True, he carries little books of French and English
which tell him how to say “Porter, get my luggage
and take it to a cab,” or “Please bring
me a laundry list,” or “Give my kind regards
to your parents,” Imagine him trying to find
the French for “Look out, they’re coming!”
to call to a French neighbour, in the inevitable mix-up
of the line during a melee, and finding only
“These trousers do not fit well,” or “I
would like an ice and then a small piece of cheese.”
It was a curious group that sat in a semicircle around
that peasant woman’s stove, waiting for the
kettle to boil—the tall Indian major with
his aristocratic face and long, quiet hands, the young
English officer in his Headquarters Staff uniform,
the French interpreter, and I. Just inside the door
the major’s Indian servant, tall, impassive
and turbaned, stood with folded arms, looking over
our heads. And at the table the placid faced
peasant woman cut slices of yellow bread, made with
eggs and milk, and poured our coffee.
It was very good coffee, served black. The woman
brought a small decanter and placed it near me.
“It is rum,” said the major, “and
very good in coffee.”
I declined the rum. The interpreter took a little.
The major shook his head.
“Although they say that a Sikh never refuses
rum!” he said, smiling.
Coffee over, we walked about the village. Hardly
a village—a cluster of houses along unpaved
lanes which were almost impassable. There were
tumbling stables full of horses, groups of Indians
standing under dripping eaves for shelter, sentries,
here and there a peasant. The houses were replicas
of the one where Makand Singh had his quarters.
Although it was still raining, a dozen Indian Lancers
were exercising their horses. They dismounted
and stood back to let us pass. Behind them, as
they stood, was the great Cross.
That was the final picture I had of the village of
Ham and the Second Lahore Lancers—the turbaned
Indians with their dripping horses, the grave bow
of Makand Singh as he closed the door of the car, and
behind him a Scotch corporal in kilt and cap, with
a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
We went on. I looked back, Makand Singh was making
his careful way through the mud; the horses were being
led to a stable. The Cross stood alone.
SIR JOHN FRENCH
The next day I was taken along the English front,
between the first and the second line of trenches,
from Bethune, the southern extremity of the line,
the English right flank, to the northern end of the
line just below Ypres. In a direct line the British
front at that time extended along some twenty-seven
miles. But the line was irregular, and I believe
was really well over thirty.
I have never been in an English trench. I have
been close enough to the advance trenches to be shown
where they lay, and to see the slight break they make
in the flat country. I was never in a dangerous
position at the English front, if one excepts the fact
that all of that portion of the country between the
two lines of trenches is exposed to shell fire.
