Or perhaps it was late. There was no way of telling. The light came and went, without reason, and seemingly very quickly. Either time had slowed or he was becoming conscious and then again unconscious, so it was impossible to tell whether the darknesses were outside himself, such as night, or inside, such as unconsciousness.
The boot marks meant that someone had passed close since the snow began to fall; but when was that? He had been with the machine guns at the side of an old communication trench now in No Man’s Land. Something had gone wrong, and he had crawled off to put it right. Then there was very heavy shelling and ... it was dark.
Light came slowly. Snow, mud, the boot print... ah, unchanged, though it was still snowing! So he had not been unconscious for more than a few minutes. Where was he? Crawling along the fallen-in trench looking for something or someone. A place? Warren Bateman? The god Brahma? Arjun the mighty warrior? Brahma seemed very close, but would not speak. There was music in this place. Strange music. Singing.
Then something had hit him on the side of the head, was it? Or the back? He could feel no pain, no pleasure. But something had hit him out of an enormous brightness, orange and yellow. It could not have been a shell fragment or he wouldn’t be looking at the boot print in the snow. He’d be dead and there would be blood in the snow.
Suppose he was dead. The boot was someone looking for him. Major Bateman, perhaps. He’d have to ... darkness.
Ah, a longer time this time, the boot print so blurred by the new snow it was hard to count the hobnails. He must have snow on his head now, or perhaps there was earth on top of that, too. On top of his body. Earth everywhere with him under and the snow on top. Was it possible that he had been buried? And the music he heard was a choir in the sky? Was it perhaps the voice of Brahma? No living human had heard Brahma speak, so who could say for certain that his voice was not like a choir? But would it come from two places, for surely there was a singing ahead, the way his eyes were looking, and also a singing from behind, somewhere behind his feet, where he could not look? The darkness advanced again, but like a fearful company, slowing, leaving a half light on the snow and the mud, then retreating ... again Krishna knew that he saw, and saw clearly, and was not dead.
He was lying out in No Man’s Land, covered by earth. If he had been in a shell hole, perhaps they would have found him, but in the open, the earth hiding him was just another hummock among a thousand, and there were bodies everywhere. He could see none, but there must be, for he remembered seeing them, before the shell burst.
A voice said, ‘Merry Christmas!’
Merry Christmas? Merry Christmas?
From nearby another answered,
‘Frohliche Weihnachten!’
He did not know what language that was. The voice of Brahma when he was not a choir? He saw khaki puttees here, and a little way off, but still close, at the top end of his field of view, black jackboots.
‘Here,’ an upper-class English voice said. ‘Have some of this pipe tobacco.’
Others answered unintelligibly. More boots appeared. Oh, God, if he could only lift his head and see what was happening above the boots. The English were offering the others cigarettes, cap badges, a watch, even. The voices were all educated, the voices of officers. The others must surely be Germans. It was not French they were speaking, and anyway there were no French soldiers within fifteen miles of this part of the Western Front.
It was Christmas Day, so the choir he had heard was not the voice of Brahma but people singing carols, as Mr. Fleming had told him about. And once he had been in Lahore over Christmas and had himself heard carols sung. But now English and Germans were out in No Man’s Land giving each other gifts and speaking gently--Merry Christmas,
Frohliche Weihnachten
... messages of love.
The war was over! They had decided that it was impossible for Christians to behave in this way, as the young sowar had pointed out in durbar. The fighting had been no more than a temporary madness. England, the England of cricket, of green lawns and quiet churches, had come back to its senses.
Again the light wavered, but the voices remained strong and clear. More were coming now, for he heard men speaking behind him, again Merry Christmas, again
Frohliche Weihnachten
. He felt sudden fear as he remembered again the inhuman cataclysm of the shelling, both British and German, sweeping over him as he lay paralysed in No Man’s Land. He had felt no fear at Poucelle, why was he afraid now, hours or days after the shelling?
The darkness snapped away as though an electric light had been switched on six inches in front of his face. He was lying in No Man’s Land and these people talking all round him thought he was dead. Or could not see him. The war was over, and if he were left out here he would die of cold and hunger. Perhaps he would die anyway, for he must be badly wounded somewhere to be lying here unable to move even his eyes.
He made a tremendous effort to move his head. Nothing happened--he stared at the same patch of mud and snow, the same boots. He chose his left leg, and willed it to move with all his might and main ... If it did, no one saw. Then his arm, the left arm thrown out in front of him there, half buried under the mud. That he could see ... Nothing. His eyes again. Perhaps someone would notice the rolling of his eyes. Nothing.
He said, ‘Merry Christmas.’ The nearest boots moved suddenly and a voice said, ‘Good God, did you hear that?’
‘Yes. What was it?’
His voice must be working. He said again, ‘Merry Christmas.’ He saw knees now, where the boots had been, and hands scraping, mud and snow flying. ‘There’s a man here, he must be alive ... a major ... I saw his hand all the time but thought he must be dead.’ He was being lifted. ‘Easy now.’ Two faces close in front of him, one wearing a British cap and one a German. ‘How are you?’
‘All right ... Thank God the war’s over.’
‘The war’s not over, old chap ... sir. It’s just, we started singing carols in the trenches.’
‘I heard.’
‘Then some of us came out. It’s sort of a truce.’
Krishna Ram sighed and closed his eyes. He felt miserable and full of doubt again. He was wounded and would die. The voice said, ‘He’s a major of the Ravi Lancers. That’s why he’s an Indian.’
‘They’re on our right. Better call for stretcher bearers right away. Heaven knows how long he’s been lying out here.’
‘Cover him with a greatcoat till they come. He must be freezing to death.’
Krishna thought, yes, I suppose I am, but I can’t feel it, or anything else. He saw the greatcoat spreading over his body, where he half lay, supported by a German’s arm. He said, ‘Thank you. I am sorry. About the war.’
‘Traces of frostbite in the fingers and toes,’ a voice said, ‘but they’ll be all right if he recovers.’
The voice was muttering and Krishna opened his eyes. Ah, he could do that. And close them. Before, he could not.
He was looking at Captain Ramaswami, the doctor, very close. The doctor was stooping over him with a stethoscope hung round his neck, apparently talking to himself.
‘Hullo, doctor,’ Krishna said.
The doctor turned, ‘Oh ... you can move your head? Good.’
‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘Concussion. Partial paralysis, but I can’t find any wound. Bad bruise on the head. What hit you?’
‘I don’t know ... Another man’s head, perhaps? Blown off his shoulders?’
The doctor looked at him sharply. ‘It was nothing sharp-edged, or you’d be dead, that is certain. How do you feel?’
‘Something. I didn’t before. My feet hurt. My head a little, too.’
The doctor nodded, loosening up. ‘It’ll get worse as you get better.’
‘What casualties did we have in the attack?’
‘2nd Lieutenant Ishar Lall died of wounds. Some others. They’re burning Ishar Lall now, in the rear area. I’ve sent a message to tell Major Bholanath and the CO that you’ve been brought in.’
‘Ishar Lall?’ Krishna said. ‘Oh, that is a shame ... a tragedy.’
‘He did not have to lose his life in French mud for the British Empire,’ the doctor said, ‘nor do you have to risk yours. I’ll get you some tea.’
He went out. Krishna saw that he was in a curtained-off part of the RAP. There was a hole in the tarpaulin roof. Water dripped steadily through it on to the muddy floor. The snow must be melting. A voice said in Hindi, ‘I am so glad that you are with us again, Highness.’
He turned his head to a sharp jab of pain, which he received nevertheless with joy, and saw Lieutenant Mahadeo Singh on a bench the other side of the room. ‘I was hit in the wrist,’ the old lieutenant said apologetically. ‘I asked the doctor sahib not to send me back as there is no one else to be the CO’s officer-galloper.’
‘How was the attack? I think ... didn’t I see A Squadron running away?’
‘Yes, Highness. And C.’
Krishna Ram focused his eyes with another, smaller pang. The lieutenant was sitting up on the bench, fully dressed and wearing his greatcoat. His left arm was in a sling. He said, ‘The general-sahib is angry, because some of the men ran away, but he was not there! I cannot understand what happened. It was said that the German machine guns had been destroyed, but they had not. And their artillery ... Your Highness was there.’
Krishna Ram thought, this man served twenty-one years in the regulars. To him the Raj had been all-powerful, faultless, divine in its wisdom. Now he sounded not only afraid, but as though doubting the earth under his feet.
The doctor came back, followed by an orderly carrying a mug of tea. He said, ‘I’m going to keep you here overnight, Yuvraj. Then, unless some wound or disability appears, I’m going to have you sent to England for convalescent leave. You are suffering from exposure and general weakness, but as far as I can find out, nothing more. With rest and good food you’ll be all right in a week or two. Ready to be put into the mincing machine again.’
Krishna Ram thought, I should reprimand him for speaking like that in front of the orderly and the lieutenant. As he hesitated, pain stabbed into his head, and that brought back the searing yellow flame bursting all round him, and the mud and snow. He closed his eyes against them, and the world shivered. The flame was replaced at once by a vision of grinding steel. The thing that he had seen out there was not human, let alone civilized. Nor yet was it superhuman, or divine. The shells that burst invisibly, killing and maiming, were nothing like the thunderbolts of Indra, but instruments created directly by evil. He shuddered, and heard the doctor say, ‘Take these with the tea. You’ll sleep and feel better when you wake up.’
As Krishna was taking the pills he saw Mahadeo Singh stand up and salute with his good hand. Then Colonel Bateman came forward, his hand out, ‘Krishna, I’m glad to see you ... How is he, doctor?’
‘All right,’ Ramaswami said, with a brief explanation.
Bateman said, ‘I had patrols out all last night, looking for you. Two officer’s patrols, two dafadar’s patrols. No one could find a trace. I’d made up my mind we’d lost you. That’s why I’m so glad to see you back ... Did you say you were recommending convalescent leave in England, doc?’
‘Yes.’
‘Spend it at Shrewford Pennel, Krishna. I know my mother will be delighted to see you again. Though there’ll be no cricket now.’ He looked tired, Krishna thought, and grim.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ Krishna Ram said, ‘I can’t think of anything better.’
‘Send a telegram as soon as you reach England. Tell them I’m sending you.’
‘The patient should rest now,’ the doctor said. ‘He’s just taken some sleeping pills.’
Major Bateman said, ‘Well, I’ll see you again in the morning. Lie back now.’
Krishna Ram lay back, closing his eyes. He hurt all over now, and felt as feeble as a sick rat. He heard Warren Bateman say, ‘Go outside a minute, Mahadeo, please.’ And, a moment later, ‘What’s wrong with the rissaldar-major, doctor? By God, I can’t afford to lose him even for a day.’
‘Nothing but starvation. When he agreed to let the quartermaster take those bully beef labels off the tins, he couldn’t eat the food himself, because he did know what was inside. For him it would have been a mortal sin. He also decided he must not eat even proper food for another four days, as penance for the deception he had practised. Then there was the attack and you know what he did. It was he who led the stretcher party that carried Ishar Lall back through the German bombardment. This morning, he fainted.’
‘From hunger?’
‘And horror. He’s not a man to show it, but that makes what he feels worse.’
‘I’ll go and see him. Where is he?’
‘In his own dugout. His orderly’s looking after him. He ought to be all right tomorrow. He’s eating again.’
The voices faded. Darkness came over Krishna, with ideas, half formed visions: horror ... machines. Gradually his hurts ceased.
He dozed in the train to Boulogne, slept on the cross-channel steamer and all the way up to London, went to bed at once in the officers’ hostelry and, the next morning, dozed most of the way from Paddington to Woodborough--all this in spite of himself, for London had been just as majestic, the countryside just as gentle, doubly so after the trenches in Artois, but he was weak, and could not help himself. He awoke to a hand on his knee and a voice saying, ‘I think this is your station, major.’ The man opposite was old and polite. Krishna thanked him and stood up to lift his suitcase down from the luggage rack. The train glided to a standstill and he got out.
On the platform the station master touched his gold-braided cap to him. Behind, Diana Bateman, smiling, came towards him with her long firm strides. Kishna’s heart warmed. She looked so healthy, so fair, her gaze so direct. He fumbled to take off his glove, make his hand ready for her hand. She was wearing a long black dress, and a long grey coat, fur lined, and a grey hat with a touch of fur round it.
‘You look pale,’ she said. ‘Where were you wounded?’ She picked up his suitcase before he could protest and said, ‘Come on now. You’ll catch cold standing out here on the platform.’