WAR TRAINING (_Continued_)
The new pigeons gradually learnt to fly further and further away from
the house as day followed day. At the end of a month they were taken a
distance of fifty miles and more and uncaged, and with the exception of
two who apparently fled home to their previous owner, all returned to
me under Gay-Neck's leadership.
The question of an undisputed leadership was not an easy one to settle.
In fact a serious battle had to be fought out between Gay-Neck and two
new males, Hira and Jahore. The last named was a pure black tumbler.
His feathers shone like panther's fur. He was gentle and not fierce,
yet he refused to submit to Gay-Neck's leadership of the entire flock.
You know how quarrelsome and full of display carriers generally are.
On my roof all the carrier males used to strut, coo and talk as if
each one of them was the monarch of all he surveyed. If Gay-Neck
thought himself Napoleon, Hira (Diamond), the white carrier,--(as
white "as the core of sunlight," to express it poetically)--considered
himself Alexander the Great, while Jahore (Black Diamond), though not
a carrier, let it be known that he was Julius Cæsar and Marshal Foch
rolled in one. Besides those three, there were other conceited males,
but they had already been beaten in battle by one or the other of the
above three. Now it was necessary to fight out the question of absolute
leadership of the entire flock.
One day Hira was seen preening his wings and talking nonsense in the
presence of _Mrs._ Jahore, a beautiful jet black creature with eyes red
as bloodstone. Matters had hardly gone any distance when from nowhere
came Jahore and fell up on Hira. The latter was so infuriated that he
fought like a fiend. Beak against beak, feet against feet, and wings
pitted against wings. All the other pigeons fled from the ring where
the two males were engaged in trouncing each other. Gay-Neck stood
over them, calm as an umpire over a tennis match. At last, after half
a dozen set-tos, Hira won. Puffing himself to the uttermost limits of
his conceit, he went over to _Mrs._ Jahore as much as to say: "Madame,
your husband is a coward. Behold what a fine fellow I am, Buk, bukoom,
kumkum." She gave him one crushing look of contempt, and flapping her
wings withdrew to her husband in their home. Hira looked crestfallen
and sulky in turn, then in a sudden paroxysm of anger he fell upon
Gay-Neck tooth and nail. The latter, taken unaware, was very nearly
knocked out at the first fury of the attack. Hira pecked and slapped
him till he felt too dizzy to stand up, so Gay-Neck ran away pursued
by the mad fellow. They ran in a circle, spinning like two tops, I
could hardly see which was pursuer, and which pursued. They went at
such high speed that I could not see when they stopped and started to
peck and slap each other. The explosive sound of wing hitting wing
filled the air with an ominous clamour. Now feathers began to fly in
every direction. Suddenly, beak to beak and claw in claw they wrestled
and spun on the floor--two birds become one single incarnation of
fury. Seeing that they could not reach any decision that way, Gay-Neck
extricated himself from his rival's grip and flew up in the air. Hira
followed flapping his wings tremendously fast. About three feet above
the ground Gay-Neck put his claws like talons around Hira's windpipe,
and set to squeezing it more and more tightly, and at the same time
kept up a terrific cannonade of wing-beats, that like flails of steel
threshed out a shower of snowy feathers from his opponent's body. Now,
hid in that falling blizzard of feathers, the two rolled on the ground,
pecking one another with the virulence of two maddened serpents. At
last Hira let go and wilted like a torn white flower on the floor. One
of his legs had been dislocated. As for Gay-Neck his throat and neck
had hardly any feathers left. But he was glad that the struggle had
been settled one way or another. And he knew full well that had Hira
not first expended half his strength fighting Jahore he, Gay-Neck,
might not have won the battle. However, all is well that ends well.
I bandaged and did all that was necessary to Hira's leg. In another
thirty minutes all the pigeons were eating their last meal of the day
utterly oblivious of what had happened so recently. No sulking and
bearing of grudges in their blood--no doubt they all came from a fine
set of ancestors! Good breeding prevailed even amongst the smallest of
them, and needless to add Hira took his defeat like a gentleman.
By now January had come, with cool weather and clear skies and the
competition for pigeon prizes began. Each man's flock was tested on
three points: namely, team-work, long distance flight, and flight under
danger. We won the first prize on the first point, but I am sorry to
say that owing to a sad mishap which you shall learn of in its proper
place, my pigeons could not compete for the other two.
This is the nature of the team-work competition. The various flocks of
pigeons fly away up from their respective homes. Once they are beyond
the reach of whistling and other sounds that indicate their master's
voice, the diverse flocks coalesce. Then spontaneously they agree to
fly under the leadership of a pigeon whom they consider fit. All that
happens up in the air where pigeon-wit and pigeon instinct prevail,
and the bird who flies forward and is allowed to lead, does so without
ever realizing the nature and the reason of the honour that has been
bestowed on him.
The temperature dropped to forty-five. It was a fine cold morning
for our part of India, in fact the coldest day of the year. The sky
above, as usual in the winter, was cloudless and remote, a sapphire
intangibility. The city houses--rose, blue, white, and yellow--looked
like an army of giants rising from the many-coloured abyss of dawn. Far
off the horizons burnt in a haze of dun and purple. Men and women in
robes of amber and amethyst, after having said their morning prayers
to God, were raising their arms from the house-tops in gestures of
benediction to the rising sun. City noises and odours were unleashed
from their kennels of the night. Kites and crows were filling the air
with their cries. Over the din and clamour one could yet hear the song
of the flute players. At that moment the signal whistle blew that the
contest had begun, and each pigeon fancier waved from his roof a white
flag. Instantly from nowhere innumerable flocks of pigeons rose into
the sky. Flock upon flock, colour upon colour, their fluttering wings
bore them above the city. Crows and kites--the latter of two species,
red and brown--fled from the sky before the thundering onrush of tens
of thousands of carriers and tumblers. Soon all the flocks--each flying
in the shape of a fan--circled in the sky like so many clouds caught
in large whirlpools of air. Though each moment they ascended higher,
for a long time each owner of a flock knew his own from the others, and
even when at last the separate flocks merged into one single unit and
flew like a solid wall of wings, I could pick out by the way they flew,
Gay-Neck, Hira, Jahore and half a dozen others. Each bird had personal
characteristics that marked him as he flew. When any owner wished to
call the attention of any one of his pigeons, he blew a shrill whistle
with certain stops as a signal. That attracted the bird's attention
provided he was within reach of the sound.
At last the whole flock reached such a height that not even the blast
of a trumpet from any pigeon fancier could reach it. Now they stopped
circling in the air and began to move horizontally. The competition
for leadership had begun. As they manoeuvred from one direction of the
heavens to another we, the owners below, had to look up intently in
order to make sure of the characteristics of the one whom the pigeons
had trusted to lead their flight. For a moment it looked as if my
Jahore would lead. But hardly had he gone to the head of the flock
when they all turned to the right. That brought about a confusion in
the ranks, and, like horses on a race course, all kinds of unknown
pigeons pushed forward. But in time each one of them was pushed back
by the rest of the flock. This happened so often that we began to lose
interest in the contest. It looked as though some nondescript pigeon
would win the coveted leadership prize.
Now suddenly rose the cry from many house-tops: "Gay-Neck, Gay-Neck,
Gay-Neck!" Yes, many of the pigeon fanciers were shouting that name.
Now I could see--without the slightest shadow of error--my own bird
at the head of that vast flock--a leader amongst leaders--directing
their manoeuvres. Oh! what a glorious moment. He led them from horizon
to horizon, each time rising a few feet higher till by eight in the
morning not a pigeon could be seen in any corner of the sky. Now we
furled our flags and went downstairs to study our lessons. At midday,
when again we went above, each man could see the entire wall of pigeons
descending. Lo! Gay-Neck was still leading. Again rose the shout
"Gay-Neck, Gay-Neck!" Yes, he had won the palm, for he had remained in
leadership for more than four hours, and was coming down as he had gone
up--a master!
Now came the most dangerous part of the flight. The Commander of the
vast concourse gave the order to disband, and flock after flock split
from the main body, each separate flock flying away to its home. But
not too quickly. Some must guard the sky above them while the others
flew homeward. Gay-Neck held my little flock in a kind of umbrella
formation to protect the rear of the receding pigeons belonging to
other contestants. Such is the price of leadership--the other name of
self-sacrifice.
But now began a horrible climax. In India during the winter the
buzzards called Baz, come south. They do not eat carrion; like the
eagle and the hawk the Baz generally eats what he kills with his own
talons. They are mean and cunning--I think they are a class of low-born
eagles--but they resemble kites, although their wings are not frayed
at the ends. They fly in pairs slightly above a flock of kites and are
hidden by them from their prey, which however they can see in this way
without ever being seen themselves.
On that particular day just when Gay-Neck had won the leader's laurels,
I perceived a pair of Baz flying with a flock of kites. Instantly I put
my fingers in my mouth and blew a shrill whistle. Gay-Neck understood
my signal. He redistributed his followers, he himself leading the
centre, while Jahore and Hira he ordered to cover the two ends of
the crescent, in which shape the flock was flying. The entire group
held together as though it were one vast bird. They then began to dip
down faster and faster. By now the task for which they tarried in the
heavens was done. All the other flocks that they had played with in the
morning had gone home.
Seeing them dip down so fast, a Baz fell in front of them like a
stone dropping from a Himalayan cliff. Just when he had descended to
the level of my birds, he opened his wings and faced them. This was no
new tactic, for it has been used in the past by every Baz in order to
strike terror into a flock of pigeons. That it succeeds in ten cases
out of eleven is undeniable for when it happens the terror-struck
pigeons lose their sense of solidarity and fly pell mell in every
direction. No doubt that was what the Baz hoped for now, but our wily
Gay-Neck beating his wings flew without a tremor under the enemy about
five feet, drawing the whole flock after him. He did it, knowing that
the enemy never pounces upon a solidly unified group. But hardly had
he gone a hundred yards forward when the second, probably Mrs. Baz,
fell in front of the pigeons and opened her wings as her husband had
done. But Gay-Neck paid no attention. He led the whole flock straight
toward her. It was inconceivable. No pigeon had dared do that before,
and she fled from their attack. Hardly had her back been turned when
Gay-Neck and the rest of the pigeons dipped and swooped as fast as they
could go. By now they were hardly six hundred feet from our roof,
and then as fate would have it, Mr. Baz, like a shell full of high
explosives, fell again, this time right in the middle of the crescent
and opened his wings and beak like forks of fire, crying and shrieking
with fury. That produced its effect. Instead of one solid wall of
pigeons, the flock was cut in two, of which one half followed Gay-Neck,
while the other, smitten with abject fear, flew none knew whither.
Gay-Neck did what a true leader does in great crises. He followed that
panic-stricken flock until his section overtook it, and in no time, lo,
they had merged into a single group once more. Hardly had that taken
place when Mrs. Baz in her turn descended like a thunderbolt between
him and the other pigeons. She almost fell on his tail, and cut him
off from the rest, who now, deprived of their mentor, sought safety in
flight, paying no heed to anything. That isolated Gay-Neck completely,
and exposed him to attacks from every side. Still undaunted he tried
to fly down to his retreating followers. Ere he had descended a dozen
feet, down before him swooped Mr. Baz. Now that Gay-Neck saw the enemy
so near, he grew more audacious and tumbled. It was a fortunate
action. Had he not done so, Mrs. Baz, who had shot out her talons from
behind, would have captured him then and there.
In the meantime the rest of my pigeons were beating on and had almost
reached home. They were falling on the roof as ripe fruits fall from a
tree. But one among them was not a coward. On the contrary he was of
the very essence of bravery. It was Jahore, the black diamond. As the
whole crowd settled down on our roof, he tumbled and flew higher. There
was no mistake about his intentions. He was going to stand by Gay-Neck.
Seeing him tumble again, Mr. Baz changed his mind. He gave up pursuing
Gay-Neck and swooped down after Jahore. Well, you know Gay-Neck--he
dipped to the rescue of Jahore--circling and curving swiftly as a coil
of lightning, leading Mrs. Baz panting after him. She could not make as
many curves as Gay-Neck, no, not nearly so many. But Mr. Baz, who was
a veteran, had flown up and up to take aim; this put Jahore in danger.
One more wrong turn and Mr. Baz would have him. Alas! poor bird; he did
the thing he should not have done. He flew in a straight line below
Mr. Baz who at once shut his wings and fell like a thunderclap of
Silence. No noise could be heard, not even "the shadow of a sound."
Down, down, down, he fell, the very image of death. Then the most
terrible thing happened. Between him and Jahore slipped, none knew how,
Gay-Neck, in order to save the latter and frustrate the enemy. Alas!
instead of giving up the attack, the Baz shot out his talons, catching
a somewhat insecure hold of the intruder. A shower of feathers covered
the air. One could almost see Gay-Neck's body writhing in the enemy's
grip. As if a hot iron had gone through me I shrieked with pain for my
bird! But nothing availed. Round and round, higher and higher that Baz
carried him trying to get a more secure hold with his talons. I must
admit something most humiliating here. I had been so intent on saving
Gay-Neck that I did not notice when Mrs. Baz fell and captured Jahore.
It must have happened very swiftly right after Gay-Neck was caught.
Now the air was filled with Jahore's feathers. The enemy held him fast
in her talons, and he made no movement to free himself. But not so
Gay-Neck; he was still writhing in the grip of Mr. Baz. As if to help
her husband to grasp his prey more securely, Mrs. Baz flew very close
to her lord. Just then Jahore struggled to get free. That swung her so
near that her wing collided with her husband's. The fellow lost his
balance. As he was almost over-turned in the air with another shower of
feathers Gay-Neck wrenched himself free from his grip. Now he dropped
down, down, down.... In another thirty seconds a panting, bleeding
bird lay on our roof. I lifted him up in order to examine his wound.
His two sides were torn, but not grievously. At once I took him to the
pigeon doctor who dressed his wounds. It took about half an hour, and
when I returned home and put Gay-Neck in his nest, I could not find
Jahore anywhere. His nest, alas, was empty. And when I went up to the
roof there I found Jahore's wife sitting on the parapet scanning every
direction of the sky for a sign of her husband. Not only did she spend
that day, but two or three more in the same manner. I wonder if she
found any consolation in the fact that her husband sacrificed himself
for the sake of a brave comrade.