants of the
men who had withstood us and into yet another regiment that checked
and balked beyond. The Germans probably believed us ten times as
many as we truly were, for that one setback checked their advance
along the whole line.
Colonel Kirby led us, but I speak of Ranjoor Singh. I never once saw
Colonel Kirby until the fight was over and we were back again
resting our horses behind the trees while the roll was called.
Throughout the fight--and I have no idea whatever how long it
lasted--I kept an eye on Ranjoor Singh and spurred in his wake,
obeying the least motion of his saber. No, sahib, I myself did not
slay many men. It is the business of a non-commissioned man like me
to help his officers keep control, and I did what I might. I was
nearly killed by a wounded German officer who seized my bridle-rein;
but a trooper's lance took him in the throat and I rode on
untouched. For all I know that was the only danger I was in that
night.
A battle is a strange thing, sahib--like a dream. A man only knows
such part of it as crosses his own vision, and remembers but little
of that. What he does remember seldom tallies with what the others
saw. Talk with twenty of our regiment, and you may get twenty
different versions of what took place--yet not one man would have
lied to you, except perhaps here and there a little in the matter of
his own accomplishment. Doubtless the Germans have a thousand
different accounts of it.
I know this, and the world knows it: that night the Germans melted.
They were. Then they broke into parties and were not. We pursued
them as they ran. Suddenly the star-shells ceased from bursting
overhead, and out of black darkness I heard Colonel Kirby's voice
thundering an order. Then a trumpet blared. Then I heard Ranjoor
Singh's voice, high-pitched. Almost the next I knew we were halted
in the shadow of the trees again, calling low to one another,
friend's voice seeking friend's. We could scarcely hear the voices
for the thunder of artillery that had begun again; and whereas
formerly the German gun-fire had been greatest, now we thought the
British and French fire had the better of it. They had been re-
enforced, but I have no notion whence.
The infantry, that had drawn aside like a curtain to let us through,
had closed in again to the edge of the forest, and through the noise
of rifle-firing and artillery we caught presently the thunder of new
regiments advancing at the double. Thousands of our Indian infantry-
-those who had been in the trains behind us--were coming forward at
a run! God knows that was a night--to make a man glad he has lived!
It was not only the Germans who had not expected us. Now, sahib, for
the first time the British infantry began to understand who it was
who had come to their aid, and they began to sing--one song, all
together. The wounded sang it, too, and the stretcher-bearers. There
came a day when we had our own version of that song, but that night
it was new to us. We only caught a few words--the first words. The
sahib knows the words--the first few words? It was true we had come
a long, long way; but it choked us into silence to hear that
battered infantry acknowledge it.
Color and creed, sahib. What are color and creed? The world has
mistaken us Sikhs too long for a breed it can not understand. We
Sikhs be men, with the hearts of men; and that night we knew that
our hearts and theirs were one. Nor have I met since then the fire
that could destroy the knowledge, although efforts have been made,
and reasons shown me.
But my story is of Ranjoor Singh and of what he did. I but tell my
own part to throw more light on his. What I did is as nothing. Of
what he did, you shall be the judge--remembering this, that he who
does, and he who glories in the deed are one. Be attentive, sahib;
this is a tale of tales!
CHAPTER II
Can the die fall which side up it will? Nay, not if it be honest.
--EASTERN PROVERB.
Many a league our infantry advanced that night, the guns following,
getting the new range by a miracle each time they took new ground.
We went forward, too, at the cost of many casualties--too many in
proportion to the work we did. We were fired on in the darkness more
than once by our own infantry. We, who had lost but seventy-two men
killed and wounded in the charge, were short another hundred when
the day broke and nothing to the good by it.
Getting lost in the dark--falling into shell-holes--swooping down on
rear-guards that generally proved to have machine guns with them--
weary men on hungrier, wearier horses--the wonder is that a man rode
back to tell of it at dawn.
One-hundred-and-two-and-seventy were our casualties, and some two
hundred horses--some of the men so lightly wounded that they were
back in the ranks within the week. At dawn they sent us to the rear
to rest, we being too good a target for the enemy by daylight. Some
of us rode two to a horse. On our way to the camp the French had
pitched for us we passed through reenforcements coming from another
section of the front, who gave us the right of way, and we took the
salute of two divisions of French infantry who, I suppose, had been
told of the service we had rendered. Said I to Gooja Singh, who sat
on my horse's rump, his own beast being disemboweled, "Who speaks
now of a poor beginning?" said I.
"I would rather see the end!" said he. But he never saw the end.
Gooja Singh was ever too impatient of beginnings, and too sure what
the end ought to be, to make certain of the middle part. I have
known men on outpost duty so far-seeing that an enemy had them at
his mercy if only he could creep close enough. And such men are
always grumblers.
Gooja Singh led the grumbling now--he who had been first to prophesy
how we should be turned into infantry. They kept us at the rear, and
took away our horses--took even our spurs, making us drill with
unaccustomed weapons. And I think that the beginning of the new
distrust of Ranjoor Singh was in resentment at his patience with the
bayonet drill. We soldiers are like women, sahib, ever resentful of
the new--aye, like women in more ways than one; for whom we have
loved best we hate most when the change comes.
Once, at least a squadron of us had loved Ranjoor Singh to the
death. He was a Sikh of Sikhs. It had been our boast that fire could
not burn his courage nor love corrupt him, and I was still of that
mind; but not so the others. They began to remember how he had
stayed behind when we left India. We had all seen him in disguise,
in conversation with that German by the Delhi Gate. We knew how busy
he had been in the bazaars while the rumors flew. And the trooper
who had stayed behind with him, who had joined us with him at the
very instant of the charge that night, died in the charge; so that
there was none to give explanation of his conduct. Ranjoor Singh
himself was a very rock for silence. Our British officers said
nothing, doubtless not suspecting the distrust; for it was a byword
that Ranjoor Singh held the honor of the squadron in his hand. Yet
of all the squadron only the officers and I now trusted him--the
Sikh officers because they imitated the British; the British because
faith is a habit with them, once pledged, and I--God knows. There
were hours when I did distrust him--black hours, best forgotten.
The war settled down into a siege of trenches, and soon we were
given a section of a trench to hold. Little by little we grew wise
at the business of tossing explosives over blind banks--we, who
would rather have been at it with the lance and saber. Yet, can a
die fall which side up it will? Nay, not if it be honest! We were
there to help. We who had carried coal could shovel mud, and as time
went on we grumbled less.
But time hung heavy, and curiosity regarding Ranjoor Singh led from
one conjecture to another. At last Gooja Singh asked Captain
Fellowes, and he said that Ranjoor Singh had stayed behind to expose
a German plot--that having done so, he had hurried after us. That
explanation ought to have satisfied every one, and I think it did
for a time. But who could hide from such a man as Ranjoor Singh that
the squadron's faith in him was gone? That knowledge made him
savage. How should we know that he had been forbidden to tell us
what had kept him? When he set aside his pride and made us
overtures, there was no response; so his heart hardened in him.
Secrecy is good. Secrecy is better than all the lame explanations in
the world. But in this war there has been too much secrecy in the
wrong place. They should have let him line us up and tell us his
whole story. But later, when perhaps he might have done it, either
his pride was too great or his sense of obedience too tightly spun.
To this day he has never told us. Not that it matters.
The subtlest fool is the worst, and Gooja Singh's tongue did not
lack subtlety on occasion. He made it his business to remind the
squadron daily of its doubts, and I, who should have known better,
laughed at some of the things he said and agreed with others. One is
the fool who speaks with him who listens. I have never been rebuked
for it by Ranjoor Singh, and more than once since that day he has
seen fit to praise me; but in that hour when most he needed friends
I became his half-friend, which is worse than enemy. I never raised
my voice once in defense of him in those days.
Meanwhile Ranjoor Singh grew very wise at this trench warfare,
Colonel Kirby and the other British officers taking great comfort in
his cunning. It was he who led us to tie strings to the German wire
entanglements, which we then jerked from our trench, causing them to
lie awake and waste much ammunition. It was he who thought of
dressing turbans on the end of poles and thrusting them forward at
the hour before dawn when fear and chill and darkness have done
their worst work. That started a panic that cost the Germans eighty
men.
I think his leadership would have won the squadron back to love him.
I know it saved his life. We had all heard tales of how the British
soldiers in South Africa made short work of the officers they did
not love, and it would have been easy to make an end of Ranjoor
Singh on any dark night. But he led too well; men were afraid to
take the responsibility lest the others turn on them. One night I
overheard two troopers considering the thought, and they suspected I
had overheard. I said nothing, but they were afraid, as I knew they
would be. Has the sahib ever heard of "left-hand casualties"? I will
explain.
We Sikhs have a saying that in fear there is no wisdom. None can be
wise and afraid. None can be afraid and wise. The men at the front,
both Indian and British-French, too, for aught I know--who feared to
fight longer in the trenches were seized in those early days with
the foolish thought of inflicting some injury on themselves--not
very severe, but enough to cause a spell of absence at the base and
a rest in hospital. Folly being the substance of that idea, and most
men being right-handed, such self-inflicted wounds were practically
always in the hand or foot and always on the left side. The
ambulance men knew them, on the instant.
Those two fools of my squadron wounded themselves with bullets in
the left hand, forgetting that their palms would be burned by the
discharge. I was sent to the rear to give evidence against them (for
I saw them commit the foolishness). The cross-examination we all
three underwent was clever--at the hands of a young British captain,
who, I dare swear, was suckled by a Sikh nurse in the Punjab. In
less than thirty minutes he had the whole story out of us; and the
two troopers were shot that evening for an example.
That young captain was greatly impressed with the story we had told
about Ranjoor Singh, and he called me back afterward and asked me a
hundred questions more--until he must have known the very color of
my entrails and I knew not which way I faced. To all of this a
senior officer of the Intelligence Department listened with both
ears, and presently he and the captain talked together.
The long and short of that was that Ranjoor Singh was sent for; and
when he returned to the trench after two days' absence it was to
work independently of us--from our trench, but irrespective of our
doings. Even Colonel Kirby now had no orders to give him, although
they two talked long and at frequent intervals in the place Colonel
Kirby called his funk-hole. It was now that the squadron's
reawakening love for Ranjoor Singh received the worst check of any.
We had almost forgotten he knew German. Henceforward he conversed in
German each day with the enemy.
It is a strange thing, sahib,--not easy to explain--but I, who have
achieved some fluency in English and might therefore have admired
his gift of tongues, now began to doubt him in earnest--hating
myself the while, but doubting him. And Gooja Singh, who had talked
the most and dropped the blackest hints against him, now began to
take his side.
And Ranjoor Singh said nothing. Night after night he went to lie at
the point where our trench and the enemy's lay closest. There he
would talk with some one whom we never saw, while we sat shivering
in the mud. Cold we can endure, sahib, as readily as any; it is
colder in winter where I come from than anything I felt in Flanders;
but the rain and the mud depressed our spirits, until with these two
eyes I have seen grown men weeping.
They kept us at work to encourage us. Our spells in the trench were
shortened and our rests at the rear increased to the utmost
possible. Only Ranjoor Singh took no vacation, remaining ever on the
watch, passing from one trench to another, conversing ever with the
enemy.
We dug and they dug, each side laboring everlastingly to find the
other's listening places and to blow them up by means of mining, so
that the earth became a very rat-run. Above-ground, where were only
ruin and barbed wire, there was no sign of activity, but only a
great stench that came from bodies none dared bury. We were thankful
that the wind blew oftenest from us to them; but whichever way the
wind blew Ranjoor Singh knew no rest. He was ever to be found where
the lines lay closest at the moment, either listening or talking. We
understood very well that he was carrying out orders given him at
the rear, but that did not make the squadron or the regiment like
him any better, and as far as that went I was one with them; I hated
to see a squadron leader stoop to such intrigues.
It was plain enough that some sort of intrigue was making headway,
for the Germans soon began to toss over into our trench bundles of
printed pamphlets, explaining in our tongue why they were our best
friends and why therefore we should refuse to wage war on them. They
threw printed bulletins that said, in good Punjabi, there was
revolution from end to end of India, rioting in England, utter
disaster to the British fleet, and that our way home again to India
had been cut by the German war-ships. They must have been ignorant
of the fact that we received our mail from India regularly. I have
noticed this about the Germans: they are unable to convince
themselves that any other people can appreciate the same things they
appreciate, think as swiftly as they, or despise the terrors they
despise. That is one reason why they must lose this war. But there
are others also.
One afternoon, when I was pretending to doze in a niche near the
entrance to Colonel Kirby's funk-hole, I became possessed of the key
to it all; for Colonel Kirby's voice was raised more than once in
anger. I understood at last how Ranjoor Singh had orders to deceive
the Germans as to our state of mind. He was to make them believe we
were growing mutinous and that the leaven only needed time in which
to work; this of course for the purpose of throwing them off their
guard.
My heart stopped beating while I listened, for what man hears his
honor smirched without wincing? Even so I think I would have held my
tongue, only that Gooja Singh, who dozed in a niche on the other
side of the funk-hole entrance, heard the same as I.
Said Gooja Singh that evening to the troopers round about: "They
chose well," said he. "They picked a brave man--a clever man, for a
desperate venture!" And when the troopers asked what that might
mean, he asked how many of them in the Punjab had seen a goat tied
to a stake to lure a panther. The suggestion made them think. Then,
pretending to praise him, letting fall no word that could be thrown
back in his teeth, he condemned Ranjoor Singh for a worse traitor
than any had yet believed him. Gooja Singh was a man with a certain
subtlety. A man with two tongues, very dangerous.
"Ranjoor Singh is brave," said he, "for he is not afraid to
sacrifice us all. Many officers are afraid to lose too many men in
the gaining of an end, but not so he. He is clever, for who else
would have thought of making us seem despicable to the Germans in
order to tempt them to attack in force at this point? Have ye not
noticed how to our rear all is being made ready for the defense and
for a counter-attack to follow? We are the bait. The battle is to be
waged over our dead bodies."
I corrected him. I said I had heard as well as he, and that Colonel
Kirby was utterly angry at the defamation of those whom he was ever
pleased to call "his Sikhs." But that convinced nobody, although it
did the colonel sahib no harm in the regiment's opinion--not that he
needed advocates. We were all ready to die around Colonel Kirby at
any minute. Even Gooja Singh was ready to do that.
"Does the colonel sahib accept the situation?" one of the troopers
asked.
"Aye, for he must," said Gooja Singh; and I could not deny it.
"Ranjoor Singh went over his head and orders have come from the
rear." I could not deny that either, although I did not believe it.
How should I, or any one, know what passed after Ranjoor Singh had
been sent for by the Intelligence officers? I was his half-friend in
those days, sahib. Worse than his enemy--unwilling to take part
against him, yet unready to speak up in his defense. Doubtless my
silence went for consent among the troopers.
The end of the discussion found men unafraid. "If the colonel sahib
is willing to be bait," said they, "then so be we, but let us see to
it that none hang back." And so the whole regiment made up its mind
to die desperately, yet with many a sidewise glance at Ranjoor
Singh, who was watched more carefully than I think he guessed in
those days. If he had tried to slip back to the rear it would have
been the end of him. But he continued with us.
And all this while a great force gathered at our rear--gathered and
grew--Indian and British infantry. Guns by the fifty were brought
forward under cover of the night and placed in line behind us.
Ranjoor Singh continued talking with the enemy, lying belly downward
in the mud, and they kept throwing printed stuff to us that we
turned in to our officers. But the Germans did not attack. And the
force behind us grew.
Then one evening, just after dusk, we were all amazed by the news
that the assault was to come from our side. And almost before that
news had reached us the guns at our rear began their overture,
making preparation beyond the compass of a man's mind to grasp or
convey. They hurled such a torrent of shells that the Germans could
neither move away the troops in front of us nor bring up others to
their aid. It did not seem possible that one German could be left
alive, and I even felt jealous because, thought I, no work would be
left for us to do! Yet men did live--as we discovered. For a night
and a day our ordnance kept up that preparation, and then word went
around.
Who shall tell of a night attack, from a trench against trenches?
Suddenly the guns ceased pounding the earth in front of us and
lifted to make a screen of fire almost a mile beyond. There was
instant pitch darkness on every hand, and out of that a hundred
trumpets sounded. Instantly, each squadron leader leaped the
earthwork, shouting to his men. Ranjoor Singh leaped up in front of
us, and we followed him, all forgetting their distrust of him in the
fierce excitement--remembering only how he had led us in the charge
on that first night. The air was thick with din, and fumes, and
flying metal--for the Germans were not forgetting to use artillery.
I ceased to think of anything but going forward. Who shall describe
it?
Once in Bombay I heard a Christian preacher tell of the Judgment Day
to come, when graves shall give up their dead. That is not our Sikh
idea of judgment, but his words brought before my mind a picture
riot so much unlike a night attack in Flanders. He spoke of the
whole earth trembling and consumed by fire--of thunder and lightning
and a great long trumpet call--of the dead leaping alive again from
the graves where they lay buried. Not a poor picture, sahib, of a
night attack in Flanders!
The first line of German trenches, and the second had been pounded
out of being by our guns. The barbed wire had been cut into
fragments by our shrapnel. Here and there an arm or a leg protruded
from the ground--here and there a head. For two hundred yards and
perhaps more there was nothing to oppose us, except the enemy shells
bursting so constantly that we seemed to breathe splintered metal.
Yet very few were hit. The din was so great that it seemed to be
silence. We were phantom men, going forward without sound of
footfall. I could neither feel nor think for the first two hundred
yards, but ran with my bayonet out in front of me. And then I did
feel. A German bayonet barked my knuckles. After that there was
fighting such as I hope never to know again.
The Germans did not seem to have been taken by surprise at all. They
had made ample preparation. And as for holding us in contempt, they
gave no evidence of that. Their wounded were unwilling to surrender
because their officers had given out we would torture prisoners. We
had to pounce on them, and cut their buttons off and slit their
boots, so that they must use both hands to hold their trousers up
and could not run. And that took time so that we lagged behind a
little, for we took more prisoners than the regiments to right and
left of us. The Dogra regiment to our left and the Gurkha regiment
to our right gained on us fast, and we became, as it were, the
center of a new moon.
But then in the light of bursting shells we saw Colonel Kirby and
Ranjoor Singh and Captain Fellowes and some other officers far out
in front of us beckoning--calling on us for our greatest effort. We
answered. We swept forward after them into the teeth of all the
inventions in the world. Mine after mine exploded under our very
feet. Shrapnel burst among us. There began to be uncut wire, and men
rushed out at us from trenches that we thought obliterated, but that
proved only to have been hidden under debris by our gun-fire.
Shadows resolved into trenches defended by machine guns.
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19