At Suvla Bay Part 15

"Buddha, Johnnie?" His face gleamed and he showed his great white teeth.

"No, Buddie."

"Mahomet, Johnnie?"

"Yes--me, Mahommedie," he said proudly.

"Gunga, Johnnie?" I asked, remembering the name of the sacred river Ganges from Kipling's "Kim."

"No Gunga, sa'b--Mahommedie, me."

"You go Benares, Johnnie?"

"No Benares."

"Mecca?"

"Mokka, yes; afterwards me go Mokka."

"After the war you going to Mokka, Johnnie?"

"Yes; Indee, France--here--Indee back again--then Mokka."

"You been to France, Johnnie?"

"Yes, sa'b."

"You know Kashmir, Johnnie?"

"Kashmir my house," he replied.

"You live in Kashmir?"

"Yes; you go Indee, sergeant?"

"No, I've never been."

"No go Indee?"

"Not yet."

"Indee very good--English very good--Turk, finish!"

With a sudden jerk and a rattle of chains our water-cart mules pulled out on the trail again and the ghostly figure with its well-folded turban and gleaming white teeth was left behind.

A beautifully calm race, the Hindus. They did wonderful work at Suvla Bay. Up and down, up and down, hour after hour they worked steadily on; taking up biscuits, bully-beef and ammunition to the firing-line, and returning for more and still more. Day and night these splendidly built Easterns kept up the supply.

I remember one man who had had his left leg blown off by shrapnel sitting on a rock smoking a cigarette and great tears rolling down his cheeks. But he said no word. Not a groan or a cry of pain.

They ate little, and said little. But they were always extraordinarily polite and courteous to each other. They never neglected their prayers, even under heavy sh.e.l.l fire.

Once, when we were moving from the Salt Lake to "C" Beach, Lala Baba, the Indians moved all our equipment in their little two-wheeled carts.

They were much amused and interested in our sergeant clerk, who stood 6 feet 8 inches. They were joking and pointing to him in a little bunch.

Going up to them, I pointed up to the sky, and then to the Sergeant, saying: "Himalayas, Johnnie!"

They roared with laughter, and ever afterwards called him "Himalayas."

THE INDIAN TRANSPORT TRAIN

(Across the bed of the Salt Lake every night from the Supply Depot at Kangaroo Beach to the firing-line beyond Chocolate Hill, September 1915.)

(footnote: "Jhill-o!"--Hindustani for "Gee-up"; used by the drivers of the Indian Pack-mule Corps.)

The Indian whallahs go up to the hills-- "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

They pa.s.s by the spot where the gun-cotton kills; They shiver and huddle--they feel the night chills-- "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

With creaking and jingle of harness and pack-- "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

Where the moonlight is white and the shadows are black, They are climbing the winding and rocky mule-track-- "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

By the blessing of Allah he's more than one wife; "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

He's forbidden the wine which encourages strife, But you don't like the look of his dangerous knife; "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

The picturesque whallah is dusky and spare; "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

A turban he wears with magnificent air, But he chucks down his pack when it's time for his prayer; "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

When his moment arrives he'll be dropped in a hole; "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

'Tis Kismet, he says, and beyond his control; But the dear little houris will comfort his soul; "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

The Indian whallahs go up to the hills; "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

They pa.s.s by the spot where the gun-cotton kills; But those who come down carry something that chills; "Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

CHAPTER XXI. SILVER BAY

On the edge of the Salt Lake, by the blue Aegean sh.o.r.e, Hawk and I dug a little underground home into the sandy hillock upon which our ambulance was now encamped.

"I'm going deep into this," said Hawk--he was a very skilful miner, and he knew his work.

"None of your dead heroes for me," he said; "I don't hold with 'em--we'll make it PRACtically sh.e.l.l-proof." We did. Each day we burrowed into the soft sandy layers, he swinging the pick, and I filling up sand-bags. At last we made a sort of cave, a snug little Peter Pan home, sand-bagged all round and safe from sh.e.l.ls when you crawled in.

I often thought what a fine thing Stevenson would have written from the local colour of the bay.

Its changing colours were intense and wonderful. In the early morning the waves were a rich royal blue, with splashing lines of white breakers rolling in and in upon the pale grey sand, and the sea-birds skimming and wheeling overhead.