As everybody knows, a Gurkha is first of all a rifleman, but apart
from his rifle (which to a hill-man is both meat and raiment) there
are two other treasures very dear to the little man's heart. These are
his kukri and his umbrella--symbols of war and peace; and, although he
knows the weapon proper to each state and can dispense (none better)
with superfluities, there must have been many times in France when the
absence of his umbrella has caused him a bitter nostalgia. "Battle
is blessed by Allah and no man tires thereof," but trenches are of
the Shaitan, and from the same malevolent one comes the ever-raging
bursat, the pitiless drenching rain, that falls where a man may not
strip.
With his kukri he did wonders out there on stilly nights, when he
wriggled "over the top," gripping its good blade in his teeth. Then
No Man's Land became a jungle and the Bosch a beast whose dispatch
was swift and sure under his cunning wrist. Dawn would find him
squatting in the corner of his dug-out sleeping as one who has sweet
dreams--dreams maybe of counting the decapitated before an admiring
crowd in his native city, himself again the dapper young dog of
Darrapore.
No kilted Jock goes with more swagger down Princes Street than Johnny
Gurkha down the bazaar of Darrapore, particularly in the evening, when
he doffs khaki for the mufti suit of his clan--the spotless white
shorts, coat of black sateen, little cocked cap and brightly bordered
stockings--a _mode de rigueur_ that would be robbed of its final
_cachet_ without the black umbrella, tucked well up under the arm.
A splendid warrior; in private life a bit of a _Don Juan_, perhaps;
but his womenfolk bear him no grudge on this score, liking themselves
to sail easy through matrimonial seas.
When I returned to the depôt a month ago there were tales, but, as
our old Subadar-Major observed, "War brought little disturbances. The
mischief was unfortunate, perhaps, but not irremediable," and, as the
Subadar had himself been on service in China for a matter of three
years, he knew what he was talking about.
As for the tales, well, I was reminded of them a few days ago on
making a tour of the lines to see that quarters were clean and
habitable for the next batch of invalids. There would be hospital
for some, for others the sunny little married quarters, and round
there wives were bustling with glee, making no secret of their late
coquetries, but manifestly glad of the return of their former lords.
Brass pots were being scoured in the doorways; babies sprawled in the
sun; a smell of cooking sweetmeats filled the air; a band of small
urchins in the roadway, wearing the sham accoutrements of war, was
prancing blithely to the song of "Lang-taraf-Tippalaerlee," and
as their leader pulled up to give me a grave and perfect salute I
recognised the son of old Bahadur Rai.
Now Bahadur Rai would be returning, and, as I recalled the man, I
wondered how he would take the news of Bibi, his capricious wife, for
I had heard (unofficially) that she had no intention of leaving the
lines of the 2nd Battalion, or the dashing young Naik Indrase. This
might be a bit awkward, I mused, remembering the tough little chap who
had been so popular with us all by reason of being the best _shikari_
in the regiment. His incorrigible love of sport may have made the
defaulter's sheet ugly (and there's no denying that "Absent with
leave" does not lead to quick promotion); but that was in the good
old days. Now he was returning covered with glory, and I was sorry
about Bibi.
The train arrived at noon with what our travelled Babu calls the
"blissies." They were nearly all marked "P.D.", and I hope it may be
given to me to look as cheerful when my turn comes to be Permanently
Disabled.
It was worth a week's pay to see the grins on their brown puckered
faces and hear their husky contented salaams as they were lifted from
the train. Blankets, top-coats, pillows, and other items belonging
to the State were gaily abandoned, but every man clung with tenacity
to his tunic and his water-bottle, for was there not a collection of
trophies in those bulging pockets and sea-water in those battered
bottles? Real salt sea-water, for the taste and enlightenment of
incredulous elders.
Outside the station the usual crowd had gathered, where it disported
itself like a herd of wild elephants. Veteran bandsmen played the
regimental march; casual minstrels blew conches or banged tom-toms;
and when at last the ambulance waggons moved off, drawn by oxen that
wore blue bead necklaces, and marigolds over their ears, one had the
proud satisfaction of feeling that the most perfect organisation in
the world could not have given our fine fellows a reception more after
their own hearts.
When we reached the parade-ground the scene was still merry and
bright, for there Gurkha ladies were massed in their many-coloured
_saris_, chattering for all the world like the parrakeets they
resembled. Dogs barked; pet names were squealed; old men waved their
staffs; children clung to the waggons and whooped, and when the
cortège finally turned into the hospital compound and I cantered back
to the lines I wondered what a London bobby would have made of the
heterogeneous traffic that littered the Darrapore Road. I had to sit
tight in office to get level with work that evening, and the mess
bugle was dwelling maliciously on its top note when at last I put
down my pen.
Then the door opened and with a confederate mysterious air the orderly
announced Bahadur Rai. (Heavens!)
"And the Sahib?" the Bahadur was asking in swift Nepalese after a
wealth of salutations was over. "Can but one arm do all this?" waving
towards my bulging files.
"One does not want two hands to write with, you know, Bahadur."
"True. But the shooting?" he added sadly.
"We'll have that again too some day. Great things are done in Vilayat,
where I go when peace comes. And you? You have done well, Bahadur."
"Well enough," he admitted with a trace of pride, Then, after a pause,
"The 2nd Battalion starts on service to-morrow, Sahib?"
"Yes. A few men will be left at the depôt--not those of any use."
"And Naik Indrase, does he go?"
"No. The Colonel-Sahib put his name down long ago for station duty."
"Then I desire leave, your Honour. I want to visit 2nd Battalion
lines."
"Ah! Put it off a bit," I urged weakly. "It's rough getting across the
nullah, and with that crutch--"
There was silence. "Your son?" I began irrelevantly.
"My son does well and grows fast, Allah be praised. Later he will come
to the hills to learn the ways of a gun. Even now he has the heart of
a lion," added the proud father with a return of the old twinkle in
his eyes. "But of this other matter. Perhaps the Sahib has heard what
the Naik has done?"
"Yes," I admitted reluctantly. "I visited your house this morning. All
was in order, and I gave instructions about the roof, which--"
"It is already repaired," interrupted the old fellow quickly, "and my
mother has arranged all things well within. But the Naik, Sahib. It is
necessary that I should beat him. The Sahib has heard--"
"About Bibi? Yes. But he will give her up," I said confidently.
"Bibi? He can keep Bibi. She was ever swift with her tongue and liked
not the ways of _shikaris_. Yes, he can keep Bibi," added Bahadur Rai
without bitterness. "But, Sahib"--and here the little man's voice rose
almost to a scream of indignation--"that was not the _worst_. The Naik
must be beaten, and _well_ beaten, for he took, not Bibi alone--he
took _my umbrella!_"
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[Illustration: "YOU'VE GOT _SOME_ ROCKERY HERE, DAD, SINCE I LEFT."
"HUSH! NOT A WORD. IT'S COAL, MY BOY, WHITEWASHED! CELLAR'S FULL UP."]
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