One evening the colonel sent me from our dugout near the Salt Lake to
"A" Beach to make a report on the water supply which was pumped ashore
from the tank-boats. I trudged along the sandy shore. At one spot I
remember the carcass of a mule washed up by the tide, the flesh rotted
and sodden, and here and there a yellow rib bursting through the skin.
Its head floated in the water and nodded to and fro with a most uncanny
motion with every ripple of the bay.
The wet season was coming on, and the chill winds went through my
khaki drill uniform. The sky was overcast, and the bay, generally a
kaleidoscope of Eastern blues and greens, was dull and gray.
At "A" Beach I examined the pipes and tanks of the water-supply system
and had a chat with the Australians who were in charge. I drew a small
plan, showing how the water was pumped from the tanks afloat to the
standing tank ashore, and suggested the probable cause of the sand and
dirt of which the C.O. complained.
This done I found our own ambulance water-cart just ready to return to
our camp with its nightly supply. Evening was giving place to darkness,
and soon the misty hills and the bay were enveloped in starless gloom.
The traffic about "A" Beach was always congested. It reminded you of
the Bank and the Mansion House crush far away in London town.
Here were clanking water-carts, dozens of them waiting in their turn,
stamping mules and snorting horses; here were motor-transport wagons
with "W.D." in white on their gray sides; ambulance wagons jolting
slowly back to their respective units, sometimes full of wounded,
sometimes empty. Here all was bustle and noise. Sergeants shouting and
corporals cursing; transport-officers giving directions; a party of New
Zealand sharpshooters in scout hats and leggings laughing and yarning;
a patrol of the R.E.'s Telegraph Section coming in after repairing the
wires along the beach; or a new batch of men, just arrived, falling in
with new-looking kit-bags.
It was through this throng of seething khaki and transport traffic
that our water-cart jostled and pushed.
Often we had to pull up to let the Indian Pack-mule Corps pass, and it
was at one of these halts that I happened to come close to one of these
dusky soldiers waiting calmly by the side of his mules.
I wished I had some knowledge of Hindustani, and began to think over
any words he might recognize.
"You ever hear of Rabindranarth Tagore, Johnnie?" I asked him. The name
of the great writer came to mind.
He shook his head. "No, sergeant," he answered.
"Buddha, Johnnie?" His face gleamed and he showed his great white teeth.
"No, Buddie."
"Mahomet, Johnnie?"
"Yes--me, Mahommedie," he said proudly.
"Gunga, Johnnie?" I asked, remembering the name of the sacred river
Ganges from Kipling's _Kim_.
"No Gunga, sa'b--Mahommedie, me."
"You go Benares, Johnnie?"
"No Benares."
"Mecca?"
"Mokka, yes; afterwards me go Mokka."
"After the war you going to Mokka, Johnnie?"
"Yes; Indee, France--here--Indee back again--then Mokka."
"You been to France, Johnnie?"
"Yes, sa'b."
"You know Kashmir, Johnnie?"
"Kashmir my house," he replied.
"You live in Kashmir?"
"Yes;--you go Indee, sergeant?"
"No, I've never been."
"No go Indee?"
"Not yet."
"Indee very good--English very good--Turk, finish!"
With a sudden jerk and a rattle of chains our water-cart mules pulled
out on the trail again and the ghostly figure with its well-folded
turban and gleaming white teeth was left behind.