discovered by the man in the street? One reason I have suggested. You
can shut your eyes in the Haymarket and conjure up an image of Gurkha,
Sikh, or Pathan, but you cannot thus airily summon the P. M.--because he
is Everyman, the type of all. Another source of his obscurity is the
illogical nomenclature of the Indian Army. A class designation does not
mean a class regiment. How many Baluchis proper are there in the
so-called Baluchi regiments? Who gives a thought to the Dogras, P. Ms.
and Pathans in the 51st, 52nd, 53rd, and 54th Sikhs, the Dekkani
Mussalman in the Maharatta regiments, or the Dogras and P. Ms. in the
40th Pathans? Now the P. M. only exists in the composite battalions. He
has no class regiment of his own. You may look in vain in the Army List
for the 49th Gakkars, 50th Awans, or the 69th Punjabi Mussalmans. Hence
it is that the P. M. swells the honour of others, while his own name is
not increased.
Every boy in the street heard of the 40th Pathans at Ypres, but few knew
that there were two companies of P. Ms. in the crowd--"as good as any of
them," the Major said, "men who would stiffen any regiment in the Indian
Army."
And when it is generally known that the ---- Sikhs were first into the
Turkish trenches on the right bank at Sheikh Saad and captured the two
mountain guns, nobody is likely to hear anything of the P. M. company
who was with them, a composite part of the battalion.
The Major's men had been complimented for every action they had been in,
and this was the scene of their most desperate struggle. But there was
little to recall the Sannaiyat of April--only an occasional bullet
whistling overhead, or cracking against the sandbags. Instead of mud a
thin dust was flying and the peaceful birds stood by the edge of the
lake.
I wished the P. M. could have his Homer. Happily he is not concerned
with the newspaper paragraph. Were the Press to discover him it is
doubtful if he would hear of it. He enlists freely. He is such an
obvious fact, stands out so saliently wherever the Indian Army is doing
anything, looms so large everywhere, that it has probably never entered
his head that his light could be obscured. But his British officer takes
the indifference of the profane crowd to heart. When he hears the Sikh,
Gurkha, and Pathan spoken of collectively as synonymous with the Indian
Army he is displeased; and his displeasure is natural, if not
philosophic. If he were philosophic he would find consolation in the
same sheets which annoy him, for it is better to be ignored than to be
advertised in a foolish way. It is with a joy that has no roots in pride
that the Indian Army officer reads of the Gurkha hurling his kukri at
the foe, or blooding his virgin blade on the forearms of the
self-devoting ladies of Marseilles, or of the grave, bearded Sikhs
handing round the hubble-bubble with the blood still wet on their
swords; or of the Bengali lancer dismounting and charging the serried
ranks of the Hun with his spear. Hearing of these wonders, the Sahib who
commands the Punjabi Mussalman, and loves his men, will discover comfort
in obscurity.
THE PATHAN
One often hears British officers in the Indian Army say that the Pathan
has more in common with the Englishman than other sepoys. This is
because he is an individualist. Personality has more play on the border,
and the tribesman is not bound by the complicated ritual that lays so
many restrictions on the Indian soldier. His life is more free. He is
more direct and outspoken, not so suspicious or self-conscious. He is a
gambler and a sportsman, and a bit of an adventurer, restless by nature,
and always ready to take on a new thing. He has a good deal of _joie de
vivre_. His sense of humour approximates to that of Thomas Atkins, and
is much more subtle than the Gurkha's, though he laughs at the same
things. He will smoke a pipe with the Dublin Fusiliers and share his
biscuits with the man of Cardiff or Kent. He is a Highlander, and so,
like the Gurkhas, naturally attracted by the Scot. Yet behind all these
superficial points of resemblance he has a code which in ultimate things
cuts him off from the British soldier with as clean a line of
demarcation as an unbridged crevasse.
The Pathan's code is very simple and distinct in primal and essential
things. The laws of hospitality, retaliation, and the sanctuary of his
hearth to the guest or fugitive are seldom violated. But acting within
the code the Pathan can indulge his bloodthirstiness, treachery, and
vindictiveness to an extent unsanctioned by the tables of the law
prescribed by other races and creeds. It is a savage code, and the only
saving grace about the business is that the Pathan is true to it, such
as it is, and expects to be dealt with by others as he deals by them.
The main fact in life across the border is the badi, or blood-feud. Few
families or tribes are without their vendettas. Everything that matters
hinges on them, and if an old feud is settled by mediation through the
Jirgah, there are seeds of a new one ready to spring up in every contact
of life. The favour of women, insults, injuries, murder, debt,
inheritance, boundaries, water-rights,--all these disputes are taken up
by the kin of the men concerned, and it is a point of honour to
assassinate, openly or by stealth, any one connected by blood with the
other side, however innocent he may be of the original provocation.
Truces are arranged at times by mutual convenience for ploughing,
sowing, or harvest; but as a rule it is very difficult for a man
involved in a badi to leave his watch-tower, and still more difficult
for him to return to it. It will be understood that the Pathan is an
artist in taking cover. He probably has a communication trench of his
own from his stronghold to his field, and no one better understands the
uses of dead ground.
[Illustration: THE PATHAN PIPERS.]
What makes these blood-feuds so endless and uncompromising is that
quarrels begun in passion are continued in cold blood for good form. The
Malik Din and Kambur Khil have been at war for nearly a century and
nobody remembers how it all began. It is a point of honour to retaliate,
however inconvenient the state of siege may be. The most ordinary
routine of life may become impossible. The young Pathan may be itching
to stroll out and lie on a bank and bask or fall asleep in the sun. But
this would be to deliver himself into the hands of his enemy. There is
no dishonour in creeping up and stabbing a man in the back when he is
sleeping; but there is very great dishonour in failing to take an
advantage of an adversary or neglecting to prosecute a blood feud to its
finish. Such softness is a kind of moral leprosy in the eyes of the
Pathan.
With so much at stake the Pathan cannot afford to be long away from
home. In peacetime he frequently puts in for short leave. "Sahib," Sher
Ali explains, "it is the most pressing matter." And the Sahib gathers
that evil is likely to befall either Sher Ali's family or his neighbour
Akbar Khan's during the next two weeks, and is bound by the brotherhood
of arms to provide, so far as he is able, that it is not Sher Ali's. So
the Pathan slips away from his regiment, anticipating the advertised
date of his leave by consent, for there are men in his company connected
by blood ties with the other party--men perhaps who are so far committed
that they would lie up for Sher Ali themselves on a dark night if they
were away on leave in their own country at the same time. But the code
does not permit the prosecution of a vendetta in the regiment. A Pathan
may find himself stretched beside his heart's abhorrence in a night
picquet, the two of them alone together, alert, with finger on the
trigger. They may have spent interminable long hours stalking each other
in their own hills, but here they are safe as in sanctuary.
The trans-frontier Pathan would not wittingly have enlisted in the
Indian Army if he could have foreseen the prospect of a three years'
campaign in a foreign land. The security of his wife, his children, his
cattle, his land, depend on his occasional appearance in his village.
The interests of the Indian sepoy are protected by the magistrate and
the police, but across the border the property of the man who goes away
and fights may become the property of the man who stays at home. The
exile is putting all the trump cards into his enemy's hands. The score
will be mounting up against him. His name will become less, if not his
kin; his womenkind may be dishonoured. In the event of his return the
other party will have put up such a tally that it will take him all his
time to pay off old scores. After a year of "the insane war" in which he
has no real stake, and from which he can see no probable retreat, he is
likely to take thought and brood. Government cannot protect his land and
family; continued exile may mean the abandonment of all he has. In the
tribal feud the man away on long service is likely to go under; the man
on the spot has things all his own way.
Now the Pathan is a casuist. He is more strict in the observance of the
letter of his code than in the observance of the spirit. An oath on the
Koran is generally binding where there is no opening for equivocation,
but it is not always respected if it can be evaded by a quibble. A
Pathan informer was tempted by a police officer to give the names of a
gang of dacoits.
"Sahib," he said, "I've sworn not to betray any son of man."
"You need not betray them," the officer suggested. "Don't tell me, tell
the wall."
The Pathan was sorely tempted. He thought over the ethics. Then he
smiled, and, like Pyramus, he addressed the wall:
"Oh! whited wall," he began, "their names are Mirza Yahya, Abdulla
Khan...."
The code was not violated, as with a robust conscience the Pathan gave
away the name of every man in the gang.
A tribesman who boasts that he would not injure a hair of an unclean
swine which took sanctuary in his house, will conduct the guest with
whom he has broken bread just beyond the limits of his property and
shoot him. In a land dispute a mullah ordained that the two rival
claimants should walk the boundary of the property in question on oath,
each carrying a Koran on his head. They walked over the same ground, and
each bore witness that he trod his paternal acres, and they did so
without shame, for each had concealed a bit of his own undoubted soil in
his shoe. When a round or two of ammunition are missing, the subadar of
the company will raise a little heap of dust on the parade ground and
make each man as he passes by plunge his clenched fist in it, and swear
that he has not got the ammunition. The rounds are generally found in
the dustheap, and nobody is perjured.
An officer in a Pathan militia regiment found a stumpy little tree stuck
in the sand near the gate of the camp where trees do not grow. He was
puzzled, and asked one Indian officer after another to explain. They all
grinned rather sheepishly. "It is this way, Sahib," one of them said at
last. "We lose a number of small things in the camp. Now when an object
is lost the theft is announced, and each man as he passes the tree says,
'Allah curse the Budmash who stole the boots,' or the dish, or the
turban, or whatever it may be. And so it will happen sometimes that the
article will be found hanging in the fork of the tree in the morning
when darkness gives place to light."
The Pathan cannot bear up under the weight of such commination, it
spoils his sleep at night. Not that he has a sensitive conscience:
theft, murder, and adultery are not crimes to him in the abstract, but
only so far as they violate hospitality or loyalty to a bond. He has no
sentiment, or inkling of chivalry; but he must save his face, avoid
shame, follow the code, and prefer death to ridicule or dishonour. One
of the axioms of his code is that he must be true to his salt. The
trans-frontier Pathan is not a subject of the King as is the British
Indian sepoy, but he has taken an oath. An oath is in the ordinary way
binding, but if it can be shown that he has sworn unwittingly and
against his religion--every text in the Koran is capable of a double
interpretation--why, then the obligation is annulled. "Your religion
comes first"--the argument is put to him by the Hun and the Turk. "No
oath sworn to infidels can compel you to break your faith with Allah."
The Pathan is not normally a religious fanatic any more than the Punjabi
Mussalman. Had he been so he would not have ranged himself with us
against an Islamic enemy, as he has done in every frontier campaign for
the last half-century. But in this war Islam offered him the one decent
retreat from an intolerable position.
There were one or two cases of desertion among the Pathans in France and
Mesopotamia. The Pathan did not expect absolution if he fell into our
hands afterwards, or if he were caught trying to slip away. Forgiveness
is not in his nature. But think of the temptation, the easiness of
self-persuasion. Remember how subtly the maggot of sophistry works even
in the head of the Christian divine. Then listen to the burning words of
the Jehad:--
"Act not so that the history of your family may be stained with the ink
of disgrace and the blood of your Muhammadan brethren be shed for the
attainment of the objects of unbelievers. We write this to you in
compliance with the orders of God Almighty, the kind and also stern
Avenger."
A hundred texts might be quoted, and have been quoted, from the Koran to
show that it is obligatory for the Moslem soldier to fight against his
King's enemies, whether they be of his own faith or no. But how many,
after taking thought and counsel of expediency, are quite sure that
black is not white after all! The deserter may not escape to the Hun
lines and the pretended converts of Islam, whom instinct, stirring
beneath the Jehadist's logic, must teach him to despise. And he is for
the wall if he is caught, shamefully led out and bandaged and shot in
the eyes of his brethren who have been true to their oath. None of us
would hesitate to slip the trigger against a traitor of his kidney. The
man's very memory is abhorred. Yet in dealing out summary execution one
should remember the strong bias that deflected his mind. Out of the mud
and poisoned gas of Flanders. Out of Mesopotamia. Out of the blood and
fruitless sacrifice, the doom of celibacy, the monotony which is only
broken by the variety it offers of different shapes of disease and
death. Back to his tower and maize field if his kin have held them, and
his wife if she has waited for him, and all in the name of honour and
religion.
It may seem a mistake in writing of a brave people to take note of
backsliders; but the instances in which the Pathan has been seduced from
loyalty have been so discussed that it is better for the collective
honour of the race to examine the psychological side of it frankly. It
would be a great injustice to the Pathan if it were thought that any
failed us through fear.
In courage and coolness the Pathan is the unquestioned equal of any man.
Mir Dast, of Coke's Rifles F.F., attached to Wilde's Rifles F.F. in
France, the first Indian officer to win the V.C., was a type of the best
class of Afridi. No one who knew him was surprised to hear how, at the
second battle of Ypres, after all his officers had fallen, he selected
and consolidated a line with his small handful of men; how, though
wounded and gassed himself, he held the ground he had hastily scratched
up, walking fearlessly up and down encouraging his men; how, satisfied
at last that the line was secure, he continued to carry in one disabled
man after another, British and Indian, back to safety under heavy fire.
Mir Dast had told the Colonel of the 55th, when he left the battalion in
Bannu to join the regiment he was attached to in France, that he would
not come back without the Victoria Cross. "Now that Indians may compete
for this greatest of all bahadris," he said, "I shall return with it or
remain on the field." And he did not say this in a boastful manner, but
quietly as a matter of course, as though there were no other
alternative; just as a boxer might tell you by way of assurance,
repeating an understood thing, that he was going to fight on until the
other man was knocked out. I met Mir Dast afterwards in hospital, and
was struck with the extraordinary dignity and quiet reserve of the man;
an impression of gallantry was conveyed in his brow and eyes, like a
stamp on metal.
It was in the Mohmand campaign that Mir Dast won the I.O.M., in those
days the nearest Indian equivalent to the V.C. An officer friend of mine
and his who spoke to him in his stretcher after the fight, told me that
he found Mir Dast beaming. "I am very pleased, Sahib," he said. "I've
had a good fight, and I've killed the man that wounded me." And he held
up his bayonet and pointed to a foot-long stain of blood. He had been
shot through the thigh at three yards, but had lunged forward and got
his man. On the same day another Afridi did a very Pathan-like thing. I
will tell the story here, as it is typical of the impetuous, reckless
daring of the breed, that sudden lust for honour which sweeps the Pathan
off his feet, and carries him sometimes to the achievement of the
impossible--an impulse, brilliant while it lasts, but not so admirable
as the more enduring flame that is always trimmed and burns steadily
without flaring.
Nur Baz was a younger man than Mir Dast, and one of the same Afridi
company. It entered his head, just as it entered the head of Mir Dast
when he left Bannu for France, that he must achieve something really
remarkable. The young man was of the volatile, boastful sort, very
different from the hero of Ypres, and to his quick imagination the
conception of his bahadri was the same thing as the accomplishment of
it, or the difference, if there were any, was only one of tense. So he
began to talk about what he was going to do until he wearied the young
officer to whom he was orderly. "Bring me your bahadri first, Nur Baz,"
the subaltern said a little impatiently, "then I shall congratulate you,
but don't bukh so much about it."
The pride went out of Nur Baz at this snub as the air out of a pricked
bladder, and he was very shamefaced until his opportunity came. This was
in the same attack in which Mir Dast fell. The regiment were burning a
village, and the Afridi company had to clear the ridge behind which
commanded it; they and another Pathan company were attacking up parallel
spurs. Nur Baz, finding that his orderly work committed him to a
secondary _rôle_ in the operations, asked if he might join his section,
which was to lead the attack. He obtained his officer's consent, and was
soon scrambling up the hillside in the pursuit. When the leading section
extended he found the advance too slow, so he squatted behind a boulder,
waited until the wave had got on a few yards, then dived down to the
bottom of the nullah, climbed up again under cover, and in a few minutes
appeared on the edge of the spur some 250 yards in advance of the
assault. A yell of rage went up from the Pathans behind when they found
that Nur Baz had forestalled them and was going to be first in at the
death. But Nur Baz was happy as he leapt from one great boulder to
another, the ground spitting up under him, and stopped every moment to
get in a shot at the men in the sangar in front. Just as he reached it a
Martini bullet struck his rifle in the small of the butt and broke off
the stock. He could not fire now, but he fixed his bayonet and charged
the sangar with his broken weapon. There were three men in it when he
clambered over the parapet. One was dead, another who had missed him
with his muzzle-loader a second or two before was reloading, and the
third was slipping away. Nur Baz bayoneted the man who was reloading
just as he withdrew the rod with which he was ramming the charge home;
then he picked up the dead man's rifle and shot the fugitive; thus he
cleared his little bit of front alone.
His subaltern had watched this very spectacular bit of bahadri from the
parallel spur; but he only discovered that the central figure of it was
his orderly when Mir Dast in his stretcher remarked, "Nur Baz has done
well, Sahib, hasn't he?" Afterwards Nur Baz appeared "with a jaw like a
bulldog, grinning all over, and the three rifles slung to his shoulder,"
and received the congratulations of his Sahib.
"Sahib," he said, "will you honour me by taking one of these? Choose the
one you like best."
The subaltern selected the muzzle-loader, but Nur Baz demurred.
"I must first see the Colonel Sahib," he said, "if you choose that one."
"And why?"
"It is loaded, and it is not permitted to fire off a round in the camp
without the Colonel Sahib's permission."
Just then the Colonel arrived, and Nur Baz, having obtained permission,
raised the rifle jauntily to his shoulder and with evident satisfaction
loosed the bullet which ought to have cracked his brain pan into the
empty air. Nur Baz and Mir Dast, though differing much in style, both
had a great deal of the original Pathan in them.
One more story of an Afridi. It was in France. There had been an
unsuccessful attack on the German lines. A sergeant of the Black Watch
was lying dead in no-man's land, and the Hun sniper who had accounted
for him lay somewhere in his near neighbourhood; he had lain there for
hours taking toll of all who exposed themselves. It was getting dark
when an officer of the 57th Rifles saw a Pathan, Sher Khan, pushing his
way along the trench towards the spot. The man was wasting no time; he
was evidently on some errand, only he carried no rifle. The officer
called after him:
"Hello, Sher Khan, where are you off to?"
"I am going to get the sniper, Sahib, who shot the sergeant."
"But why haven't you got a rifle?"
"I am not going to dirty mine, Sahib. I'll take the sergeant's."
It was still light when he crawled over the parapet and wriggled his way
down a furrow to where the sergeant lay. The sniper saw him, and missed
him twice. Sher Khan did not reply to this fire. He lay quite still by
the side of the Highlander and gently detached one of his spats. This he
arranged so that in the half light it looked like a white face peeping
over the man's body. Then he withdrew twenty yards to one side and
waited. Soon the Hun's head appeared from his pit a few yards off and
disappeared quickly. But Sher Khan bided his time. The sniper was
evidently intrigued, and as it grew darker he exposed himself a little
more each time he raised his head peering at the white face over the
dead Highlander's shoulder. At last he knelt upright, reassured--the
thing was so motionless; nevertheless he decided that another bullet in
it would do no harm. He was taking steady aim when the Pathan fired. The
range was too close for a miss even in that light, and the Hun rolled
over. Half an hour afterwards Sher Khan returned with the Hun's rifle
and the Highlander's under his arm; in his right hand he carried the
Hun's helmet, a grisly sight, as his bullet had crashed through the
man's brain.
It is his individual touch, his brilliancy in initiative and coolness
and daring in execution that has earned the Afridi his high reputation
among Pathans. The trans-frontier Pathan with his eternal blood-feuds
would naturally have the advantage in this kind of work over the Pathan
from our side of the border; his whole life from his boyhood up is a
preparation for it. That is why some of the most brilliant soldiers in
the Indian Army have been Afridis. On the other hand, collectively and
in companies, the cis-frontier Yusafzais and Khattaks have maintained a
higher aggregate of the military virtues, especially in the matter of
steadiness and "sticking it out."