The Ravi Lancers by John Masters

he’d start on the VCOs. It was a great pity there was no rissaldar-major at the moment. The previous one had been much respected, according to Krishna Ram, but he was sixty. The Rajah had wanted to send him on active service, but the Government of India had insisted on posting a rissaldar-major from the regular army to replace him, and this man hadn’t arrived yet. It would be a disaster, Warren thought, if the newcomer were not an outstanding personality. The VCOs here were a good lot, better overall than the officers, but they lacked a true disciplinary sense. They were too much like elder brothers to the sowars, not their leaders and overseers, responsible for everything they did and did not do.
    He was wondering what the men would be doing at this time, when there was a knock on his door. He called, ‘Come in.’
    Krishna Ram entered, saluting. ‘A game of kabaddi is just starting, sir. I thought you might like to watch.’
    ‘Thanks, I would.’ He got up and began putting on his Sam Browne.
    ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, sir,’ Krishna said.
    Warren said, ‘An officer’s either in uniform, Krishna, or he’s not.’
    ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Krishna said. ‘I’ll get my belt.’
    ‘It would be better,’ Warren said.
    The young man ducked out, returning a minute later wearing his belt and sabre. Warren sighed. As they weren’t going on parade with troops they didn’t need to wear sabres. Well, one thing at a time. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t organized a cricket match,’ he said smiling.
    ‘It’s my favourite game, the greatest game in the world,’ Krishna said fervently, ‘but rain’s spoiled the grass here, we couldn’t make a pitch ... Do you think there’ll still be county cricket in England next year?’
    ‘On account of the war? I imagine so.’
    ‘I’ll spend all my leave from the front watching ... if the war’s still on then.’
    Warren and Krishna stood side by side for half an hour watching the men, naked except for tiny loin-cloths, their bodies oiled, run and wrestle and elude each other up and down the barren land between the horse lines and the nearest wheat fields. Clouds piling higher over the Siwaliks and a livid gleam on the remote Himalayan snows promised more rain for the night. The air was very damp, but it was not unbearably hot. The long lines of horses swished their tails in the ‘stables’, and sowars wandered about, singing, or squatted on the ground mending their socks, or dozed on the
    ground sheets spread inside the tents.
    Happening to glance round at a moment of inaction in the kabaddi Warren noticed a woman gliding between the tents behind him. That was Regimental Headquarters, he knew. The sentry at the end of the row, leaning negligently on his lance, made no move to stop her. Perhaps she was a petitioner come to complain about the troops riding through the crops. She slipped into a tent. Warren thought it was an officer’s, for it stood a little apart. The flap closed behind her. Warren turned back.
    Women in the lines was a matter that could easily come up in France. He’d better find out from Colonel Hanbury what his policy was on such things.
    The game continued. Warren began to light his pipe. A sharp crack in the air over his head made him duck involuntarily. Immediately afterwards he heard the bang of the rifle. ‘What the hell . . . ?’ he began, then another bullet cracked over his head, but closer. The kabaddi players had hurled themselves on the ground or were racing for the shelter of the trees. Krishna Ram was flat on the ground beside him. He saw then that in the middle of one of the rows of tents a man with a rifle was taking aim, apparently at him, Warren, across the maidan . He was about a hundred and fifty yards away.
    ‘Stop!‘ Warren shouted. ‘Banduq girne do!’ He felt no fear. The man was trying to kill him, but as he didn’t know him he could have no real intent. He was drunk, or doped, and would not be able to see very