SAPPERS
iron, where immediately the dough hardened and
blackened. Another mixed ginger, red pepper, and
garlic into a sauce to scorch the palate. . . . Several
of them squatted round the bleeding carcase of a
sheep and divided it with deft strokes of their
knives. It was an exotic scene, picturesque and
violent. One might have been in one of Kipling's
villages, beside Kim's Great Road: yet it was
freezing hard and all taking place in some French
farmyard. The Indian troops had arrived at the
Front.
It was a transport column we were visiting. The
Quartermaster-General had said, a few weeks
previously: 'When the thaw comes, lorries will be
too heavy. Fm going to get some mules/ And he
had been as good as his word, for here were mules
in hundreds, straight from the Himalayas, with their
own sepoys.
'Two months ago/ the British officer said, Ve
were in the heart of the mountain tribes that wage
their interminable vendettas on the Afghanistan
frontier—the vendettas which the Indian Govern-
ment settles as best it can. Then suddenly we got
our marching orders. The men were delighted. It's
quite true, strange as it may seem. Even deserters
came back to make the journey. Of course, our
destination was secret, but everyone knew we were
coming to France and the big war. Our colonel
went so far as to insist that when the mules kicked
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