CHILDREN OF THE RAJ
War in its old guise, the clash of warring Kings and their levies of
horse and foot, with victory on the side of the stoutest blows, and
triumph reckoned by the number of slain and spoils, may have faded
from the European mind, but it still lingers, a brave and picturesque
adventure, in the storied imagination of the East. So it happens
that, of all the forces in the field to-day, none has a more knightly
conception of war, as the word was understood in the days of chivalry,
than the levies which India has sent to Europe to fight for the British
Raj.
How old John Froissart, who loved a brave spectacle of war, would have
thrilled to see the stately Sikh horsemen, as I have seen them, high
turbans and tall lances silhouetted against an evening sky, defiling
along a road in Flanders, trod in bygone days by many of the old
chronicler’s heroes--Edward of Wales, Sir Reginald Lord Cobham, Sir
Walter Manny, Sir John Chandos, and the rest! How gladly he would have
wandered into their camps and bivouacs, and heard from bearded Sikh and
lean Pathan the stirring story of their military past, heard them speak
again in the manner of his time of the great war between the Kings of
Europe!
For to the Indian troops who have come to Europe to fight this war
is an adventure, as wars were to the knights of old. The high sense
of duty which makes them ready and willing to play their part in the
defence of the Empire is not patriotism. It is loyalty, the honourable
resolution to stand by the man whose bread they have eaten. In their
rudimentary and picturesque way they understand very clearly the
origin of the war. They talk among themselves, and write home to their
villages of the unjust King of Austria, who sought to steal the kingdom
of Serbia, and was therein helped by the arrogant King of Germany,
who in his turn invaded the country of the King of Belgium. Hereupon
the King-Emperor said, “This must not be,” and summoned the Kings of
Germany and Austria to make good the wrong they had accomplished. When
they refused, the King-Emperor called upon his friends the Kings of
France and Russia to make war upon them.
Gleefully the Indians will count the number of Kings that are on
the side of the Allies in the cause of right--the King-Emperor, the
King of France, the King of Russia, the King of Belgium, the King of
Serbia, and, more lately, the King of Italy. Triumphantly they ask:
“Shall but three Kings--those of Germany, Austria, and Turkey--prevail
against six?” The position of Austria-Hungary is rather a puzzle to
them. Sometimes both the King of Austria and the King of Hungary
appear on the side of the foe, sometimes the King of Austria is ranged
in the ranks of the Allies, owing to a confused recollection that
_Australians_ are fighting for the Allies in the East.
They write elaborate and often allegorical disquisitions on the origin
of the war to their friends at home in India. In one case that I heard
of the writer took the names of mutual acquaintances in the village at
home in which the first letter corresponded with the initial letter
of the names of the belligerent powers, while a dispute about a field
served to illustrate the causes of the conflict.
The strangest medley of races, castes, and religions that has ever
fought on one side in Europe, the Indians took the field in the cause
of the King-Emperor behind their hierarchical chiefs and military
leaders. The Maharajah of Kapurtala, the Maharajah of Bikanir, the Jam
of Nawanagar (whom the Empire knows better as “Ranji”), the Rajah of
Ratlam, the young Maharajah of Jodhpur, Maharajah Sir Pertab Singh, the
Maharaj-Kumar of Kuch Behar, were among those who came to Flanders.
Among the troops were Sikhs from the Punjab, Pathans from the
North-Western Frontier of India--Afridis, Mahsuds, Yussufzais,
Khattaks--Punjabi Mohammedans, Dogras from the hills, Jats from the
Southern Punjab and the United Provinces, Gurkhas from the hills of
Nepal, Garhwali hillmen from Garhwal, and Rajputs.
Even the great Cadogan of Wellington’s army, the Prince of Q.M.G.’s,
might have well been appalled by the task which the commissariat
department of this heterogeneous collection of races and religions
represented. The Pathans, being Mohammedans, will drink no wine or
spirits; the Sikhs, who have their own religion, may drink wine, but
may not smoke; the Gurkhas may do both, but have other ceremonial
practices which must be scrupulously observed. Beef is anathema to the
Hindu, bacon to the Mohammedan; indeed, pork in any form is abhorrent
to all save the lowest caste of Indian. Therefore, the flesh of goats,
slain in a prescribed ritual form, and specially prepared, had to take
the place of the bully-beef ration for the majority of the Indian
contingent. There was no rum ration for the Mohammedan, no cigarette or
tobacco ration for the Sikh.
Though the commissariat question has proved a continual source of
difficulty to the military authorities, it has been satisfactorily
solved, and the Indians, from the standpoint of food, have fared well.
On this campaign they made the acquaintance of ration jam, which they
like immensely. The Gurkhas will not touch marmalade, although they
are as fond of jam as the rest of the Indians are. They are very keen
on their cigarette rations. The army supplies the Indian troops with
_ghi_, or clarified butter, which they use extensively in cooking,
and with Indian corn, from which they bake their _chupatties_, thin
wafer-like cakes cooked in the ashes of the camp-fire.
You can imagine what an epoch-making adventure it was to these
thousands of Indians, living their carefully ordered lives in one of
the oldest civilizations of the world, to be suddenly transplanted into
the civilization of the white man. For the first time they have seen
the white man served by his own race. For the first time they have
seen the white man pursuing those agricultural avocations which, in
agricultural India, are carried on exclusively by the native. For the
first time they have seen the white man at close quarters in his home.
Agriculturist as every Indian is, it is the life of the French peasant
that has primarily absorbed his interest in things outside the war.
The prodigious size of the cows, in comparison with the small Indian
kine, overwhelms him with admiration; so also the heavy Flemish horses.
He is amazed to find himself surrounded on all sides by _pukka_
houses--that is to say, houses with tiled roofs and timber flooring
and lath-and-plaster walls and glazed windows--to see that even the
lowliest French peasant can aspire to dwellings like these.
A very familiar sight in Flanders is the dog-wheel, a large open
tread-wheel, affixed to the side of the house, and driven by a dog,
for the pumping of water. This spectacle is of never-failing interest
to the Indians. It is frequently described at length in their letters
home, and it is the theme of endless conversation amongst themselves.
A group of Sikh troopers one day was heard gravely discussing whether
the dog worked the wheel from promptings of natural sagacity--from a
canine desire, as it were, to help with the housework--or whether he
was a poor slave imprisoned in the wheel and sternly ordered to do his
master’s bidding.
The exceptional beauty of the Flanders spring, succeeding to the cold
and damp of winter, caused many men to express their determination to
return to France after the war, and settle down as agriculturalists. I
believe the men seldom, if ever, write to their womenfolk. The brother
of the writer is generally the recipient of the letters from the
front. Often, if there is any mention of the writer’s wife, she is
referred to allegorically, as a tree in a certain field, and so on.
Many letters request that the writer’s sister may be told to pray at
some specific shrine for the safe return of her brother. Some of these
letters are fine recruiting agents, describing in glowing terms the
advantages of being able to save one’s pay, of the good food, and the
interesting life.
As these Indian soldiers’ letters are written and addressed in the
native character, sorting and distribution has to be done by a special
staff of native clerks from the Indian postal service, while Indian
Army officers, conversant with the different languages and scripts,
attend to the censoring. Certain vernacular journals are permitted to
be sent to the troops, but the men, for the most part, eagerly read
a special news-sheet, issued every two or three days from the Indian
Corps Headquarters. This journal, edited by a distinguished Indian
Intelligence Officer, is reproduced by a manifolding process in Hindi
(which is familiar to the Gurkhas, Garhwalis, and Dogras), Gurmukhi
(the language of the Sikhs), and Hindustani (for the other Indian
troops). It gives a summary of the latest war news, starting with the
most recent events on the British and French fronts, in plain and
simple language. Here is a specimen:
“INDIAN SUMMARY OF NEWS, 26TH TO 28TH JULY, 1915.
“This great war has now lasted exactly a year. It is announced
officially that the total British casualties up to date amount
to 330,995 men, of whom 69,313 have been killed. This includes
all theatres of war--France, the Dardanelles, Egypt, Mesopotamia,
Africa--as well as the losses of our fleet over the whole world. It
may seem a high figure, but it must be remembered that the German
casualties are at least 30 lakhs by this time, of whom about 8 lakhs
must have been killed. The Turks have also lost very heavily. Our
total of less than 70,000 killed is, therefore, comparatively small:
most of them are, of course, British, but they also include Canadians,
Australians, Indians, New Zealanders and African troops.”
Thus, it will be seen that there is no attempt to hide unpleasant news
from the Indian troops, but that, on the contrary, the endeavour is to
explain events to them in an intelligible fashion.
These news-sheets are printed by the thousand, and are distributed not
only among the troops at the front, but are also sent to the Indian
troops at the bases and in the hospitals in France and in England. A
special copy of each number is forwarded to the Commander-in-Chief in
India.
The relations between the Indians and the French civilian population
are extremely friendly. The French peasants in these parts have a
saying that British troops give the most trouble in billets, the French
are less exacting, while the Indians cause the least inconvenience of
all. Their wants are few, their demands modest--water, a place where
they may build their fires and range their pots, a roof beneath which
they may sleep, a little straw for a bed.
They are infinitely obliging. They share their food with their hosts,
and play with their children. I have seldom seen a prettier sight
than a glimpse I had one day of some Sikhs belonging to a squadron
quartered in a school, romping with the children in the playground.
Experience has shown that the Indians pick up French far more quickly
than the average British soldier. I have been amused to come upon a
row of native soldiers sitting on a bench in the sunshine outside an
_estaminet_, engaged in a dignified exchange of ideas with the peasants.
The friendly relations existing between the Indians and the French are
best seen at the gymkhanas which the Indian cavalry give from time to
time. A broad field is chosen, a course is staked off, and in this
space the cavalry disport themselves for two or three hours on a Sunday
afternoon, with races, tent-pegging, trick-riding, and sports of all
kinds, to the enormous delight of the peasantry. Posters placarded in
the neighbouring villages a day or two before bring all the villagers
flocking to the scene on foot, on cycles, in old-fashioned hooded
carts, drawn by such sorry specimens of horse-flesh as the French Army
has discarded.
I went to a _Tamasha_, as the Indian troops call these affairs, one
fine Sunday afternoon in May. A broad plateau in the middle of the
fields had been selected for the sports, and when I arrived an enormous
crowd, as picturesque as any I have ever seen, was thronging round the
ropes. There were old peasants in the local costume of black smocks
and peaked caps, _curés_ in shovel-hats and _soutanes_, French troops
in a bewildering variety of uniforms--pale blue Hussars, _Chasseurs
d’Afrique_ in flowing red cloaks, Moroccan _Goumiers_ in swelling white
burnouses, Zouaves in red and blue monkey-jackets; French interpreters
in khaki, with the golden palm-leaf tabs and khaki-covered _képis_;
Indian _sowars_ (native troopers) with tall puggarees and long smock
tunics with chain shoulder-straps and round silver buttons, Gurkhas
with their slouch hats, Indian Army officers with unfamiliar collar
badges on their biscuit-coloured khaki uniforms.
It was a fine _Tamasha_. There was marvellously skilful tent-pegging,
with a rush of horses, a thunder of hoofs, clouds of dust, and that
exhilarating swoop upwards of the lance with peg neatly transpierced
as the rider whirls past. There was a most exciting Victoria Cross
race with drums beating, pistols going off, much shouting and beating
of hands--one race for the Indian troops and another for the British
troops brigaded with them. I was quite touched to hear the uproarious
and whole-hearted applause wherewith the British soldiers greeted the
winner of the Indians’ race. There was a foot-race for the village
children, to the huge delight of the Indians, who ran along the course
encouraging the youngsters and setting those who fell on their feet
again.
[Illustration:
_Alfieri phot._
INDIAN CAVALRY IN A FRENCH VILLAGE. NOTE BANDOLIERS ROUND HORSES’
NECKS. ]
But the display of trick-riding was the _clou_ of the show, and
elicited in particular the outspoken admiration of the French cavalry
officers--who know something about riding. Handkerchiefs were laid in
a row on the ground. Presently, in a swirl of blinding dust four
horsemen came thundering along, and, as they reached the handkerchiefs,
each man flung himself, head downwards, backwards from the saddle, and
snatched, or sought to snatch, his appointed cloth, then raised himself
in the saddle again.
There were men who rode the length of the course head downwards, others
who rode with their faces to the horse’s tail, fired revolvers at the
men riding behind them, whereupon the men fell, ostensibly dead, from
the saddle, and were dragged along, head downwards, their heads almost
touching the ground.
What amused me about the show was to see that the performers were every
whit as interested and excited in the performance as the crowd. Every
horseman was on his mettle to show off his horse and his horsemanship.
Some of the riders indulged in touches of superb swagger. When at the
end of the trick-riding the horsemen stopped dead in the middle of a
rush, and, suddenly wheeling their horses, brought up short at the
saluting-point to the note of a bugle, those stalwart figures, swelling
with pride, sitting their panting, foam-flecked horses, presented as
magnificent a spectacle as I have seen in this war.
By the time these pages will have seen the light the Indian Corps will
have been a year at the front. In September last the first of them
landed at Marseilles, a bizarre procession that might have passed
out of the pages of The Thousand and One Nights, swarthy faces and
bristling moustachios and glittering eyes beneath proud turbans,
strange knives and implements, odd-looking carts, mules, goats. There
was a spell of wild and delirious enthusiasm among the _Marseillais_,
most imaginative of French populations ... and the Indians passed on.
I saw them later at Orléans, some of the cavalry and part of the Lahore
Division. The principal hotel was full of Indian Army officers. They
all seem to have a certain modesty of mien, a blend of reserve and
simplicity, that marks them down, apart from the Indian drill uniform
and the little forage-caps that so many of them wear.
The city swarmed with Indians. Their little mule-carts, in charge of
dark-skinned _mehtars_, or sweepers, heads muffled up in all manner
of cloths to keep out the first touch of autumnal damp, stood outside
shops, surrounded by gaping crowds. To and fro in the streets native
orderlies passed with their curious straight stride, their impassive
faces, scarcely seeming to note the air of profound curiosity wherewith
the good people of Orléans followed them.
Here a Pathan _sowar_ in khaki puggaree held a pair of stamping horses
outside an office; there a fatigue-party of Gurkhas with pronounced
Mongolian cast of features, slouch hats and _kukri_ slung at the back
of the belt, came marching solidly over the cobble-stones, and swung
their heads smartly over at the command of their havildar in his
curious clipped English: “Eyes ... rait!” as a Brigade Major went by
resplendent in new “brass hat” and red tabs.
The barber’s shop in the principal street was crowded with healthy,
dusty young men, back from long drills at the camp outside the town,
clamouring for hair-cuts and shaves, and buying hair-oils and soap
and razor blades with a reckless extravagance that made the proprietor
pinch himself to make sure he was not dreaming.
The front! That was the phrase that had a magic ring for them all. At
the camp the officers talked of nothing else. They showed me their
Sikhs and their Pathans and their Gurkhas as who should say: “When the
Empire gets _these_, victory is assured!” They had chafed in India,
when the Empire went to war, lest their services might not be called
upon. One gallant soul grieved so much, as we have read, that he
deserted and enlisted in the ranks of a British Regular regiment and
died at the front.
The call came. I left them at Orléans, untried in European warfare,
eager, impatient. When I saw them again six months later they were
veterans of war.
The despatch of the Indian Corps to take part in the war in Europe was
an experiment. That the experiment was possible, that the Indian troops
have shown themselves to be loyal and well-behaved while fighting our
battles on foreign soil, that India has falsified the hopes of the
enemy and the fears of the pessimists as to her fealty to the Empire
in the event of a European war, seems to me to be the finest tribute
to the wisdom and justice of our administration of India. The loyalty
which our rule has fostered has withstood all attempts to corrupt it.
The attempts of the Germans on the Western front to sow sedition among
our Indian troops have failed as lamentably as the more redoubtable
activity of their secret agents in India would appear to have done.
At one time the Germans were wont to bombard the Indians holding
the trenches in France with proclamations from the air. These
manifestos, generally couched in incorrect Hindi or Pushtu, the work
of painstaking _Herren Professoren_ at German Oriental Seminaries,
announced the German victories and the proclamation of the “holy war”
by the Khalifate against the Allies, and painted a rosy picture of
the delights awaiting the Indians who would desert to the enemy. The
Indian, who has a keen sense of humour, laughed at the bombast of these
preposterous concoctions, and made fun of the grammatical mistakes.
Two German airmen who were brought down in the lines of the Indians
one day were found to have a large stock of these manifestos in their
machine with them. The prisoners turned livid when the discovery was
made, for, under military law, I believe, it rendered them liable to be
shot. With perfect _sang-froid_, however, our officers distributed the
pamphlets to the Indians who were present at the capture, and the two
airmen had the mortification of seeing the broad grins of the sepoys as
they read out, amid shouts of laughter, the grammatical mistakes in the
work of the German Orientalists. This air propaganda was so barren of
results that the Germans eventually abandoned it.
The spirit of the Indian troops is splendid and soldierly. Above
all, they value recompense for valour. The V.C., of course, is their
highest ambition. They attach more importance to “Izzat”--their
prestige--than to anything else in life. The bitterest blow that an
Indian in the field can receive is to be passed over for promotion.
I heard of a non-commissioned officer who had distinguished himself
by a brilliant feat of gallantry, and was informed that the “General
Sahib” proposed to reward him by a present of money. The havildar in
question had already been recommended for decoration. “It is very kind
of the _General Sahib_,” the man said, “to have thought of making me a
present, but I would rather have the decoration.”
Men of ancient fighting races, they esteem courage highly and count
cowardice a disgrace. Praise of their gallant deeds is as music in
their ears. Never are they so proud as when the _General Sahib_, Sir
James Willcocks, commanding the Indian Corps, inspects them after a
fight, and tells them in their own tongue, in plain martial language
that they understand, that he is satisfied with them, that they have
fought well.
Their attitude towards the Germans is curious. They respect the enemy’s
technical efficiency in war, but they do not believe that he is any
match for the bayonet or the _kukri_ when it comes to in-fighting. “It
is well!” said the Garhwalis, as they came out of some swift slaying at
Neuve Chapelle. “We have killed many Germans! They are good fighters!”
Kwaja Mohammed Khan, Sirdar Bahadur, one of the Indian _aides-de-camp_
to Sir James Willcocks, a magnificent figure of a man from the borders
of Buner, in his uniform of Rissaldar of the Guides, with a hawk-like
nose and fierce black eyes, said to me one day: “The Indians stand the
weather well. Why shouldn’t they? If the Germans stand it, so can we!
Huh!”
They are fierce and terrible in the charge, the Indians. But they are
merciful to their prisoners. Among the Indians there has been none of
that slaying of prisoners that has eternally besmirched the German
escutcheon. The Indians bring their prisoners in proudly--living booty,
proud testimony to the prowess of their captors.
I met some of the Westphalians we captured at Neuve Chapelle on their
way down to the base to be shipped to England--fine, well-set-up,
front-line troops they were, too. I well remember the eagerness with
which they explained to me that resistance had been impossible. “_Auf
einmal_,” they said in their clipped Westphalian speech, “_sahen wir
uns von den Schwarzen umzingelt. Da müssten wir uns ergeben!_”
And they sighed heavily.
The first Indians to receive their baptism of fire in this war were
the 57th Rifles and the 129th Baluchis of the Lahore Division, which
came up to the front minus one brigade left behind in Egypt. These two
battalions were sent into action at Hollebeke about October 22 in the
initial stages of the first battle of Ypres, and acquitted themselves
very well. In the meantime the rest of the two brigades of which the
Lahore Division was composed were assisting the Second Corps southward,
where the fighting was desperate and bloody.
On October 27 the Germans captured Neuve Chapelle, and to the 47th
Sikhs, the 9th Bhopals, and the 20th and 21st Companies of Sappers and
Miners, was allotted the task of retaking the village. The 47th Sikhs,
and the two Sappers and Miners’ companies, were specially mentioned in
despatches for their fine work here. Captain Nosworthy, of the Sappers,
leading a forlorn hope of a dozen Indians, managed to get into the
village at the price of no less than seven wounds, but we failed to
regain possession of the place, which remained in German hands until
March.
The arrival of the Meerut Division at the end of the month practically
completed the Indian Corps, which was placed under the command of
Sir James Willcocks. Against it some 60,000 to 70,000 Germans were
arrayed--the whole of the crack VIIth Corps from Münster, tough
Westphalian fighters, part of the XIVth Corps, and part of the 48th
Reserve Division. Sir James Willcocks was told that he must hold out at
all costs, and that no reinforcements could be promised him.
On November 2 the Germans managed to pierce our lines west of Neuve
Chapelle, where the 2nd Gurkhas held the trenches. A fine charge, led
by Colonel Norie, their battalion commander, prevented the situation
from becoming serious, and all that the Germans achieved was that our
line was slightly bent back.
For several months to come Rouges Bancs to Givenchy was to be the
Indians’ line. Autumn crept by with drenching rain, and then, on
November 4, a spell of hard frost set in and lasted until the 25th. On
November 23 the 112th Regiment of the XIVth German Corps managed to sap
its way close up to the trenches held by the 34th Sikh Pioneers and the
9th Bhopals. A determined attack put the enemy in possession of these
trenches over a front of several hundred yards. That evening, however,
a series of counter-attacks on our part drove the Germans back with
great slaughter. The 39th Garhwalis, stout little hillmen resembling
the Gurkhas in features, but of rather heavier build, played a very
fine part, and one of their number, Darwan Singh Negi, won the Victoria
Cross.
On November 25 the weather broke. The frost vanished and gave place
to torrential rain. For three weeks it rained almost incessantly. The
trenches soon became rivers of water, with two or three feet of mud
at the bottom. In some places the men stood waist-deep in filth. Not
alone the Indians were exposed to these trying climatic conditions. The
British Regulars brigaded with them had to face the same ordeal, but
the Indian, peculiarly sensible to damp cold, undoubtedly suffered more
severely.
Frost-bite and chills and very long spells in the front line--some
battalions were from twenty-one to twenty-five days on end in the
trenches--increased the difficulties of the Indian troops. In mid
December the success of General Maud’huy’s forces on our right in
capturing the village of Vermelles created a favourable opportunity for
an offensive on our part. By this time the Sirhind Brigade, the brigade
which the Lahore Division had left behind in Egypt, had arrived.
On December 19 the Lahore Division started the attack with the Highland
Light Infantry and the 4th Gurkha Rifles. On the left, battalions of
the Meerut Division assaulted. Some trenches were won, but could not
be held, and our troops fell back before counter-attacks.
[Illustration:
_Underwood & Underwood phot._
INDIAN INFANTRY ON THE MARCH.]
On the following day the Germans started a general offensive.
Opposite Festubert they blew up ten mines under the trenches of the
Highland Light Infantry and the 4th Gurkhas, and, supported by a
heavy bombardment with high-explosive shells and _minenwerfer_ bombs,
attacked. The Sirhind Brigade was driven back and the Germans captured
Givenchy, but the Manchesters and Suffolks, attacking with splendid
heroism, retook the village. They failed, however, to make further
progress. A counter-attack, delivered from the direction of the Rue
de Marais by the Secunderabad Cavalry Brigade with the 47th Sikhs and
8th Gurkhas, was likewise unable to get on. To the north the Meerut
Division was in difficulties owing to the German wedge at Givenchy, and
the retreat of a battalion of the 2nd Gurkhas at a place known as the
Orchard dangerously threatened our position. The arrival of a brigade
of the 1st Division, and, finally, of the whole Division, enabled the
Indian Corps to be withdrawn at Christmas for a much-needed rest.
In his despatch on the winter fighting in Flanders (dated General
Headquarters, February 2, 1915) the Commander-in-Chief said:
“The Indian troops have fought with the utmost steadiness and gallantry
whenever they have been called upon.... It was some three weeks after
the events recorded in paragraph 4 (the fighting at Givenchy) that I
made my inspection of the Indian Corps, under Sir James Willcocks. The
appearance they presented was most satisfactory, and fully confirmed my
first opinion that the Indian troops only required rest, and a little
acclimatizing, to bring out all their fine inherent fighting qualities.”
Events were to justify this tribute of the _Junghi Lat Sahib_, as the
Indians call the Commander-in-Chief, to his Indian troops. At Neuve
Chapelle, in March, the Indians--and in first line the 1st and 2nd 39th
Garhwalis and the 3rd Gurkhas--showed what they could do when it came
to fighting in the open.
The Indian Corps was on the right of our line, the Meerut Division in
front, the Lahore Division in support. The Garhwalis went away clear
through the village, and the Gurkhas, outdistancing everybody, actually
penetrated into the Bois de Biez, whence the Germans were eventually
able to check our further progress. All the Indians engaged displayed
splendid qualities of dash and steadiness, and after Neuve Chapelle
it may be said that the Indians were at the height of their military
efficiency.
You will remember that, during the second battle of Ypres, the Lahore
Division was sent up to the Pilckem road to operate in support of
the French, who were counter-attacking to win back the ground they
had given before the first German gas attack. The Indians fought
magnificently, and the 40th Pathans, under the leadership of the
gallant Lieutenant-Colonel Rennick, who gave his life that day, showed
splendid courage in face of a terrible ordeal.
The Indian Corps has rendered a great, an inestimable service to the
British cause. The first contingent came into the field at a moment
when every man was wanted, and as its numbers were completed, it
took over its share of our line and held it efficiently. Everything
in trench warfare was new to the Indians, and for months they had no
opportunity of displaying those qualities of dash that won them fame
in many a hard fight in their own land. But they showed themselves to
be excellent marksmen, and on patrol work revealed a cool pluck and
resourcefulness which brought in much valuable information.
The Indians have proved themselves to be a smart and soldierly body
of men, clean and well-mannered, and, like all good troops, most
punctilious about saluting. Their cavalry, which prays day and night
for a chance to get at the enemy with the lance, is a dream of beauty
on parade, with men and horses in the very pink of condition. Both for
the Indians themselves and for the Empire, the sending of the Indian
Corps to Europe was a great adventure, in many respects the most
remarkable event of the world war. The future lies on the knees of the
gods, but to those, like the writer, who have seen the British and
Indian troops side by side in the field, one thing at least is clear,
and that is, that this campaign has knit even closer than before the
ties of affection and respect existing between the Indian soldier and
his British leaders.