My rambles that afternoon were confined to the station platform and the house of some friends of Kell’s, who, learning of my forlorn state, had most kindly asked him to bring me there for lunch and dinner. They were connected with the railway; and the ladies of the family had passed through an anxious time during the troubles, but had bravely refused to seek safety in flight.
Next day the rain still continued. Reports came in that the line was impassable. The station was completely isolated from the rest of the world. Those of my party who were living with the Gurkhas, ignorant of the fact that no train could start, essayed to drive down to it in native carts. The stream over which the friendly Chinaman had carried us was in flood; and as they endeavoured to cross it, horses, vehicles, and passengers were nearly swept away. One smaller cart with their luggage was carried some distance down from the ford; and kit‐bags and portmanteaus were only rescued with the greatest difficulty. An invaluable collection of films and negatives belonging to one of the party, who was an expert photographer, was entirely spoilt. It was a real loss, as they contained a complete pictorial record of North China.
The low ground behind the station was flooded. I watched with amusement the antics of a number of Cossacks, who, heedless of the rain, had got together planks and old doors torn off ruined houses, and, using them as rafts, had organised a miniature regatta on the pond thus formed. Exciting races took place; and a friendly dispute over one resulted in a naval battle full of comic incidents. Like schoolboys, they charged each other’s rafts and if capsized continued the struggle in the water. One, diving beneath the surface, would suddenly reappear beneath an enemy’s vessel, tilt it on end, and precipitate the occupants into the muddy flood, to be immediately grappled by them and ducked.
In the morning a letter from Captain Labertouche was brought me by a trooper of the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry, who had been forced to swim his horse across a swollen stream in order to reach the station. I chatted for some time with the man—a fine, lithe specimen of the Indian sowar. Anxious to hear every expression of the impression which the Russian troops had made upon our native rank‐and‐file, I asked him his opinion of them.
“They are not bad, sahib,” he replied in Hindustani. Then, with an expressive shrug, he added, “But they will never get into India.”
The remark was significant, for it showed not only what our men thought of the soldiers of the Czar, but also that the possibility of the Russian invasion is occasionally discussed amongst them, only to be dismissed with contempt.
Our Indian contingent, one and all, have conceived a wonderful disdain of most of the troops of the other nationalities with whom they were brought in contact in China. They had the greatest admiration and affection for the gallant little Japanese, but considered their training obsolete. The Russians they regarded with little respect and no dread, and looked upon them as scarcely civilised. The Infanterie Coloniale, of whom they saw a good deal, filled them with the greatest contempt, undeserved though it was, for the whole French army. And I wish that the armchair critics, who condemn our forces and hold up the Germans as models to be slavishly followed in every respect, could have heard the opinion formed of them by these shrewd fighting men, Sikh, Gurkha, and Punjaubi, whose lives have been passed in war.
An instance of the friendship existing between our sepoys and the Japanese came under my notice that day. On the railway platform some Gurkhas and a few of the 4th Punjaub Infantry were loitering or sitting about watching the heavy rain. Three or four Japanese soldiers came into the station and promptly sat down beside the Gurkhas, greeting them with effusive smiles. I was struck by the similarity in feature between the two races. Dressed in the same uniform, it would be difficult to distinguish between them. They are about the same height and build, and very much alike in face; though the Japanese is lighter coloured. Before long the mixed party were exchanging cigarettes and chatting away volubly; though the few words of English each knew, eked out by signs, could have been the only medium of intercourse.
A Pathan sepoy was sitting alone on a bench. To him came up another little white‐clad soldier of Dai Nippon. He proffered a cigarette and gesticulated wildly. Before I realised his meaning, he had removed the Pathan’s pugri from his head, replaced it with his own cap, and donned the borrowed headgear himself. Then he strutted up and down the platform amid the laughing applause of his comrades and the Gurkhas. The Pathan, highly amused, joined in the merriment. I had noticed a Dogra sepoy standing by himself with eyes fixed on the ground, lost in deep thought. Suddenly a cheery little Japanese soldier, motioning to the audience on the benches not to betray him, stole up quietly behind the Dogra, seized him round the waist, and lifted the astonished six‐foot sepoy into the air. Then with a grin he replaced him on his feet, and with mutual smiles they shook hands.
When the day comes for our Indian army to fight shoulder to shoulder with its comrades of Japan, a bond stronger than a paper alliance will hold them; and their only rivalry will be as to which shall outstrip the other in their rush on the foe.