Read No Man's Land for Free Online Page A

attempt at an exchange in the language of gesture. And, what was strange, the mime worked. And soon there was complete understanding between East and West.
    Lalu, who had stood to watch this scene, responded to the hilarity by accepting a cigarette from a French soldier, which the Sikhs, whose religion taboos smoking, refused. He only wished his regiment had been transferred here as from one cantonment to another, for a sojourn during peace time. But in a war?… Now that he was in France, he felt a curious dread of the Unknown, of the things that happened in a war, even as he felt the thrill of being there.
    â€˜I am the son of Subedar Major Arbel Singh, 69th Rifles, and he has sent me to buy some cigarettes from that stall,’ Subah announced to the sentry without a blush.
    The sentry, a tall Baluchi, with a long crested turban, looked at him hard. ‘Who is that man with you?’ he asked.
    â€˜Sepoy Lai Singh, orderly to the Subedar Major Sahib Bahadur,’ lied Subah.
    â€˜Go, but don’t be long,’ said the sentry.
    The two boys passed the barrier, and made straight for the stall which stood at the crossroads.
    A few French soldiers and some Tommies were standing around drinking beer. Lalu felt embarrassed, afraid, and inferior to be going to a stall where there were only white men. With the assurance cultivated through his three years at the Bishop Cotton School, Simla, Subah dragged him to the bar.
    The Frenchman who owned the stall turned to them, wiping his hands on the white skirt of his apron and said, Mussia !. Subah pointed to some bottles which stood on the trolley. The Tommies at first stared at the two sepoys as if surprised that the Indians should have developed a predilection for drink. Then, contrary to their customary reticence in India, one of them said: ‘Good eh, Blighty!’
    â€˜What, Blighty?’ said Subah.
    â€˜He means Vilayat ,’ Lalu said laughing.
    The French Sahib struck the knuckles of his finger against a bottle of white wine, and gesticulated. But before Subah could say anything, an English Sergeant-Major stalked up to the stall and snapped at the Tommies as well as the sepoys:
    â€˜Where the bloody hell do you reckon you are? Is this a cantonment or a bloody war?’
    The soldiers stood with their heads hanging down.
    â€˜This is out of bounds,’ the Sergeant Major rapped. And he leaned over to the Tommies and hissed at them angrily, snarling at the sepoys the while.
    During the next few days the Indian corps began to be moved to Orleans, where, it was said, they were to be properly equipped with new machine guns, howitzers, mechanical transport, medical equipment and all the necessities that an army, trained to fight on the frontier and for policing the outposts of the Empire overseas, needed in operations in the West. They had handed over the rifles and ammunition which they had brought from India at Marseilles and fresh arms were issued to them. The sepoys adapted themselves to the new rifles, but they hoped that they would not be forced to have new machine guns, as that would entail more strenuous practice, when they were kept busy enough with packing and unpacking, and clothes drill, and they had also been given new warm clothes. It was said that this war to which they were going was unlike any other, fought with things called ‘grenads’ and ‘mortas’, and a rumour ran that the Germans had invented a gun which could shoot at range of seventy miles. But why hadn’t the Sahibs thought of all these things in India? Of course, they had had to leave the cantonments in a hurry, and the Army Headquarters at Simla hadn’t had enough time. But the arrangements were being pushed too fast. The officers were kind, however, patting the Gurkhas on their backs and asking them to sharpen their kukhries, telling the horsemen to value their steeds more than their lives, and encouraging the others to keep fit by wrestling