The Ravi Lancers by John Masters Page A

straight. He put his pipe in his teeth and walked firmly across the ground, over the prone kabaddi players. Shikari trotted at his side, ears pricked.
    ‘Drop, sahib!’ a prostrate figure called up to him. ‘He’s gone mad.’
    He advanced. Another bullet smacked by, then the man ran forward, to get closer. He was swaying as he aimed. The bullet cracked so close that Warren imagined he could feel the wind of its passage. Shikari barked angrily and darted forward. From the corner of his eye Warren saw men running behind the tents to take the marksman from behind. Then he was almost looking down the muzzle of the rifle, and into the man’s enlarged red pupils. He snapped in Hindustani, ‘Put that rifle down! Attention!’
    Slowly a look of puzzlement came over the man’s fuddled face. Slowly he lowered the rifle. Warren realized that Krishna Ram was at his side. Men appeared among the tents, led by a lance-dafadar from the quarterguard with levelled rifle.
    ‘Wait,’ he commanded them. ‘You ... attention, I said.’
    The man placed the butt of the rifle by his bare foot and stood at attention, swaying.
    ‘Why were you shooting?’ Warren demanded.
    ‘Sahib ... I don’t know ... I thought... I saw the enemy . . ‘
    ‘ Bhang ,’ Krishna said disgustedly, naming the popular North Indian type of hashish. ‘I can smell it on his breath.’
    ‘Put him in close arrest,’ Warren said. ‘Tell the adjutant to see that he comes before the CO tomorrow.’
    ‘Yes, sir ... You were marvellous, sir! I’ve never seen anything so brave, just walking slowly up to him with your pipe in your mouth. You gave me the courage to get up and follow you.’ Warren said, ‘I knew there wasn’t much danger ... By the way, whose tent is that?’ He indicated the tent inside which as far as he knew, there was still a woman.
    ‘Dayal Ram’s sir. The Adjutant.’
    ‘Tell him about the shooting, now, then.’ He walked away. Now Krishna would burst in on whatever was going on inside the tent; and then perhaps he, Warren, would learn what the Ravi Lancers did about officers making love to village women at four o’clock in the afternoon in the middle of camp.
    As he neared the dak bungalow he saw a heavily loaded tonga struggling through the mud of the driveway. Two Indians, one fair and one very black, both in uniform, sat in the back. The tonga stopped in front of the quarterguard, the horse’s head hanging. The travellers climbed down. The fair Indian called to the quarterguard commander, ‘ Dafadar-ji , where’s the adjutant-sahib’s office?’
    By then Warren was close enough to see that the speaker wore the crowns of a rissaldar-major. The black Indian wore a baggy, ill-fitting uniform and the three stars of a captain: an Indian captain would only be in the Medical Service, so this must be the new Regimental Medical Officer. He walked forward, saying, ‘Can I help?’
    The black captain turned slowly, looked Warren carefully up and down, as though he were a specimen to be put under a microscope, and then saluted in an ungainly and grudging fashion.
    ‘I am Captain Ramaswami, Indian Medical Service,’ he said. ‘I am a specialist in gynaecology and working on many important research projects in Madras--important for the women of India--when I was posted to the military side for this European war--which is of no importance to anyone in India.’
    Warren introduced himself, thinking that the man was looking for trouble. The sooner they got him back to his gynaecology, the better. ‘Were you trained in India, doctor?’ he asked.
    ‘No. At St. Mary’s Hospital, London. I am FRCS and MRCP.’
    The other man was ten years older, and had probably been very slim when younger, but he was thickening now and there was a little bulge under the faultlessly polished Sam Browne belt. The buckle of the belt was a big silver plaque bearing the cipher of Queen Victoria and in raised metal letters the word guides. He saluted briskly and