Victoria and Dow Hill Schools Books

Story Two.

The Evidence I Shall Give.

The Labour Pain of Partition

I suppose it all really started in Ghaziabad when we were told that the train would not be going on to Delhi and that we would have to find some other way of completing the last half hour of our journey.

It was !947, I was on leave from the Merchant Navy. My parents were in Kashmir on holiday - I was 19 years of age and in Calcutta. My father was the Bridge Engineer of the BNR and I was therefore entitled to a First Class Pass on any railway system in India. I obtained my pass from the head office, made my way to Howrah and found a berth in a first class compartment bound for Delhi where I knew I had to change trains. I was in uniform, idiotically self-confident; I had my bhistra and a seaman’s kit bag and I was bound for Kashmir! They told me to be careful as there were serious riots around the Punjab. So what? Nobody was going to harm me in my uniform and armed with a First Class Pass!

I heaved my two bits of luggage onto my shoulders and made my way to the Ghaziabad Station Master’s office. I presented my First Class Pass (FCP) and demanded to know when the next train was to Delhi. I was told that timing was uncertain because of the “riots”. What riots? I left instructions that I was to be informed as soon as a suitable train was approaching. I wandered about, had some food in the Waiting Room and eventually, having reinforced my request to be kept informed, I unrolled my bhistra in a convenient corner of the platform and slept the sleep of a totally unprepared and carefully nurtured young innocent.

At 4.30 am a coolie awoke me and told me that a train to Delhi was due in about thirty minutes. I packed up my baggage and stood by the platform waiting………….

Then IT arrived! With an almost apologetic hissing and sushing the engine dragged in its cargo of misery. Humans hung from everywhere; they bulged out of doors and windows, they clung with their very toes to the roof guttering leaning back so as not to slide off the roofs. The smell of urine, faeces and fear, sweat and filth preceded IT. There was patently absolutely no room for me, my baggage or sanity. Suddenly, I became an adult - and not just a “grown up” but a scheming, “no holds barred” young FCP holder in uniform who was going to get to Kashmir no matter what! I pushed my way through the yelling scrabbling mob to the Guards Van and hammered on the door. I shouted and bellowed and demanded entrance as I was the holder of a railway FCP! There was a deathly hush - and then a cough! Flash the FCP and Rs10...Bingo!

The train arrived in Old Delhi about 10.00 am and with my baggage shouldered I strode down to the entrance of the old red station building. Again I grew-up with a bang! The platform was stained and there was the most revolting pile of offal heaped in a corner. I realised with a shock that it was human remains. Outside I called up a tika-gharri and loaded my baggage. I told the driver to take me to Maidens Hotel and he set off at a leisurely pace. I told him to go quicker and he said that would not be advisable and pointed to another tika-gharri at the side of the road. The usual skeletal horse was cropping at the grass on the verge - and the driver was hanging head down off his perch…with his throat slit from ear to ear. Clearly getting to Kashmir was going to be a tad more hazardous than I expected! There was little traffic on the streets of Delhi. A few people scurried along with eyes down.Vehicles either went slowly and cautiously or roared passed bristling with armed police or army. Every now and then a pitiful bundle of clothing could be seen against a wall, in a gutter or spreadeagled haphazardly with brown limbs protruding.

Maidens Hotel was an oasis of tranquillity and safety. Servants “salaamed” and there was orderliness mixed with the aroma of cigars and brandy. Life was normal and the mad house outside was a passing nightmare. The Sikh with an automatic weapon who had mowed down anybody who showed themselves in Connaught Place until he himself was shot by the police got a brief mention over the after-dinner mints. Rumours were rife and naturally some exaggerated. The fact was however that Delhi was at a standstill. It was quite impossible to move northwards across the new border to Pakistan except as part of a military convoy and I was stuck in Maidens Hotel.

It was then that I came across Major Robinson, the father of a childhood friend of mine. He was staying in Maidens for a few days before rejoining his Army unit in Lahore. We renewed our acquaintanceship and he said he may be able to get me to Lahore and would keep in touch. The very next morning the Major appeared in the spacious lounge and signalled me to join him. He said that word had reached him that there was a missionary couple stranded in Chandey Chowk, a suburb, and that he was about to set off to find them and bring them to the hotel. Would I care to come with him? I hurriedly agreed and to my astonishment he then handed me a .38 revolver and with a cheerful, “Here, stick this in your belt!” we jumped into his jeep and set off. We had a Muslim soldier clinging to one side of the bonnet and a Hindu policeman on the other side. The policeman knew where the missionaries were and guided us. We went down some narrow winding lanes between boarded-up house fronts and eventually arrived in a small courtyard where a typical missionary couple sat on suitcases. There was a lot of confused shouting going on and people dashing down alley ways. There was screaming and shots being fired. We bundled the two anxious middle aged people of God into the back of the jeep with their suitcases and the Major swung us round for our return journey. We negotiated the first narrow lanes and then, where the road broadened to a car-and-a-half width we came on the aftermath of the screaming and shouting…Bodies and wounded. The alley that had been clear for our advent was now littered for our return. Lying in the road were two or three bodies with, as I recall, severed heads or horrific chest mutilations. There was nothing we could do but push on - bump, bump, bump, bump! After all, they were dead; I hope to this day that they were dead. Out now into a proper “street” and there, ahead of us was a milling mass of fighting blood lust driven people. The noise was demoralising. John - the Major - put his hand firmly on the inadequate “horn” of the jeep and the two stalwarts up front started to yell, “Hut! Hut! Hut jao - rustha chorro!” and we barged into and through the mass.

Maidens Hotel was an oasis again - but there was a smell and a pall of smoke about.

Two days later John and I and two Indian soldiers left for Lahore.

Actually the road was not nearly as crowded as we had expected. Indians had been brought up to use trains as their preferred mode of transport and besides, the roads were dangerous. Muslims trekking north could most certainly expect to be set on by gangs of Hindus and Hindus running from Pakistan inevitably clashed with the Muslims going north! So, keep away from the main highways was the rule. But the carnage on each side was unbelievable. There is little point in describing harrowing sights blow by blow. If you haven’t been there then you don’t need to go - and if you’ve been there then you certainly don’t want to go back! But, having said that I feel I must describe the highlights - if that is the right term. Cows lumbering towards us from the fields pleading to be milked their udders swollen grotesquely. You take away our calves and then desert us….Dogs tearing at human bodies - especially their faces….and a truly incredible literal “log-jam” of human bodies under a bridge over which we passed. The rivulet had been dammed to such a degree by this stinking mass of putrefying remains that the water was flowing over the bridge……Oh! I could carry on - but I wish I could forget!

We spent one night camped in an army transit centre and changed our Indian soldiers for two Muslims. About noon the next day John deposited me at Lahore station and wished me the best of luck.

I was on my own again! Now forward with the FCP and the Merchant Navy Cadet’s uniform which had epaulettes with one gold stripe running from the neck down to the shoulder. Thus no one more than twenty miles from the sea had any idea what rank I held! I became a Senior Lieutenant of Marines - at least that is what the Eurasian over- worked Railway Transport Officer army Captain believed! But he could not help me and I had to turn again to my faithful FCP. The station master was a kindly soul and looked upon this rather haughty but inwardly hesitant youngster as a challenge to his logistical abilities. He went into consultation with one of his subordinates and then explained to me that the many thousands of Muslims jostling on the platforms outside were also waiting for transport northwards. However, if I would follow the ASM he would find somewhere for me to at least sit until the train had been coupled up. We walked for some time over the tracks until we came to a single coach and this we approached from the far side so that the crowds could not see us.

I was told to board as quickly as I could and this I did, heaving my bhistra and kit bag ahead of me into the gloom of the compartment. The door was hurriedly shut behind me - and I found that I was in a four berth unit with about sixteen Muslim women! I could think of nothing to say but “Good afternoon, ladies!” All the windows were tightly shut and the smell was really vile. The toilet bowl was near overflowing and they told me that they had been in there for a night and half a day. I stood it for about half an hour and then exited even faster than I had entered!

Back to the station master who was very understanding. By this time the train had pulled up to the platform and of course was immediately crammed with heaving, shoving, yelling humanity. I despaired. The station master took me into his office and closed the door. He explained to me that the guards van was yet to be attached and that this would be done at the last moment. However he added that they would couple a first class coach to the van and shunt the two of them onto the end of the train. He went to his window and pointed out the coach in a far corner of the shunting yard. He suggested that I said an obvious goodbye to him when I left his office and then I made my own way to the far side of the coach and get into one of the compartments and lock it and sit tight until we were on our way. ”Dorn’t vurry, young Sir! You will get to Kashmir to see your Daddie!” He explained that I had half an hour - and I just made it in time!

Bliss! A whole compartment to myself! We were shunted and attached to the tail of the train. There was the inevitable scramble and I could hear the roof being populated. I looked through the wooden slats in the doorway - and saw a pair of hairy pink knees in khaki hose and army boots. Dilemma. If I opened the door I would probably be invaded - if I did not open it “Pink Knees” would burn in my memory for ever! I bellowed at PK to be prepared - and I opened the door! The soldier arrived in a rush closely and unstoppably followed by the other half of the population of Lahore!

There were 26 of us in the compartment. I had some sort of holy man squatting next to me It was so crowded that I put my legs out of the window. In this state we proceeded to Rawalpindi. The smell was on and off horrific but I determinedly kept my window open and only once got up to use the toilet and drink some water. I did not realise it but I was living on my reserve energy and sadly needed some food and sleep. The next morning, after some fitful dozing I pulled my legs back to the compartment and found my white naval hose had turned black from soot! But to my credit I still had a firm grip on my bhistra and kit bag.

We arrived in ‘Pindi early and detrained. I found a taxi to the hotel - I can’t remember its name - and gave my dirty clothing to a hotel dhobi for urgent attention. I flopped into bed and slept like a log until about 4.00 pm. When I woke my uniform was starched, snow white and neatly folded on a chair! Ah! India. That night I had a large meal, too many brandies and saved an English lady from being ravished - but that is another story!

P.S. Forty-eight hours later I was in Gulmarg being fussed over by both my “Daddie” and my “Mummie” and I thought of the terrible labour pains of the birth of India and I thought that such pain must result in the spawning of a fine nation.

And it has.


	Two Short Stories by Bill Stabler
	The Evidence I Shall Give.

	Story One. The Tiger I Didn’t Shoot In 1946 Mark Anthony Lawton was a medium ranking Bengal Nagpur Railway officer stationed at Head Office in Garden Reach, Calcutta. He was a tubby, likable man of about 35 or so. I was a youth of 16; I’d finished school and was waiting to join the merchant navy as a cadet. Mark and I got along splendidly and I was overjoyed when he asked my father’s permission to take me along with him for “a few days in the jungle”. Mark’s car was not exactly the ideal vehicle for jungle roads. It was a Sunbeam-Talbot sedan with a clearance of about 15 cm and was built for luxury motoring on tarmac roads. However, we set off early one morning and were soon competing with buffalo carts and smoky buses for right of way along the road to Cuttack about 300 miles south west. It was March and still quite cool and once the traffic had thinned out we made good time and arrived at a dak bungalowjust after nightfall. These dak bungalows were rest houses set up by the Government for the use of officials who were travelling in India. Most of them were clean and starkly comfortable . They were looked after by a local watchman who doubled as cook, guide or what ever was required. We had a scratch meal and were in bed by ten o’clock An early start the next morning allowed us to reach the Rajah’s residence at Daspalla for a late lunch. The Rajah, who was a friend of Mark’s was not your story book “rolling in jewels” type of potentate, but rather a very well off, well educated and extensive land owner. He had one elephant only and this was treated more like a family pet than an indication of wealth. The Rajah had the first portable radio we had ever seen and he also had the most beautiful swimming pool. It was an indoor pool tiled in snowy white with the exception of an iridescent peacock in the centre with smaller editions in each corner. Lunch consisted of the hottest curry that made poor portly Mark Anthony perspire profusely. The next morning we had an early swim in the pool. Our attention was drawn to the entrance by one muted stroke of a gong – and breakfast was served, floated out to us on cork mats; pawpaw, yoghurt and poached eggs! Have you ever tried to eat poached eggs from a bobbing cork mat? It’s not easy. Then the “Boy’s Own” adventure finally began. We had only sixty miles or so to cover to the dak bungalow deep in the Khondmal Hills. It took five hours…Twice we got bogged on river crossings and the “road” (sic!) was no autobahn! Mark Anthony’s car was never the same again! But when we arrived finally, it was pure Heaven. The pigeons cooing and the toucans complaining, the sambhur belling and the sight of chital grazing brought to me, a teenage youth, a peace and quiet which I remember with gratitude to this day. The jungle was not deep dark and mysterious but light and somehow “airy”. It was creased by dry water courses and contained a variety of trees and shrubs. Monkeys swung from branches or busied themselves with whatever monkeys busy themselves and chattered to each other. In the distance, about half a mile away was a lazy river – a tributary of the great Mahanadi. The fishing was apparently good and every now and then we caught a glimpse of the discreet bow wave made by the snout of a crocodile. There were leopard, tiger and bear around but the chances of stumbling into one was pretty remote. However, to be safe Mark suggested that I should not wander off on my own. Snakes were a bigger problem and one instinctively avoided piles of dry leaves and was more wary of where one trod. We arranged our beds , had a drink and wandered down to the river – then supper and the long sleep of the totally contented under the safety of a mosquito net. The next morning I was up with the sun and taking the 250/3000 Mannlicher rifle Mark had lent me I set off for the river. The banks had some sizeable banyan trees at intervals and I clambered amongst the roots of one of them. I sat down and listened to the jungle sounds and the lapping of the river. Then I became aware of a snuffling noise and slowly turned my head. There, about sixty metres away were the nostrils and eye of a large crocodile. I knew that one had to shoot a crocodile in the eye or near to it to make a clean kill and took careful aim. The bullet was relatively small calibre but high speed and it hit the croc about an inch above its eye. It reared up and took off for the opposite bank and the thought flashed through my mind that somehow I would have to follow it and finish the poor beast off. However, this was not necessary as it flurried round in a complete circle and made a dash for the roots of the tree where I was standing. I beat a very hurried retreat up into the lower branches – crocs can’t climb trees, right? – and the croc beached itself on the bank about five metres from me. Now with slightly shaky hands I took aim again and this time the animal died instantly. I felt dreadful! Why had I killed the poor devil in its own back yard? Shortly afterwards a breathless Mark arrived to see what his protégé had done and equally rapidly a gaggle of villagers, having heard the shots came to see what the Sahib had killed. They were overjoyed! Apparently this croc had been terrifying the villagers for some time and had been responsible for taking two dogs and they suspected that it had taken a little girl who had disappeared. Sure enough, on skinning the 4.3 metre croc and presenting me with the gory belly hide they found a pitiful little bangle in its stomach. I felt much better! The rest of the day passed with an unsuccessful tiger beat and we got back about four thirty in the afternoon for a late lunch/supper. It was the first time I had a tot of brandy in my cup of tea! Enter the tiger! As Mark and I sat in the evening twilight a villager appeared before the verandah, salaaming profoundly and obviously in awe of the sahib and his acolyte. He begged permission to tell us of the woes that had befallen his poor village, which was only about ten miles from the Rest House. Apparently a tiger had been taking the village cattle and only the night before had taken a young calf the remains of which it had left in a donga - a dry water bed. Would the sahib in his great wisdom and with his blah blah blah please come and exterminate the damn thing. Yes, said Mark we would be there the very next day! We didn’t strain ourselves with an early start as Mark knew that we would probably have to sit up all the next night. We left the dak bungalow after an early lunch and arrived at the village mid afternoon. The head man was there and welcomed us. We went immediately and viewed the sad remains of the half eaten calf. It was lodged among the stones of the river bed and the only tree within reasonable distance was a spindly affair which could support a machan - tree platform - to accommodate one person only. Mark quite rightly decided that I would have to camp down in the car while he sat for the tiger. We returned to the car which was parked at the side of the jungle track about one hundred metres from the village and the head man told us that we should be warned that a herd of wild elephant had been seen in the area. Mark told me to stay in the car after sun-down and after a light bully beef sandwich he left for the improvised machan. He left me with a double barrel shot gun loaded with ball. I watched the sun set and the flickering of fires in the village. How cosy and quiet it was! I wondered what it would be like to be a youth in a village like this without any knowledge of the outside world. I retired into the luxury of the back seat of the Sunbeam-Talbot, tried to read for a bit by the ceiling light and then gave up and went to sleep knowing I would be up at sunrise. Just after midnight I was woken by the car being rocked. Elephants, I thought. I lay still and listened - dead silence. I was rocked again and I thought that this was not the moment for heroics. I decided to stay still and if the elephants wanted to tear off the head lights or push the car further off the road they were welcome to do so - but with me in it! Actually I honestly don’t remember being too frightened. Such is the confidence of youth. Intermittent rocking continued for a time, perhaps five minutes and I tried to see out of the windows. I moved slowly and cautiously but the glass was fogged and I couldn’t see a thing. The rocking stopped and I dozed and then slept soundly until awakened by the crowing of the village cockerel! Dawn was laying a pearly dew over the land and I hopped out of the car and took great lungfuls of pure jungle air. I heard Mark fire two shots to let me know he was returning and I got out the kerosene pressure stove and put on some water for a cup of tea. The village urchins arrived and immediately became very excited. I couldn’t understand their local lingo and blandly continued with my housekeeping. Shortly afterwards I saw Mark appearing along the track and waved to him. He was very tired and gave me a dispirited wave back. Then, about ten yards from me he stopped. “Did you see it?” he shouted. “See what?” I replied. “The bloody tiger, you clot! Look round the car! You must have seen him!” I am no woodsman and wondered what the hell he was talking about. “The bloody pug marks - all round the car!” he shouted. There they were! Many big pad marks. Ah! That would account for the rocking! No elephants - just a friendly tiger rubbing himself on the bumpers. I don’t think Mark ever got over the fact that if he had sat up on the roof of the Sunbeam-Talbot instead in a cramped machan he might have bagged himself a tiger! The amusing sequel was that as we drove away and passed through other small settlements the local dogs all ran for cover - apparently the tiger had “scented” the entire vehicle! Ah well! I didn’t shoot the tiger - another story for the grand kids.
	Story Two. The Evidence I Shall Give. The Labour Pain of Partition I suppose it all really started in Ghaziabad when we were told that the train would not be going on to Delhi and that we would have to find some other way of completing the last half hour of our journey. It was !947, I was on leave from the Merchant Navy. My parents were in Kashmir on holiday - I was 19 years of age and in Calcutta. My father was the Bridge Engineer of the BNR and I was therefore entitled to a First Class Pass on any railway system in India. I obtained my pass from the head office, made my way to Howrah and found a berth in a first class compartment bound for Delhi where I knew I had to change trains. I was in uniform, idiotically self-confident; I had my bhistra and a seaman’s kit bag and I was bound for Kashmir! They told me to be careful as there were serious riots around the Punjab. So what? Nobody was going to harm me in my uniform and armed with a First Class Pass! I heaved my two bits of luggage onto my shoulders and made my way to the Ghaziabad Station Master’s office. I presented my First Class Pass (FCP) and demanded to know when the next train was to Delhi. I was told that timing was uncertain because of the “riots”. What riots? I left instructions that I was to be informed as soon as a suitable train was approaching. I wandered about, had some food in the Waiting Room and eventually, having reinforced my request to be kept informed, I unrolled my bhistra in a convenient corner of the platform and slept the sleep of a totally unprepared and carefully nurtured young innocent. At 4.30 am a coolie awoke me and told me that a train to Delhi was due in about thirty minutes. I packed up my baggage and stood by the platform waiting…………. Then IT arrived! With an almost apologetic hissing and sushing the engine dragged in its cargo of misery. Humans hung from everywhere; they bulged out of doors and windows, they clung with their very toes to the roof guttering leaning back so as not to slide off the roofs. The smell of urine, faeces and fear, sweat and filth preceded IT. There was patently absolutely no room for me, my baggage or sanity. Suddenly, I became an adult - and not just a “grown up” but a scheming, “no holds barred” young FCP holder in uniform who was going to get to Kashmir no matter what! I pushed my way through the yelling scrabbling mob to the Guards Van and hammered on the door. I shouted and bellowed and demanded entrance as I was the holder of a railway FCP! There was a deathly hush - and then a cough! Flash the FCP and Rs10...Bingo! The train arrived in Old Delhi about 10.00 am and with my baggage shouldered I strode down to the entrance of the old red station building. Again I grew-up with a bang! The platform was stained and there was the most revolting pile of offal heaped in a corner. I realised with a shock that it was human remains. Outside I called up a tika-gharri and loaded my baggage. I told the driver to take me to Maidens Hotel and he set off at a leisurely pace. I told him to go quicker and he said that would not be advisable and pointed to another tika-gharri at the side of the road. The usual skeletal horse was cropping at the grass on the verge - and the driver was hanging head down off his perch…with his throat slit from ear to ear. Clearly getting to Kashmir was going to be a tad more hazardous than I expected! There was little traffic on the streets of Delhi. A few people scurried along with eyes down.Vehicles either went slowly and cautiously or roared passed bristling with armed police or army. Every now and then a pitiful bundle of clothing could be seen against a wall, in a gutter or spreadeagled haphazardly with brown limbs protruding. Maidens Hotel was an oasis of tranquillity and safety. Servants “salaamed” and there was orderliness mixed with the aroma of cigars and brandy. Life was normal and the mad house outside was a passing nightmare. The Sikh with an automatic weapon who had mowed down anybody who showed themselves in Connaught Place until he himself was shot by the police got a brief mention over the after-dinner mints. Rumours were rife and naturally some exaggerated. The fact was however that Delhi was at a standstill. It was quite impossible to move northwards across the new border to Pakistan except as part of a military convoy and I was stuck in Maidens Hotel. It was then that I came across Major Robinson, the father of a childhood friend of mine. He was staying in Maidens for a few days before rejoining his Army unit in Lahore. We renewed our acquaintanceship and he said he may be able to get me to Lahore and would keep in touch. The very next morning the Major appeared in the spacious lounge and signalled me to join him. He said that word had reached him that there was a missionary couple stranded in Chandey Chowk, a suburb, and that he was about to set off to find them and bring them to the hotel. Would I care to come with him? I hurriedly agreed and to my astonishment he then handed me a .38 revolver and with a cheerful, “Here, stick this in your belt!” we jumped into his jeep and set off. We had a Muslim soldier clinging to one side of the bonnet and a Hindu policeman on the other side. The policeman knew where the missionaries were and guided us. We went down some narrow winding lanes between boarded-up house fronts and eventually arrived in a small courtyard where a typical missionary couple sat on suitcases. There was a lot of confused shouting going on and people dashing down alley ways. There was screaming and shots being fired. We bundled the two anxious middle aged people of God into the back of the jeep with their suitcases and the Major swung us round for our return journey. We negotiated the first narrow lanes and then, where the road broadened to a car-and-a-half width we came on the aftermath of the screaming and shouting…Bodies and wounded. The alley that had been clear for our advent was now littered for our return. Lying in the road were two or three bodies with, as I recall, severed heads or horrific chest mutilations. There was nothing we could do but push on - bump, bump, bump, bump! After all, they were dead; I hope to this day that they were dead. Out now into a proper “street” and there, ahead of us was a milling mass of fighting blood lust driven people. The noise was demoralising. John - the Major - put his hand firmly on the inadequate “horn” of the jeep and the two stalwarts up front started to yell, “Hut! Hut! Hut jao - rustha chorro!” and we barged into and through the mass. Maidens Hotel was an oasis again - but there was a smell and a pall of smoke about. Two days later John and I and two Indian soldiers left for Lahore. Actually the road was not nearly as crowded as we had expected. Indians had been brought up to use trains as their preferred mode of transport and besides, the roads were dangerous. Muslims trekking north could most certainly expect to be set on by gangs of Hindus and Hindus running from Pakistan inevitably clashed with the Muslims going north! So, keep away from the main highways was the rule. But the carnage on each side was unbelievable. There is little point in describing harrowing sights blow by blow. If you haven’t been there then you don’t need to go - and if you’ve been there then you certainly don’t want to go back! But, having said that I feel I must describe the highlights - if that is the right term. Cows lumbering towards us from the fields pleading to be milked their udders swollen grotesquely. You take away our calves and then desert us….Dogs tearing at human bodies - especially their faces….and a truly incredible literal “log-jam” of human bodies under a bridge over which we passed. The rivulet had been dammed to such a degree by this stinking mass of putrefying remains that the water was flowing over the bridge……Oh! I could carry on - but I wish I could forget! We spent one night camped in an army transit centre and changed our Indian soldiers for two Muslims. About noon the next day John deposited me at Lahore station and wished me the best of luck. I was on my own again! Now forward with the FCP and the Merchant Navy Cadet’s uniform which had epaulettes with one gold stripe running from the neck down to the shoulder. Thus no one more than twenty miles from the sea had any idea what rank I held! I became a Senior Lieutenant of Marines - at least that is what the Eurasian over- worked Railway Transport Officer army Captain believed! But he could not help me and I had to turn again to my faithful FCP. The station master was a kindly soul and looked upon this rather haughty but inwardly hesitant youngster as a challenge to his logistical abilities. He went into consultation with one of his subordinates and then explained to me that the many thousands of Muslims jostling on the platforms outside were also waiting for transport northwards. However, if I would follow the ASM he would find somewhere for me to at least sit until the train had been coupled up. We walked for some time over the tracks until we came to a single coach and this we approached from the far side so that the crowds could not see us. I was told to board as quickly as I could and this I did, heaving my bhistra and kit bag ahead of me into the gloom of the compartment. The door was hurriedly shut behind me - and I found that I was in a four berth unit with about sixteen Muslim women! I could think of nothing to say but “Good afternoon, ladies!” All the windows were tightly shut and the smell was really vile. The toilet bowl was near overflowing and they told me that they had been in there for a night and half a day. I stood it for about half an hour and then exited even faster than I had entered! Back to the station master who was very understanding. By this time the train had pulled up to the platform and of course was immediately crammed with heaving, shoving, yelling humanity. I despaired. The station master took me into his office and closed the door. He explained to me that the guards van was yet to be attached and that this would be done at the last moment. However he added that they would couple a first class coach to the van and shunt the two of them onto the end of the train. He went to his window and pointed out the coach in a far corner of the shunting yard. He suggested that I said an obvious goodbye to him when I left his office and then I made my own way to the far side of the coach and get into one of the compartments and lock it and sit tight until we were on our way. ”Dorn’t vurry, young Sir! You will get to Kashmir to see your Daddie!” He explained that I had half an hour - and I just made it in time! Bliss! A whole compartment to myself! We were shunted and attached to the tail of the train. There was the inevitable scramble and I could hear the roof being populated. I looked through the wooden slats in the doorway - and saw a pair of hairy pink knees in khaki hose and army boots. Dilemma. If I opened the door I would probably be invaded - if I did not open it “Pink Knees” would burn in my memory for ever! I bellowed at PK to be prepared - and I opened the door! The soldier arrived in a rush closely and unstoppably followed by the other half of the population of Lahore! There were 26 of us in the compartment. I had some sort of holy man squatting next to me It was so crowded that I put my legs out of the window. In this state we proceeded to Rawalpindi. The smell was on and off horrific but I determinedly kept my window open and only once got up to use the toilet and drink some water. I did not realise it but I was living on my reserve energy and sadly needed some food and sleep. The next morning, after some fitful dozing I pulled my legs back to the compartment and found my white naval hose had turned black from soot! But to my credit I still had a firm grip on my bhistra and kit bag. We arrived in ‘Pindi early and detrained. I found a taxi to the hotel - I can’t remember its name - and gave my dirty clothing to a hotel dhobi for urgent attention. I flopped into bed and slept like a log until about 4.00 pm. When I woke my uniform was starched, snow white and neatly folded on a chair! Ah! India. That night I had a large meal, too many brandies and saved an English lady from being ravished - but that is another story! P.S. Forty-eight hours later I was in Gulmarg being fussed over by both my “Daddie” and my “Mummie” and I thought of the terrible labour pains of the birth of India and I thought that such pain must result in the spawning of a fine nation. And it has.
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