"You are a cavalry regiment?" I asked, out of my abysmal ignorance.
"We are Lancers. Yes. And horses are not useful in this sort of fighting."
From a room beyond there was a movement, followed by the entrance of a young Frenchman in a British uniform. Makand Singh presented him and he joined the circle that waited for coffee.
The newcomer presented an enigma—a Frenchman in a British uniform quartered with the Indian troops! It developed that he was a pupil from the Sorbonne, in Paris, and was an interpreter. Everywhere afterward I found these interpreters with the British Army—Frenchmen who for various reasons are disqualified from entering the French Army in active service and who are anxious to do what they can. They wear the British uniform, with the exception that instead of the stiff crown of the British cap theirs is soft, They are attached to every battalion, for Tommy Atkins is in a strange land these days, a land that knows no more English than he knows French,
True, he carries little books of French and English which tell him how to say "Porter, get my luggage and take it to a cab," or "Please bring me a laundry list," or "Give my kind regards to your parents," Imagine him trying to find the French for "Look out, they're coming!" to call to a French neighbour, in the inevitable mix-up of the line during a mêlée, and finding only "These trousers do not fit well," or "I would like an ice and then a small piece of cheese."
It was a curious group that sat in a semicircle around that peasant woman's stove, waiting for the kettle to boil—the tall Indian major with his aristocratic face and long, quiet hands, the young English officer in his Headquarters Staff uniform, the French interpreter, and I. Just inside the door the major's Indian servant, tall, impassive and turbaned, stood with folded arms, looking over our heads. And at the table the placid faced peasant woman cut slices of yellow bread, made with eggs and milk, and poured our coffee.
It was very good coffee, served black. The woman brought a small decanter and placed it near me.
"It is rum," said the major, "and very good in coffee."
I declined the rum. The interpreter took a little. The major shook his head.
"Although they say that a Sikh never refuses rum!" he said, smiling.