Hira Singh | Page 4

them even better than the daily paper
promised.
Had Ranjoor Singh and his men been Muhammadans their
accomplishment would have been sufficiently wonderful. For Sikhs to
attempt what they carried through, even under such splendid leadership
as Ranjoor Singh's, was to defy the very nth degree of odds. To have
tried to tell the tale otherwise than in Hira Singh's own words would
have been to varnish gold. Amid the echoes of the roar of the guns in

Flanders, the world is inclined to overlook India's share in it all and the
stout proud loyalty of Indian hearts. May this tribute to the gallant
Indian gentlemen who came to fight our battles serve to remind its
readers that they who give their best, and they who take, are one.
T. M.

One hundred Indian troops of the British Army have arrived at Kabul,
Afghanistan, after a four months' march from Constantinople. The men
were captured in Flanders by the Germans and were sent to Turkey in
the hope that, being Mohammedans, they might join the Turks. But
they remained loyal to Great Britain and finally escaped, heading for
Afghanistan. They now intend to join their regimental depot in India,
so it is reported.
New York Times, July, 1915

Hira Singh

CHAPTER I
Let a man, an arrow, and an answer each go straight. Each is his own
witness. God is judge. --EASTERN PROVERB.
A Sikh who must have stood about six feet without his turban--and
only imagination knows how stately he was with it--loomed out of the
violet mist of an Indian morning and scrutinized me with calm brown
eyes. His khaki uniform, like two of the medal ribbons on his breast,
was new, but nothing else about him suggested rawness. Attitude,
grayness, dignity, the unstudied strength of his politeness, all sang
aloud of battles won. Battles with himself they may have been--but
they were won.
I began remembering ice-polished rocks that the glaciers once dropped
along Maine valleys, when his quiet voice summoned me back to India
and the convalescent camp beyond whose outer gate I stood. Two flags
on lances formed the gate and the boundary line was mostly imaginary;
but one did not trespass, because at about the point where vision no
longer pierced the mist there stood a sentry, and the grounding of a butt
on gravel and now and then a cough announced others beyond him

again.
"I have permission," I said, "to find a certain Risaldar-major Ranjoor
Singh, and to ask him questions."
He smiled. His eyes, betraying nothing but politeness, read the very
depths of mine.
"Has the sahib credentials?" he asked. So I showed him the permit
covered with signatures that was the one scrap of writing left in my
possession after several searchings.
"Thank you," he said gravely. "There were others who had no permits.
Will you walk with me through the camp?"
That was new annoyance, for with such a search as I had in mind what
interest could there be in a camp for convalescent Sikhs? Tents pitched
at intervals--a hospital marquee--a row of trees under which some of
the wounded might sit and dream the day through-these were all things
one could imagine without journeying to India. But there was nothing
to do but accept, and I walked beside him, wishing I could stride with
half his grace.
"There are no well men here," he told me. "Even the heavy work about
the camp is done by convalescents."
"Then why are you here?" I asked, not trying to conceal admiration for
his strength and stature.
"I, too, am not yet quite recovered."
"From what?" I asked, impudent because I felt desperate. But I drew no
fire.
"I do not know the English name for my complaint," he said. (But he
spoke English better than I, he having mastered it, whereas I was only
born to its careless use.)
"How long do you expect to remain on the sick list?" I asked, because a

woman once told me that the way to make a man talk is to seem to be
interested in himself.
"Who knows?" said he.
He showed me about the camp, and we came to a stand at last under the
branches of an enormous mango tree. Early though it was, a Sikh
non-commissioned officer was already sitting propped against the trunk
with his bandaged feet stretched out in front of him--a peculiar attitude
for a Sikh.
"That one knows English," my guide said, nodding. And making me a
most profound salaam, he added: "Why not talk with him? I have duties.
I must go."
The officer turned away, and I paid him the courtesy due from one man
to another. It shall always be a satisfying memory that I raised my hat
to him and that