It was quite a pleasant little party in the battle zone, and there
was a discussion on the subject of temperance, led by an officer who
was very keen on total prohibition. The guns did not seem to matter
very much as one sat in that cosy room among those cheery men. It
was only when we were leaving that one of them took a friend of mine
on one side, and said in a kind of whisper, "This war! ... It's pretty
rough, isn't it? I'm one of the last men out of the original lot. And, of
course, I'm sure to get 'pipped' in a week or two. On the law of
averages, you know."
A few days later I saw the wounded of Neuve Chapelle, which was a
victory bought at a fearful price. They were streaming down to
Boulogne, and the hospital ships were crowded with them. Among
them were thousands of Indians who had taken a big share in that
battle.
With an Oriental endurance of pain, beyond the courage of most
Western men, these men made no moan. The Sikhs, with their finely
chiselled features and dreamy inscrutable eyes--many of them
bearded men who have served for twenty years in the Indian army--
stared about them in an endless reverie as though puzzling out the
meaning of this war among peoples who do not speak their tongue,
for some cause they do not understand, and in a climate which
makes the whole world different to them.
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