Published on May 25, 1980
l first went to England in 1967.Coming from a soldiering family I was besieged with requests to call on old comrades. Over the years I had heard much from my father and uncles about the Englishmen they served with from the days almost of World War I. There was a Colonel Brownfoot who had recruited one uncle into a cavalry regiment, served in Africa with my grandfather, a ripe cavalry Risaldar in World War I. Brownfoot loved his men but like many Englishmen he was also somewhat idiosyncratic. When the shikar season came around he would test the accuracy of his rifle by firing on a target through the legs of his lankey Sikh batman.
"PUCCA SAHIB"
My father talked often of a Colonel Maxwell who had commanded the regiment before World War I. He had of course followed his father who had served with the regiment at the end of the 19th century. And of course he often talked of General Messervy – perhaps one of the most daring soldiers produced by Britain in World War II. The General had fought against Rommel at Tobruk, was captured but escaped to fight again. Later he was in the famous battle of Kohima against the Japanese. At partition he was the first C-in-C of Pakistan.
One had heard a great deal of these and other men for retired soldiers love to re-live their battles. Of an evening over a drink they would describe events long past with such vivid and affectionate details – the routine of a horse cavalry regiment, the winter shikar days, the long drinking parties in the mess, and the absolute punctuality of the British officers at parade a few hours later.
Maxwell lived in a small village near Sandhurst, the British military academy outside London. He was perhaps 80 or more but a sprightly bachelor. His home was modest but full of mementos of India. A “pucca sahib” he offered me a pink gin. We talked of old times. The whole thing was somewhat incongruous because he had retired long before I was born. He remembered his days in JuIlundur Cantonment and talked casually of winter days spent “hunting” (as he put it) the Babar Akalis in the sugarcane fields of Hoshiarpur!
He remembered old comrades “And how is Risaldar Bur Singh. You know we were together in the last horse cavalry charge that this world is likely to see, at Cambrai in 1914 where he won the D.S.O.”
His memories of India were vivid and many. I could see how much he enjoyed seeing an Indian face. He almost seemed a stranger in his own land.
VISITORS' BOOK
On a winter day I motored with Risaldar Bur Singh’s son, who was settled at Southampton, to have lunch with General Messervy. It was a lovely sunny day and the sun sparkled on patches of snow on the green fields. The winding village road was itself a delight. Messervy lived in a modest house set in four acres of land in a remote village south of London. A tall, grey distinguished looking man, he and his wife welcomed us. They too were full of the India they knew and wanted news of the regiment and old comrades.
After a while he took me to his study to sign the visitors’ book which he still kept. The walls were lined with badges and flats of the most distinguished regiments and formations of the India and Pakistan armies. Silver trophies littered the side tables. There were numerous albums of photographs, glancing through which I found the old Indian Army powerfully evoked. Messervy was delighted at my interest and took me over several interesting souvenirs, like a child would over his scrapbook. Inside the house surrounded by tokens of India, I felt as if I was in the mess of a distinguished cavalry regiment.
"JANGI LAAT"
I tried to ask Messervy about his battles of long ago in the desert against Rommel and his dramatic escape. I wanted to know something of the famous battle on the Kohima Deputy Commissioners’ tennis court. Messervy answered modestly and briefly. He was more interested in news of India and his old soldier friends. He too enquired again and again of Risaldar Bur Singh and was particularly pleased to meet his son.
This once “Jangi Laat” of India, who in the old days lived in the glory and ritual of the Raj, now had no servants. They had got help from the village to prepare the lunch which they served themselves. Afterwards the General helped to clear the table. We took a walk around his modest estate and it was time to say goodbye.
Back in India some months later, I was met by my father at the airport. The first question he asked was: “Did you meet Maxwell and Messervy?” Thank God! I was able to answer in the affirmative. I had to make a full report of my conversations with them.
Some time later I made a special trip to a village in Amritsar to call on Risaldar Bur Singh. Past 80, the old man still had the upright bearing of a cavalry officer and the clear eye of a fighting soldier. We sat in the shadow of a mango tree at his tubewell. I told him of the enquiries made by his friends in England.
His eyes lit up with a smile and he remarked: “We fought together at Cambrai. We had to charge the German positions defended by machine-guns and barbed wire on horses. Oh! Messervy Sahib is a very brave man.”
Of his own role and about the medal he won, Risaldar was modestly silent. After a while he looked away across the fields and lapsed into silence. I did not intrude for I could see that the old soldier was far away on a battlefield in Francewith his comrades of long ago.
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