BY THE WAYSIDE
Being very much interested in the habits of the Indian troops I would
often be found studying them at a respectful distance; their rigid
laws of caste obliged me to keep somewhat apart from them. One day
an unexpected opportunity of gratifying my curiosity came my way.
Off duty for the afternoon I went for a stroll in the country and on
turning a corner of the road I saw a big, tall Sikh gravely studying
a tree by the roadside. He looked up as I approached, "Ram, ram,
Sahib," said he. "Ram, ram, yourself," says I. It was all the
English he knew and all the Indian I knew.
Seeing my jackknife at my side he managed to impress on me that he
wanted to know if we used the jackknife for stabbing. By signs I
replied that if necessary we would. Now, around the turban of every
Sikh I had noticed a ring of steel, about six inches in diameter, and
my curiosity in regard to it had never been satisfied; here, I
thought, was the chance to find out. Still standing at a respectful
distance, I pointed to his turban, turning my hand round in imitation
of a ring, and I indicated I wanted to know its use. Showing his
splendid teeth for a second in a smile of understanding, he took the
ring with a curious motion from his turban, and spinning it around
his hand for the fraction of a second, he hurled it at the tree. My
eyes bulged with astonishment, for the ring sank for half its
diameter into the hard bole of the tree. I went to examine it, but
dared not touch it for fear of offending some tradition connected
with the ring. I found that the ring was really a circular knife,
the outside edge being very keen and sharp, then thickening away to
the inside. It will be seen that the whirling motion, preparatory to
throwing, imparts a spin to this peculiar weapon. A man's arm, leg
or head will part company with the trunk if struck.
My Sikh friend smiled gravely, recovered his turban ring, bowed with
grace, and with a "Salaam Sahib" turned with great dignity on his
heel and stalked majestically away.
I also was mightily interested in the short, stocky Gurkhas, those
wonderful troops from Nepal. These men, although small, are wonders
of strength and endurance. Mountaineers and soldiers from childhood,
their greatest joy is hand to hand combat. Perhaps a description of
their favorite weapon, the terrible kukri, would be of interest. It
is from fifteen to eighteen inches long, with a keen edge, tapering
from a thickness at the back of about a quarter of an inch, to a
razor-like edge. The handle or haft is of wood, bound tightly with
copper wire, the distance between each band of wire being enough for
a man's finger to snugly enclose itself around the handle. These
little smiling men are equally adept at throwing or using the knife
at close quarters.
It is useless for a man to try to escape by running, since before he
has gone more than ten yards he is minus a head.
It was curious to watch them killing goats for their meat supply.
The goat would be browsing comfortably, when something would flash
through the air, and to the onlooker's amazement, a headless goat
would stagger a few yards and then fall. Later on, these troops were
removed to warmer fronts, for the bleak winters of northern France
and Flanders proved disastrous to the Indian constitution.
To show the resourcefulness of the Canadian soldier, the following
incident is an illustration: Big Bill Skerry, one of the boys named
Walworth, and Big Bill Bradley were left on the other side of the
canal from their billets. At eight o'clock in the evening the bridge
was drawn up making it impossible to cross. The three worthies
approached the bridge end at about 10 P.M. Alas for human weakness,
they had contrived to soften the heart of a French lady and she had
given them a liberal portion of cognac. They were by no means
intoxicated, but sufficiently stimulated to make the night echo with
their songs of gladness. Arriving at the bridge they were challenged
by a sentry. The following conversation took place: From the sentry:
"Halt, who are you?" "Go to hell," was the retort. "Well, I don't
know about that," says the sentry, "but you're going in the clink,
and you'll get hell from the Old Man." The reply was a splash as
Skerry took a header into the icy waters of the canal. Like a flash
Walworth and Bradley followed suit and the trio, fully dressed as
they were, swam the canal. They almost ran from the frying pan into
the fire, for they could not resist the temptation to jeer the sentry
from the other side of the canal. They had apparently forgotten that
another guard was stationed at the other bridge end. However, they
melted into the night, stepping over our bodies as they entered the
factory where we were sleeping, to receive a heartfelt cursing from
those who were subjected to a shower from their dripping clothes.
Every day punctually at 6 P.M. the massed Kiltie Band would parade in
front of the old Hotel De Ville or town hall. It was a curious
sight. The stalwart Highlanders gazing neither to right nor left,
swaggering up and down on the old cobbled square, Tommies, Canucks,
Frenchmen, Gurkhas, Sikhs, Pathans and French Colonial troops would
gather round and a babel of tongues would soar skywards. Just at the
minute of six all would be hushed and a silence uncanny would hang
over the place. The "Retreat" would sound, and the Highlanders would
start their tatoo.
I have mentioned, I believe, the irritating parasites who so lovingly
crowd in the seams of a man's shirt. Even these pests, which are an
involuntary growth born of the natural heat of the body and
accumulated moisture, become more or less endurable, and the
inevitable fatalism of the soldier shows even in the matter of body
lice.
Libby, Morgan, Fitzpatrick and Bill Skerry were holding a heated
argument as to the relationship of the Canadian louse to its
Flanders' prototype, and the discussion, which was held in the midst
of a hunting expedition, took the turn that each was ready to back
with money the assertion that the particular brand of louse with
which he was associated day and night was superior in color, size,
and ferocity to any that the others possessed.
"How about this gent?" says Morgan, exhibiting a particularly husky
specimen that he had captured in the seam of his shirt. Morgan, as I
have said, was dark in complexion almost to swarthiness.
"That dark streak down its back," chimes in Libby, "comes from boring
through your damned black skin."
"Aw, hell," replied Morgan, "if their color is made by what they eat,
then yours must be the color of a checker-board."
This was an allusion to Libby's partially gray hair.
"No, they ain't," said the imperturbable Libby, bringing out a
specimen fully the equal of Morgan's, and actually lighter in color.
Morgan gazed thoughtfully down on his capture and, pushing his cap
back on his head and speaking slowly, addressed it:
"You blankety-blank, I believe that it was you that browsed on the
middle of my spine the last time I did sentry at headquarters in
Marching Order. I hate like hell to do it, for you have grown dear
to me, and your color I know would delight the eye of a blinkin'
artist, yet I can't allow you to divert me from my duty so as to
endanger the efficiency of the forces of His Majesty, King George, of
Great Britain and Ireland and the Dominions beyond the seas, and you
must pay the penalty."
Snap! and it went the way of all flesh and the chase was resumed.
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[Illustration: A WINTERLY MORNING.
WRITING TO THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME.]
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Although we had trained as infantry, most of us wore the riding pants
or Bedford cords of a cavalry battalion. Being now a runner I
appealed, as did the other runners, for something not so tight around
the knees. We were given infantry slacks which allowed freer motion
of the limbs. Our orders were to burn vermin-infested clothing, and
although I was sure I had rid myself of mine, I decided, when I
changed my clothes in the billet, to burn my riding pants.
Just as I was about to throw them into the fire a diminutive French
gamin asked me to give him the pants. "All right, son," says I,
handing him the garment. The boy was wise in his generation.
Turning them inside out he examined the seams, and, something
arousing his suspicion, he hurled them into the fire as if something
had bitten him. "No, no, Monsieur," says he, "_tres beaucoup itchy
coo_" shrugging his shoulders and scratching himself as he turned his
back on the pants. The shrug, the scratch and the gesture was
inimitable and done as only French expressiveness can render it.
One of the finest regiments of French's "Contemptible Little Army"
was the "Notts and Derbys" (Nottingham and Derbyshire). They covered
themselves with glory in the Great Retreat. Several titles have been
conferred upon them by popular affection, such as "The Sherwood
Foresters," "The Robin Hoods," etc. Coming as they do from the
ancient haunts of Robin Hood and his merry band, their regimental
crests and badges represent the Archers of Sherwood.
One day, while on the march, we met the Robin Hoods, and as the two
regiments passed each other a storm of good-natured chaff flew back
and forth, and one of the Robin Hoods, noting by our shoulder badges
that we were a cavalry battalion, yelled in his broad Midland accent,
'"Ello, you blokes, wot ha' ye done wi' yer bloody 'osses?" Back
came the answer like a flash, "We packed 'em away with your
blankety-blank bows and arrows years ago."