One Dead for Every Kilometre Home

By Fergus O'Connell

The story of the Indian soldiers who fought for Britain in WWI
1914. Ranveer, the eldest son of a wealthy Indian family, joins the British Indian Army and is sent to fight on the Western Front. Wounded and in hospital, he falls in love with Eve, an Englishwoman. But the conventions of the time mean they will never find a home in England. They travel to India but there it is no better and Ranveer gets drawn into the struggle for Indian independence. Now he must choose between family and his country on the one hand and the woman he loves on the other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AG Books
• Release date: Aug 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781783332540

Book preview

1917

Part 1: Ishaa

October 1913 - August 1914

Fair stood the wind for France

When we our sails advance,

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry

From Agincourt by Michael Drayton (1563–1631)

Chapter 1

This is going to be a massacre.

His groom took the reins and polo mallet as Ranveer Singh dismounted from his pony. There were four open-sided canvas pavilions, all with pointed roofs, on the side of the field. The two larger ones housed the officials and general hangers on associated with each of the teams. There was one for the local Amritsar team and the other was for the team from the British Indian Army. The Army pavilion was crowded with British officers in khaki uniforms with shiny leather belts and boots. They were attended by a couple of Indian stewards in immaculate whites who passed amongst them, carrying drinks on trays and collecting glasses.

The two smaller pavilions were for the teams themselves. On a table spread with a spotless white linen table cloth were ranks of glasses turned upside down along with pitchers of water, lemonade and various juices. There were small bowls of salty snacks. Ranveer took a towel and wiped the sweat from his face, grateful for the shade of the tent. It was about the only thing to be grateful for.

It was half time in the first match of the season before a huge home crowd. Amritsar, were already three goals down. But it could have been ten, so completely were they being outclassed. It was like besieging an impregnable fortress. The Army team - all officers, all British - had an iron defence and each time they sallied forth, they scored. They had scored within the first minute which had sent Ranveer’s team reeling. In the second chukkah they had scored again - and the third. It seemed like every time they attacked they scored.

The rest of the time they defended, allowing Amritsar to break themselves like waves on a sea wall. There appeared to be no way through that defence. Worse still, Ranveer had a terrible feeling that the Army was holding back - almost toying with them like a cat with a doomed mouse. If that was true, and the Army did indeed cut loose in the second half, it would be like the opening of floodgates. This could turn out to be a humiliating trouncing the like of which Amritsar had never experienced. Ranveer knew all the statistics, all the scorers and scorelines from the great games of the past. To be beaten in front of a home crowd would be bad enough. But today there was every chance that they would be beaten by the greatest margin ever in a high grade competition. They would be talked about and laughed at for years to come, their performance a new and ghastly low point in polo scores. And all this at the hands of a white team.

Ranveer poured himself some lemonade, downed it and refilled his glass. Then he collapsed onto the canvas seat of one of the wooden folding chairs. He stabbed his long legs out in front of him in a V shape, his boots throwing up little clouds of dust from the iron-hard earth with its sparse coating of once green grass. His three team mates were already sitting down. They gazed at the ground. Nobody said anything. Ranveer was the number one, the primary scorer. He knew it, they knew it. Nobody needed to say anything. He’d have preferred to have been abused by them.

Ranveer wondered where their coach was, but then he saw him. Gurinder was standing on the sideline where he had been for all of the first half. His back was to them and his grey haired head was down. Ranveer felt terrible. Gurinder had put in so much work with them, had expected so much this season.

Apart from the officials, the adjacent, larger pavilion housed the friends and family of the Amritsar team. They had been noisy starting out, even noiser after the first goal but had become progressively more silent after that. Ranveer glanced across at them. His parents were there along with his younger brother Jagraj and sister Preeti. There were numerous uncles, aunts and cousins. He saw his best friend Harmeet - they had known each other since their first day in school. Harmeet was surrounded, as usual, by three or four girls. Normally he would be flirting outrageously with all of them but right now he was silent, as were all the occupants of the tent. They were looking across at Ranveer.

Quickly, he turned away. He imagined joining them after the game. What would they say? What would his father, himself an oustanding number one and record goal scorer who had played for Amritsar, say? His mother had arranged a party at the house tonight. All the work she had put into that. At this rate it would be more like a wake than a celebration. And his mother would try to put a brave face on it. He could hear her already, loving and well-meaning as always. ‘Never mind, Ranveer, it’s only a game. There’ll be other days.’ But even she knew better than that.

‘We’ll have to hold it at three,’ said Arjan, the number three, eventually. ‘Or try to get one back. ‘If they score again...’ He shook his head as his voice trailed off.

Ranveer felt he had to say something. But what? Apologise that he hadn’t been able to score? Criticise the others for not getting the ball to him? Deliver some kind of inspirational talk that they would all recognise for what it was - the words of a man and a team that were being truly outplayed? A loud braying laugh drifted up from the pavilion where the Army team were drinking and chatting animatedly.

At length, Gurinder turned and came towards them. He squatted down so that he was lower than them. It was an almost subservient pose and Ranveer was reminded that the four of them came from families far wealthier than that of Gurinder. But strangely, instead of appearing submissive, he seemed to be exuding some kind of power.

Softly, slowly speaking the words, he said, ‘You now have nothing to lose.’

He paused and then said, ‘I say it again. You have nothing to lose.

Just go and see if you can get a goal. Right away, right after the restart. They’re feeling cocky now. They think they’ve won. While they’re feeling like that, shock them. If we can get that first goal we can get back in the game. We have to fight.’

Gurinder clenched his fist tightly.

‘We owe it to all those people over there.’

With a movement of his head, Gurinder indicated the officials’ tent.

‘We owe it to all of these people.’ He meant the thousands of silent supporters who stood around the sides of the field.

‘We are Amritsar. You are playing for Amritsar. Don’t forget that. We have worked so hard for this. Fight for the next seven minutes. Get a goal. If we get a goal, we are back in it. If you believe you can do it, you can do it. You have to fight for it. You could still be heroes. You know that, don’t you?’

Squatting in the dust, he looked up at each of them in turn. He held their eyes and waited until each of them nodded.

‘All right,’ Gurinder said. ‘You know what you have to do.’

The Amritsar goal came from the first play of the restart. It was literally within seconds. Arjan shot the ball through to Balkar, the number two. On a fresh pony he tore down the field. The Army must surely have been expecting something like this but they seemed to hesitate for a moment before getting going. It was all that Balkar needed. With two of the opposing players in hot pursuit but clearly outpacing them, and to the delight of the crowd, he stroked the ball neatly between the posts.

Two minutes later Amritsar scored again as Ranveer got his name on the scoresheet. The crowd went wild. At least now it wasn’t going to be a drubbing. The chukkah ended 3-2.

In the fifth chukkah, the Army defence locked Amritsar down and for a while it was like it had been in the first half. Amritsar attacked repeatedly but each attack was beaten off. Eventually, Arjan shot the ball through to Ranveer and he pushed it forward, pounding towards the opposite goal. There was an Army player on Ranveer’s right and just to the rear of him. Drawing within range, Ranveer swung back his mallet to make a strike. As he did so, the Army player pulled level and tried to hook Ranveer’s mallet and block the swing. But it was a sloppily executed hook. The Army player struck Ranveer’s thigh with his mallet. Ranveer’s mallet took most of the momentum of the hook so it wasn’t that painful. But he shouted in a mixture of pain and outrage anyway. Not that it mattered. One of the umpires had already seen the foul and was calling it. Balkar scored from the penalty and the crowd erupted.

There was an incredible level of noise around the ground as the final chukkah began. Amritsar was very nearly caught napping as the Army number one got a clear shot at goal. The home supporters groaned en masse. It seemed certain he would score but the ball hit a divot, was deflected ever so slightly and the deflection was enough to cause it to roll wide.

The Army continued to press, going on an all out attack. One of their players broke for the Amritsar goal and Ranveer pursued him along the touch line, desperately trying to push his opponent off and steal the ball. As he did so, Ranveer heard Gurinder yelling what sounded like, ‘This is not their game.’

For a second Ranveer thought he knew what his coach meant - that this was Amritsar’s game and that they mustn’t lose it now in the last minutes. But then Ranveer really understood. What Gurinder meant was that the Army team hadn’t trained for an attacking game like this. It wasn’t what they were best at. Defensive play with occasional sallies was their game.

In the fraction of a second it took Ranveer to process all of this, he also noticed that two other Army players were either forward or moving in that direction. He pushed his pony on, riding alongside his opponent. Then Ranveer executed a perfect ride-off. There was absolutely no foul and he bumped his opponent just enough to be able to take the ball. With three of the Army players wrong footed and heading in the wrong direction, Ranveer now turned for their goal.

He had never heard anything like the noise level in the ground. But suddenly the sounds seemed to fade and become faint as though heard from a long way off. Instead, Ranveer’s ears were full of the pounding of his pony’s hooves and the animal’s snorting. He could smell their combined sweat and tightened his grip on the handle of the mallet. There was one remaining player between Ranveer and the Army goal. ‘Now,’ he heard himself say. ‘Now, let’s take him.’

Weirdly, the space between the posts looked to be enormous and his opponent smaller than Ranveer would have thought. He blinked, sweat stinging his eyes, but the illusion, if it was an illusion, remained. He looked down to his right and the ball was rolling along happily beside him. For an instant Ranveer had a comical picture of himself and the ball out for a walk, like a pair of cheery companions. Then he leaned over and knocked it delicately through his opponent’s pony’s legs.

The cheers of the crowd abruptly returned to him, deafeningly loud. It was like somebody had suddenly turned up the volume of a loudspeaker. Ranveer drove past his opponent who was frantically trying to turn. Then, reunited with the ball, Ranveer knocked it so casually that he almost appeared indifferent, into the empty goal. Forty five seconds later the game was over.

The Army team seemed stunned. Ranveer shook hands with each of them in turn, clasping them on their upper arm and saying, ‘Well done’ or ‘Well played’. Three of them seemed unable to speak at all and just allowed him to take their hands while they looked through him. The fourth said, ‘Well done, old man,’ in a remote, automatic sort of voice.

Ranveer walked his pony towards the Amritsar tents. Their occupants were screaming their delight. Ranveer held his mallet aloft as the crowd cheered and yelled and whistled. Gurinder still stood on the sideline. As Ranveer approached, his coach caught his eye and nodded gently in approval. Just one tiny nod. Then he smiled. That was all. There was nothing else - no shaking hands, no back patting, no histrionics, just the nod and the smile. For Ranveer, it was all that he needed. He saw that there were tears in Gurinder’s eyes.

Chapter 2

Ranveer dismounted and walked towards the big tent. His mother was the first to embrace him.

‘My beautiful son,’ she whispered in his ear.

Then his siblings hugged him together - thirteen year old Jagraj and Preeti, aged eleven. His father shook his hand, the weathered face cracking with a broad smile beneath the vast grey moustache. Harmeet was next to hug his friend, taking Ranveer’s hand and holding it aloft. Then Harmeet introduced each of the girls that was with him. Adrenaline was still coursing through Ranveer’s body so that he completely missed the names of the first three, even though their faces were vaguely familiar. The fourth was one he had never seen before and suddenly, as if tuning in a radio, he heard Harmeet’s voice saying, ‘And this is my cousin, Ishaa. She’s come to stay with us for a few months.’

Ranveer took Ishaa’s proferred hand. Ranveer was just on six foot and his right hand was strong from holding and swinging a polo mallet. She was small in stature, petite and though her handshake was firm, he was struck by how seemingly frail her fingers were. It was like holding a bird.

‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘You played a great game.’

Ranveer thought she was really pretty. Maybe not in a classical sort of way, but she had an oval face, lovely biscuit-coloured skin, lustrous brown hair and hazel-brown eyes. Her lips were actually perfect. They were outlined in lipstick and together formed a rather lovely rosebud. The lower one was full and very kissable. Her teeth showed snow white when she smiled.

‘I hope Harmeet will be bringing you to our house tonight,’ Ranveer said. ‘We’re having a party to mark the start of the season.’

‘So now it will be a victory celebration as well,’ she said.

‘Yes, even though it was very nearly a funeral.’

She laughed.

‘You’re too modest,’ she said.

***

There must have been a couple of hundred people at the party. The bright lights, music and smells of food emanating from the house attracted a large crowd out on the street, who gathered to watch the guests arrive. A couple of policemen were on hand to keep everything in order. The guests included people from the polo fratenity, Ranveer’s parents’ friends, business acquaintances of his father’s along with Ranveer’s own friends. Harmeet brought a gaggle of girls and Ranveer was delighted to see that Ishaa was amongst them.

It was late in the evening before he got to speak to her. Normally Ranveer wasn’t that fond of parties like this, enduring them when he’d much rather be doing something else - reading or taking pictures with his camera. But tonight he decided he would speak to each person who had come. If he wasn’t the guest of honour, he was certainly the hero of the hour and it was nice to have people congratulating him and saying what a great game he had played. When he eventually found Ishaa the meal was over and there was dancing taking place in the largest room in the house. She was in the garden sitting, with her legs crossed, on the low stone wall that encompassed a small rectangular pool. Ranveer saw her from the house, in shadow and hardly visible in the torches that flared in the garden. She as gazing into the water.

‘You don’t like dancing?’ he said, as he approached.

She started.

‘Oh - you gave me a fright.’

He had tried not to - and wished he hadn’t.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘I don’t really like dancing,’ she said. ‘There are other things I’d rather be doing.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like this,’ she said. ‘Your parents have a beautiful house. I was looking at the reflection of the stars in the pool.’

The surface of the black water was like glass in which several pinpricks of light were clearly visible. The air smelt faintly of woodsmoke and the food that had recently been eaten along with the sweet smell of jasmine from his mother’s garden. The flickering light from the torches caught the pale green and blue of her sari.

‘Tell me about the polo game,’ she said, looking up at him.

‘You were there. You saw what happened.’

‘I know. I mean tell me about half time. What happened? What changed?’

‘Our coach, Gurinder. He gave us a great talk.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He may have done. I’m sure he did. But something changed in you.’

She was right, Ranveer realised. Something had changed in him. He tried to remember what it was and slowly it came back to him. Hesitantly, he said, ‘I imagined the game being over. Walking off the field. I wanted there to be arms to hold me, to embrace me. If we had lost there would have been no arms, no embrace and the world would have been a cold and lonely place.’

‘I felt there was some power there today,’ Ishaa said. ‘Not just your power. Something else.’

Ranveer didn’t quite know what to say to this.

‘Do you believe that the stars control our destiny?’ she asked.

‘I don’t really know much about it,’ he said.

‘Here - sit down,’ she said, patting the grey stone in front of her. Ranveer did as he was told. ‘When’s your birthday?’

"November the twenty eighth.’

‘So you’re a Sagittarius, same as me. I’m December the thirteenth. So I’d guess you’re practical, a problem solver, you like challenges and you’re very loving. Oh - and you’re clever. Am I right?’

Ranveer counted the traits off on his fingers.

‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘And are you like that?’

‘I am. Exactly like that,’ she declared.

She paused. It was as though she was trying to decide whether she should say what was on her mind.

‘My father wants me to get married of course - now that I have finished school.’

‘And you don’t want to?’ Ranveer asked.

‘Maybe some day. But not at the moment. That’s why I came here.’

‘You came here to not get married.’

She laughed a soft laugh.

‘Yes, I suppose you could say that. I thought that if I was out of sight he wouldn’t be able to pester me so much about it.’

‘So how long are you staying?’ Ranveer asked, suddenly realising it was important that he knew.

‘At least until the end of the year. I’ll try to gauge from his letters if the pressure to get married is increasing or decreasing. Based on that I’ll decide. Maybe I’ll never go back.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘No, not really, but there’s so much I’d like to do.’

‘Like what?’

‘I want to be a writer. I want to write stories for children. I paint a little. I’d like to write the stories, illustrate them myself and then have them published - a whole series of little books. Do you like books?’ she asked.

‘I do. I like reading.’

‘You’re not a bit like I expected,’ she said.

Ranveer grinned.

‘Why? What did you expect?’

‘When Harmeet told me we were going to a polo match I groaned. You’ll like my friend Ranveer, he told me. I had this vision of a muscle bound, brainless oaf with a horse between his knees and nothing between his ears.’

Ranveer laughed, throwing back his head.

‘Or else,’ she continued, ‘somebody aping his supposed betters.’

‘You mean the British?’

She nodded.

‘And I’m not like that?’

‘No, I don’t think you are