Yesterday’s comment made me turn to Uncle Herbrand’s memoir, Firebrand, The Life and Times of Herbrand Alexander. The final pages are worth quoting; redolent of Patrick O’Brian, Paul Scott and The Navy Lark.
”On October 19th (1919) we sailed from Tilbury on the SS Manitou, a North Atlantic 15,000-ton cargo ship quite unsuitable for eastern seas. We were joined by a number of Details, together with a battery of Royal Field Artillery. After an uneventful voyage we docked to refuel in Port Said, where the coolies swarmed up the gangplank, each with a sack of coal on his back, speeded on his way by an overseer wielding a leather strap with practised dexterity.
During out passage through the Suez Canal we were preceded by a warship, its searchlight constantly traversing the countryside on either bank during the hours of darkness. All the time the heat intensified, becoming pretty unbearable in the Red Sea. We lay off Aden for another day, for further coal supplies. In the Indian Ocean the phosphorous on the water was bright enough to read by. The captain of our ship had never been out east before and as we chatted on the bridge one night we agreed that a large vessel was approaching us, on colllision course. The captain barked at his lookout: “Why haven’t you reported that approaching ship?”
”That’s no ship, Captain. That’s the moon coming up.” And right he was, though I felt we could be forgiven our confusion. The moon, surrounded by fleecy clouds, did indeed resemble a ship.
On another occasion when I was again up on the bridge a big red lighthouse came into view.
”What ever is that?” I asked.
“Thanks be to God. It’s the Malabar Light – Bombay. I was terrified we might miss it.”
Disembarkation at Bombay brought some unpleasant surprises. The ship’s crew had broken into the Regimental Stores, accounting for all the spirits and much of our wine. Worse still, the dockers at Tilbury had been about to go on strike, only consenting to load the Manitou, provided it could be done before midnight. In their haste they had loaded the Regiment’s baggage and then lowered the Royal Field Artillery’s guns down on top of it, with the inevitable consequences. Bombay itself I found disappointing, perhaps because the searing brilliance of the sunlight washed out all vestiges of colour.
Having entrained in the boiling heat of Bombay we nearly froze to death as the troop train crawled up the Nilgarry Mountains that night. Our journey took us through Delhi, Lahore, Rawalpindi and after five days to Nowshera, where we spent another night as it was too late to complete the haul to Risalpur. Completing the journey by light railway, we quickly realised just why Risalpur was such an unpopular station. Water was rigorously rationed – none allowed for garden use – and the notion of diverting further supplies from the Swatt River firmly rejected by the General on the grounds that with the water would come the midges, from which Risalpur was mercifully free.
We had relieved the King’s Dragoon Guards, only to face another outbreak of Afghan wars. As our recruits were as yet unskilled in either equitation or the use of firearms, we could only look on as the native regiments marched off to the Khyber, leaving us to complete training the recruits.
With the arrival of spring came news that wives were now to be allowed to join us. By then I had had furniture made in Peshawar in an attempt to provide every comfort for Valla, in addition to recruiting staff, 17 in total including a lady’s maid, whom I sent down to Bombay to escort Valla up to Risalpur.”
(Firebrand, The Life and Times of Herbrand Alexander, by his granddaughter, Janey Alexander.)