Culture, conflict and the military in colonial South Asia [First South Asia edition] 9781138106888, 1138106887, 9781138206724, 1138206725

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Culture, Conflict and the Military in Colonial South Asia

This book offers diverse and original perspectives on South Asia’s imperial military history. Unlike prevailing studies, the chapters in the volume emphasize both the vital role of culture in framing imperial military practice and the multiple cultural effects of colonial military service and engagements. The volume spans from the early East India Company period through to the Second World War and India’s independence, exploring themes such as the military in the field and at leisure, as well as examining the effects of imperial deployments in South Asia and across the British Empire. Drawing extensively on new archival research, the book integrates previously disparate accounts of imperial military history and raises new questions about culture and operational practice in the colonial Indian Army. This work will be of interest to scholars and researchers of modern South Asian history, war and strategic studies, military history, the British Empire, as well as politics and international relations. Kaushik Roy is Guru Nanak Chair Professor in the Department of History, Jadavpur University, Kolkata, West Bengal, India, and Global Fellow at the Peace Research Institute Oslo (PRIO), Norway. He has published widely on the British-Indian Army and counter-insurgency in Asia. Gavin Rand is Principal Lecturer in History at the University of Greenwich, London, UK. He has published on the recruiting and ideologies of the colonial Indian Army as well as on imperial military administration and governance. He is currently writing a cultural history of the Indian Army in the colonial period.

War and Society in South Asia Series Editors: Douglas M. Peers, Professor of History and Dean of Arts, University of Waterloo, Canada; Kaushik Roy, Guru Nanak Chair Professor, Department of History, Jadavpur University, Kolkata, West Bengal, India and Global Fellow, Peace Research Institute Oslo (PRIO), Norway; and Gavin Rand, Principal Lecturer in History, University of Greenwich, London, UK

The War and Society in South Asia series integrates and interrogates social, cultural and military histories of South Asia. The series explores social and cultural histories of South Asia’s military institutions as well as the impacts of conflict and the military on South Asian societies, polities and economies. The series reflects the varied and rich histories that connect warfare and society in South Asia from the early modern period through the colonial era to the present. By situating the histories of war and society in wider contexts, the series seeks to encourage greater understanding of the multidimensional roles played by warfare, soldiers and military institutions in South Asia’s history. IN THIS SERIES Culture, Conflict and the Military in Colonial South Asia Edited by Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand

Culture, Conflict and the Military in Colonial South Asia Edited by Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 selection and editorial matter, Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-138-20672-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-09991-0 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

List of contributorsvii Acknowledgementsix Introduction

1

KAUSHIK ROY AND GAVIN RAND

  1 The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection

22

IAN F. W. BECKETT

  2 Sepoys and sebundies: the role of regular and paramilitary forces in the construction of colonialism in Bengal, c. 1765–c. 1820

45

JAMES LEES

  3 Intelligence and strategic culture: alternative perspectives on the first British invasion of Afghanistan

64

HUW J. DAVIES

  4 ‘At Ease, Soldier’: social life in the cantonment

85

ERICA WALD

  5 ‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’: archive, memory and W. H. Russell’s (re)making of the Indian Mutiny DOUGLAS M. PEERS

104

vi  Contents  6 From the Black Mountain to Waziristan: culture and combat on the North-West Frontier

131

GAVIN RAND

  7 Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897: civil–military tensions and Pukhtun resistance on the North-West Frontier of British India

157

SAMEETAH AGHA

  8 The Indian Army in defeat: Malaya, 1941–2

183

KAUSHIK ROY

  9 Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War

212

CAT WILSON

10 War and Indian military institutions: the emergence of the Indian Military Academy

239

VIPUL DUTTA

11 ‘Home’ front: Indian soldiers and civilians in Britain, 1939–45

258

FLORIAN STADTLER

Index277

Contributors

Sameetah Agha is Associate Professor of History at Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York, USA. Her teaching and research areas include modern world history, imperialism and colonialism, and military history with an emphasis on Central and South Asia and Afghanistan. She is currently completing a book manuscript on the Pukhtun Revolt of 1897 on the North-West Frontier of British India. Ian F. W. Beckett is Professor of Military History at the University of Kent, England, United Kingdom. A Fellow of the Royal Historical Society, he was Chairman of the Council of the Army Records Society (2001–14). His publications include Wolseley and Ashanti: The Asante War Journals and Correspondence of Major General Sir Garnet Wolseley, 1873–74 (2009),  The Victorians at War (2003) and, as editor, Citizen Soldiers and the British Empire, 1837–1902 (2012). He is completing a study of the politics of command in the late Victorian army. Huw J. Davies is Senior Lecturer in Defence Studies at King’s College London and is an expert on Napoleonic Warfare. In 2012, he published Wellington’s Wars: The Making of a Military Genius and has also written on intelligence, diplomacy and command in Modern Asian Studies and the Journal of Military History, among others. At present, he is working on intelligence and strategy during the First Afghan War (1839–42). Vipul Dutta holds a doctorate from the King’s India Institute, King’s College London, United Kingdom. His research interests lie in the fields of military history, military sociology of South Asia, civil– military relations and the role of the Indian Army in the First and Second World Wars.

viii  Contributors James Lees is a Research Advisor in the Grants and Innovation Office at Karlstad University, Sweden. He holds a doctorate in British Imperial/South Asian history from King’s College London. His research examines power relations and bureaucratic culture among the European civil servants of the East India Company state in late eighteenth-century Bengal. Douglas M. Peers is Dean of Arts and Professor of History at the University of Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. He has published widely on colonial South Asia and especially on South Asian armies and state formation. He co-edited with Nandini Gooptu, India and the British Empire in The Oxford History of the British Empire: Companion Series (2012). Florian Stadtler is Senior Lecturer in Global Literature at the University of Exeter, United Kingdom. Previously Research Fellow at The Open University, he has researched and published on the South Asian community and its historical legacy in pre-1950 Britain. He has also worked on South Asian literature and films and is the author of Fiction, Film and Indian Popular Cinema: Salman Rushdie’s Novels and the Cinematic Imagination (2013). He is the Reviews Editor of Wasafiri: The Magazine of International Contemporary Writing. Erica Wald is Senior Lecturer in Modern History at Goldsmiths, University of London, United Kingdom. She is the author of Vice in the Barracks: Medicine, the Military and the Making of Colonial India, 1780–1868 (2014) and has published on prostitution, health and discipline in colonial India. Cat Wilson was awarded a doctorate in 2012 by Hull University, England, United Kingdom, for her research which examined Winston Churchill’s depiction of the war in the Far East as presented in his six-volume memoir The Second World War. She has presented her research both nationally and internationally, and is a member of the British Commission for Military History as well as the British Empire at War Research Group.

Acknowledgements

This volume contains papers first presented at the symposia hosted in London by the University of Greenwich and in Kolkata by Jadavpur University. The symposia were made possible by a British Academy International Partnership and Mobility Award, and we thank the British Academy for their support. We also want to thank colleagues and students at Greenwich and Jadavpur, all the participants at the symposia and, most of all, each of the contributors to the volume.

Introduction Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand

Military power was central to securing, policing and defending colonial rule in South Asia. Even in peacetime, the military was the largest drain on the colonial exchequer, typically employing more than 200,000 troops through most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The Indian Army1 also played a crucial role in projecting and asserting British imperial power beyond South Asia, most obviously during the global wars of the twentieth century, in which millions of Indians served.2 These conflicts did much to shape South Asia’s engagements with, and place in, the emergent postcolonial world order, just as war and the military informed metropolitan engagements with, and understandings of, the Indian subcontinent in the nineteenth century. In South Asia, as in Europe and beyond, war was one of the principal vectors for the movements of people, and ideas, through the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The Indian Army occupied an anomalous position during the colonial period. While the armed forces were an essential foundation of colonial authority, the power of the imperial military rested largely on those South Asians enlisted in Britain’s colonial armies, as well as on those who provided the labour and the logistics that sustained these formations. This truth, which historians were slow to properly recognize, places the military at the very centre of South Asia’s colonial history: while violence underwrote colonial authority the apparatus of imperial coercion was comprised, supplied and provisioned by Indians. War and conflict were, of course, major drivers of historical change across the subcontinent but so too were the effects of military expenditure, of recruiting patterns and the legacies of military service. Like soldiers everywhere, military service helped to shape the social and cultural identities of recruits in South Asia where imperial institutions drew on – and in some cases transformed – identities rooted in region, tribe, caste, gender and family. The complementary, though

2  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand very different, histories of enlisting and recruiting illuminate the multiple and wide-reaching effects of colonial military service. While few Indians joined colonial forces for patriotic reasons, regular pay, pensions and gratuities did attract and retain recruits. Colonial recruiting drew from a pre-existing Indian military labour market, and most of those who enlisted for colonial service could probably lay claim to existing traditions of military service. For many such groups, military service linked, and gave shape to, professional, regional, religious and familial identities. The conjuncture of these identities, and their significance for colonial military service, is reflected in the notion of izzat, an Urdu term that may be translated as honour, prestige or reputation.3 If izzat, referring to a tradition of military service, and to the cultural valorization of certain forms of martial masculinity, is relevant for understanding enlisting patterns and, perhaps, combat motivation and effectiveness, it is also the case that colonial military service helped to give these identities new shape and significance.4 As colonial power was consolidated and extended through the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Kshatriya (and other) traditions became embedded in the military infrastructure of the Raj. Though some martial traditions predated colonial recruiting, the scale and duration of the Raj’s demand for military labour helped to incentivize and also to concretize the martial identities of various South Asian communities, including the Sikhs, Gurkhas and Pathans. Having discovered the ‘martial races’ colonial recruiters helped to systematize their identities and a genre of ethnographic writing – the familiar ‘martial race discourse’ – developed to substantiate and document this heritage.5 These were largely ‘invented traditions’: though many Nepalese and Punjabis undertook military service (among other forms of émigré labour) long before the British, the particular forms of ‘martial heritage’ enshrined in colonial recruiting handbooks, like ideas of honour and shame on which they depended, were hybridized, reflecting the co-production of new identities shaped by both pre-existing social, economic and political forces and by the transformative effects of colonial expansion.6 The effects were, nevertheless, far-reaching and long-standing: Nepalese Gurkhas remain the premier infantry of present-day British and Indian armies, while the Sikhs dominate the combatant arms of the Indian and Pakistan armies, where the regimental structure of the British-officered colonial-era army more or less persists.7 While izzat was rooted in pre-colonial social structures and though it retained significance for those who volunteered for colonial service, our understandings of izzat have been profoundly transformed by colonial recruiting not least because our access to the idea is deeply,

Introduction 3 and problematically, mediated by colonial sources. Though rich archival collections document the history of the military in colonial South Asia, most of the sources we have are of colonial origin. As the vast majority of South Asia’s colonial soldiers were illiterate, there are few indigenous accounts of colonial military service. Our access to, and understanding of, the mentalities of South Asian recruits are inevitably partial and heavily mediated by colonial perspectives. While there is ample evidence which shows that traditions of military service rested on and helped to shape prevailing cultural ideas about masculinity, identity and community, there is equally ample evidence to suggest that these ideas were transformed during the colonial period. The stylized representations of India’s martial races which circulated in the imperial press and were codified in popular writings during the interwar period reflect the hybrid cultures of colonial military service much more than they describe the social reality of colonial South Asia.8 A critical history of izzat – sensitive to the particular and shifting meanings of the term across different contexts – could help to illuminate not only the motivations and perspectives of those sepoys and sowars who enlisted in the imperial military but also help us to trace how these men, and their actions, shaped events and ideas which had much wider pan-imperial effects.9 If the martial race discourse, in Edward Said’s terms, ‘Orientalized’ izzat, then a careful reading of colonial understandings of izzat may reveal much about the interlocking and mutually constitutive worlds of culture, conflict and the military in the making of colonial South Asia.10 As this example suggests, the imperial military played a vital role in spreading and sustaining colonial rule and in shaping the experiences, opportunities and outlooks of men and women across South Asia. While much remains to be done to understand the operational history of the Indian Army, we must also look beyond the battlefield to examine the many and varied ways in which the imperial military helped to shape the connections which made contemporary South Asia and its place in the world. * * * As the introductory discussion and the following chapters make clear, recent works on the Indian Army confirm the prescience of Clive Dewey’s 1996 prediction that historians were ‘waking up to the fact that military factors have to be taken into account across the whole spread of South Asian history’. However, despite a number important works, the promise of what Dewey called ‘the New Military History of South Asia’ remains only partially fulfilled.11 Much military history – of

4  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand South Asia and elsewhere – remains largely disconnected from wider historiographical debates.12 Ironically, though perhaps not coincidentally, the isolation of imperial military history has persisted despite the proliferation of scholarship on empire in the wake of the so-called imperial turn. The reinvigoration of imperial history and historiography, which might have been expected to complement emerging trends in South Asian military history, seems, in fact, to have perpetuated or even exacerbated methodological and interpretive divisions between military and non-military historians. In some ways, it appears that the ‘new imperial history’ has absorbed the wider momentum which might have animated the ‘new military history’ of South Asia. Despite an enormous proliferation of scholarship, the histories of war, and of the institutions raised to wage imperial wars, remain isolated from much of the work produced following the ‘imperial turn’.13 Stephen Howe’s admirable The New Imperial Histories Reader – the cover of which depicts ‘An Incident during the Sikh Wars’ – dedicates just eight of more than 450 pages to discussion of the place of warfare and violence in colonial historiography.14 Though specific conflicts and moments of colonial violence are discussed elsewhere in the Reader, the imperial histories of military institutions – and of warfare itself – appear only as adjuncts to wider histories. Howe’s volume reflects the nature of much recent scholarship: while new imperial histories have rightly called attention to the violence of colonial rule, there are still few detailed reconstructions of the individuals and institutions through which violence was mobilized and deployed. For all the promise of new military and new imperial historiography, the boundaries between cultural and military histories have proved frustratingly resolute. With a view to breaking down some of these barriers – or at least identifying their contours – this edited volume revisits the terrain mapped by Dewey, and others, in the 1990s. The eleven chapters collected here illuminate, in different ways, the varied and diverse strands that comprise the military history of colonial South Asia. Some of the chapters revisit and extend debates on familiar subjects, while others open up new subjects and suggest novel approaches and interpretations. The chapters range across the colonial period as well as across and beyond South Asia. They chart the emergence, extension and consolidation of colonial military power and examine key episodes in the defence of that power, both within and without the subcontinent. Collectively, they demonstrate that India’s military histories extend across the British Empire and range far beyond the battlefield. Several of the chapters complicate crude colonial/nationalist binaries, showing the crucial role of South Asians in the expansion of colonial rule as well

Introduction 5 as the important role of war and the military in shaping trajectories towards independence. Both colonial and nationalist historiographies have failed to adequately account for the roles played by soldiers and followers in the expansion and contraction of imperialism in South Asia. In offering an overview of the various ways in which culture and conflict shaped the history of colonialism in South Asia, this volume seeks to encourage further works to explore the wider registers of imperial military history. More than any other colonial institution, the Indian Army played a crucial role in shaping the interconnected histories of colony and metropole. The breadth and diversity of the extant literature are reflected in the historiographical overview presented in the opening chapter by Ian Beckett. The first histories of the imperial military were produced by scholar-bureaucrats concerned to legitimize and valorize the Indian Army’s role in consolidating colonial rule in the subcontinent. Nevertheless, as Beckett notes and as several of the other chapters in this volume demonstrate, colonial historiography remains an important seam within the wider literature, not least because the early histories are often rich in contemporary material. Though inevitably partial, they are for this reason invariably valuable in illuminating the colonial context from which they emerged. Drawing on wider methodological shifts, recent works have offered much more varied, and critical, readings: the unreconstructed ‘drum and buttons’ school of the early twentieth century, which depicted colonial triumphs and the glory of various regiments, has been displaced by the emergence of social history, leading academic historians to mine the history of the Indian Army to explore the wider historical forces which shaped the history of the subcontinent and its peoples. These shifts, which also reflected the emergence of the so-called war and society school, asked new questions of imperial military histories. So, too, did the emergence of ‘Subaltern Studies’ in the 1980s although, as David Omissi noted, the subalternists showed relatively little interest in the history of those Indians who allied themselves with colonial authority – a fact which is doubly unfortunate, given the crucial role played by the sepoys and the wealth of resources which document their contribution.15 Much more work has been done, as Beckett’s chapter indicates, on ‘the mutiny (and rebellion)’. This is partly, perhaps, because 1857 – like the other ‘mutinies’ addressed in the literature – is more easily accommodated in analyses which emphasize resistance as a key condition of ‘subalternity’. The enormous wealth of literary and cultural responses to ‘the mutiny’ has also ensured that the Indian Army registers a presence on scholars in other disciplines, particularly in the wake of the cultural turn.

6  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand Unsurprisingly, then, works by historical geographers, literary scholars and anthropologists all feature in Beckett’s extensive notes. The works surveyed here – which chart the development of new understandings of South Asian society as well as the evolution of strategic concerns in the late nineteenth century and the global deployments of the Indian Army in the conflicts of the twentieth century – confirm the wider reaches of imperial military historiography. Alongside these, more recent operational histories have been influenced by organizational studies, with scholars focusing on the institutional and logistical adaptations undertaken during the conflict. As several of the chapters in this collection indicate, assessments of combat effectiveness and battlefield techniques are now informed by much wider readings than those offered in colonial accounts. As Beckett’s chapter makes clear, the historiography of the Indian Army reflects the military’s key role in the history of colonial South Asia, as well as the impact of wider historiographical developments on understandings of that role. Beckett’s chapter sets the context for those that follow and provides an instructive bibliographical guide for those beginning research on the military history of colonial South Asia. If recent works on the expansion of colonial authority in India have complicated the crude and essentialist accounts of colonial scholaradministrators, the military’s role in the expansion of British authority remains central to understandings of the nature of the colonial state. While Cambridge and nationalist schools proffered alternative views of collaboration and domination, it is clear that the expansion of colonial rule depended on the mobilization and reliability of large numbers of Indians. Philip Stern has argued that far from absent-mindedness, the British pursued a clear objective of establishing a ‘New Rome’ in India from the seventeenth century. First, they established their control over the Arabian Sea and then, combining European institutional forms with indigenous labour, the East India Company slowly but steadily moved inland. The Company’s calculated interference in the layered and divisible sovereignties of post-Mughal polities continued apace through the eighteenth century.16 While the imperial military played a vital role in this expansion, the precise nature of the Bengal Army’s role has often been misunderstood and, as James Lees shows in chapter two, it has also perhaps been somewhat exaggerated.17 Examining the growth of colonial power in the Bengal Presidency during the second half of the eighteenth century, Lees makes clear that the Bengal Army was scarcely involved in counter-insurgency operations during the process of colonial expansion. Challenging the assumption that the regular army was the key institution for securing British influence

Introduction 7 within colonial territory, Lees shows that the consolidation of colonialism depended in large part on ill-organized and at times ill-equipped paramilitaries. While the Bengal Army remained concentrated at various strategic sites along the border, especially in Awadh, until the early nineteenth century policing duties were typically undertaken by local irregulars, partly because of the fiscal limits on the colonial state and partly because the structures and strictures of discipline necessary to control a dispersed force were absent throughout the eighteenth century. As Lees shows, anxieties over the competence of lower-ranking officials – as well as over the loyalty and effectiveness of men in arms – helped to encourage a policy which deliberately limited the military forces which were at the disposal of local colonial officials. While policing duties thus fell on irregular and paramilitary forces, the regular Bengal Army was reserved for deployments against the more substantial competing military powers, notably the Marathas in central and west India and the Sikhs on the Awadh–Rohilkhand border. The powerlessness of lower-ranking colonial administrators reflected a pragmatic response to the internal and external limits on the military power of the emerging colonial state. Only after the collapse of the Maratha Confederacy in 1805 could the colonial authorities detail significant military assets for internal policing and only then was the Bengal Army dispersed in order to take on more of this kind of work. The distribution of forces described in familiar works on the early nineteenth century reflects the operation of the garrison state, not its emergence.18 As Lees’s chapter makes clear, the expansion of colonial authority was a process shaped by the limits of colonial power as much as by its range. Similar limits also shaped the colonial state’s engagements with other subcontinental powers, as Huw Davies’s chapter on the First Afghan War demonstrates. Challenging grand strategic analyses of the war’s causes, Davies shows that imperial engagements with Afghanistan were shaped by three discrete intelligence networks – one centred in London, one in Lahore and one in Calcutta – each of which reflected alternative strategic cultures and priorities. Intelligence was routed to London from networks coordinated in embassies across European capitals. Commercial and strategic rivalries with Russia and particularly the prospect of increased Russian influence in Europe assumed greater importance through the late 1820s and early 1830s. In Lahore and Calcutta, however, the East India Company was less concerned with a Russian advance than with the threat posed by Ranjit Singh’s Sikh Army. In seeking to exploit rivalries between the Sikhs and the Afghans, Calcutta miscalculated the strength of the Afghan polity

8  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand and misread dubious intelligence from Tehran. Calcutta’s reading of Afghan events was framed not only by metropolitans concerns related to the Russian advance but also by Central and South Asian affairs. Davies argues that Calcutta’s intelligence networks, and the prevailing strategic culture in which intelligence was weighed, were dominated by military men, and that this produced recurrent anxieties over threats and, in turn, inclined the East India Company to seek military solutions to political and strategic problems. With partial information and limited understandings of Afghan politics, Calcutta proposed intervention for its own reasons, but in so doing provided London with an opportunity to pursue its own ends by the same means. In tracing the differentiated inputs and cognitive dissonance which shaped the decision to invade Afghanistan, Davies’s chapter highlights the influence of colonial culture on imperial decision-making and thus suggests some of the limits of imperial intelligence systems. Like Lees, Davies demonstrates how a more granular reading of colonial military history can be used to throw light on the uneven and episodic expansion of the Company state. While military force played a vital role in the East India Company’s expansion, one of the most significant limits on the Company’s military power, and on the Raj which it preceded, was the financial burden of raising and maintaining regular forces, particularly the European troops who provided the ‘backbone’ of the Indian Army. European troops were a considerable and a costly human resource for the colonial state in India: each European soldier was four times costlier than a sepoy, and Europeans were much more susceptible to disease than were locally recruited sepoys and sowars. As Erica Wald’s chapter makes clear, the health of the European soldiery was an important concern for the military authorities and the Government of India. However, while European soldiers were thought to play a vital role in imperial military power, many regarded the European rank and file as a degraded and loutish class apart, whose drunkenness and licentiousness threatened to imperil the prestige of the European race. To police these dangers, commanding officers exercised absolute power to regulate the space inside the cantonment and to control the bodies of the troops they commanded. Similarly strict control was established over the Indian and European women living inside the cantonments. As Wald has shown elsewhere, the regulation of space and the punishment of those who transgressed reflected prevailing ideas about masculinity and race in the colonial context.19 Exploring attitudes towards the rank and file by examining leisure provision for soldiers during the mid-nineteenth century, Wald

Introduction 9 illustrates the paucity of provision made for soldiers’ leisure, tracing the development of scattered and limited attempts to ‘improve’ the soldiery through the course of the nineteenth century and mapping these against shifting understandings of the ‘ideal soldier’. If Wellesley’s vision of the uneducated (and a-political) soldier was gradually supplanted by a more engaged, and recognizably national, ideal-type in the British Army at home, European recruits for the imperial military continued to occupy an inferior position. Beyond ready, and substantial, access to alcohol, there was little organized provision for most European recruits serving in India during the early nineteenth century. In part, this was a further consequence of the fiscal pressures that so shaped the organization and deployment of the Indian Army. The provision of ready access to sex and alcohol was thus socially conditioned and financially practicable. Indeed, while the Government of India sought to crack down on the supply of bazaar liquor to mitigate the not-infrequent cases of poisoning occasioned by illicit alcohol, official liquor also provided a useful source of revenue. Though alternative forms of leisure became more widely available after the 1820s, the provision of reading rooms, coffee shops and regimental savings banks was subjected to careful cost–benefit analysis, and often depended on the personal assessments of those officers in charge of the cantonment. The reticence – and parsimony – of commanding officers was one of the reasons that the temperance movement found limited success in India. While there was considerable concern about the injurious behaviour of European soldiers, there were also countervailing concerns that improvement would undermine the ‘brute strength’ of the soldiers. Leisure and discipline were thus calculated to support the army’s ultimate role as the guarantor of colonial power. Wald’s chapter presents a picture of a complex and varied institution shaped by social and cultural forces produced across imperial circuits as well as by competing and sometimes contradictory financial and institutional imperatives. Douglas Peers’s chapter on W. H. Russell further illuminates the wider imperial circuits across which histories of the Indian Army may be traced. Having made his name reporting for The Times from Crimea, Russell’s accounts of the counter-mutiny campaigns helped to ensure that colonial war became a staple of the metropolitan media, confirming his reputation as the first recognizably modern war correspondent. Indeed, Russell was sent to India and given access to the military high command, partly because the government in London was keen to encourage more balanced coverage of the rebellion than was emanating from the Anglo-Indian press. As Peers makes clear, Russell’s

10  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand Indian writings thus reflect the increasing importance of India, and the military, in the political and cultural registers of the wider imperial system. Comparing Russell’s published and unpublished writings on 1857, Peers shows how Russell fashioned his reportage according to the preferences and the prejudices of his audience: glossing over the worst instances of British brutality in his published works but also criticizing aspects of imperial rule and colonial society. Though never anti-imperialist, Russell was scathing in criticizing Anglo-Indian society and his endorsement of the Government of India’s ‘clemency’ in the aftermath of the rebellion was out of step with metropolitan tastes and seems to have cost The Times readers. And yet, Russell’s writings also recycled recurrent Orientalist tropes: his texts depict Indians as lazy, childlike and easily inflamed; Islam and caste are frequent and potent markers of Oriental difference. Whereas his Crimean reports had repeatedly censured the military establishment, Russell offered little explicit criticism of the high command in India. Peers’s reading of Russell’s writings on 1857 helps to illuminate the multiple and stratified relationships on which the imperial military depended: the mutiny helped to establish and entrench networks connecting India and the metropolis, but it also helped to highlight tensions within these networks, between and among the government and the military authorities, civilians and the military, as well as, of course, between the colonizing and colonized populations. If Russell’s reporting of ‘the mutiny’ helped to valorize empire and colonial war, it also provided space for critique and challenge, even if these tended to be relatively proscribed in nature. Though Peers situates Russell in a lineage of Tory imperialists, he also shows how, in making colonial war a subject for metropolitan consumption, and in framing metropolitan debates via the medium of the press, Russell’s writings on 1857 highlight some of the tensions and ambiguities which surrounded the Indian Army and its place in the mid-Victorian empire. While 1857 remains the most familiar of Britain’s colonial conflicts, recent years have seen renewed interest in the Indian Army’s engagements on the North-West Frontier, particularly those of the late nineteenth century. In South Asia, as in North America, contemporaries invested the frontier with multiple cultural meanings, most obviously, perhaps, as the territorial meeting point between civilization and savagery.20 As in accounts of 1857, writings on frontier conflict were frequently over-determined by colonial hierarchies, though, as the chapters by Gavin Rand and Sameetah Agha both demonstrate, these oppositions may be reread to reveal considerable contingency and complexity.

Introduction 11 Gavin Rand’s chapter offers a cultural reading of colonial campaigns on the North-West Frontier. Focusing on a series of expeditions undertaken in Hazara and South Waziristan, Rand argues that the forms and logics of military interventions reflected specific understandings of tribal culture. These understandings – which were eventually processed into a doctrine of ‘savage warfare’ – shaped the strategic and tactical calculations of colonial commanders and officers. Thus, punitive expeditions were conceived as mechanisms for ‘lifting the purdah’ from recalcitrant tribesmen. The occupation of tribal territory was equated with a specific cultural transgression that signified the power of the imperial state to discipline the tribal populations of the frontier, and indeed the frontier itself. Frontier campaigns mobilized a range of technological and logistical expertise: surveying, road building and signalling operations served to constitute and crucially to signify the range of colonial military power. Campaigns on the frontier were thus performative and symbolic: colonial forces were dispersed to instantiate the imperial presence, while villages were selected for signal destruction to ‘prove’ the ability of colonial troops to penetrate tribal territory. Specific forms of cultural knowledge were central to the nature of conflict on the frontier, shaping the strategic and tactical decision-making of colonial officers. However, if the emergence of a doctrine of ‘savage warfare’ sought to ‘weaponize’ forms of colonial cultural knowledge, it is also true that these doctrines reflected the limits on imperial military power. Despite their numerical and materiel superiority, colonial troops were usually incapable of forcing decisive engagements with tribal enemies. Rand argues that the development of specific logics for frontier warfare reflected the inability of the colonial military to effect a conventional military settlement. The performative logic of colonial frontier campaigns suggests the importance of colonial culture in shaping the Indian Army’s engagements on the frontier but also the limits of colonial military power at the edge of empire. A cultural reading of frontier conflict thus indicates not only how colonial ideologies influenced the army in the field but also helps to illustrate what these forms of knowledge obscured – the palpable limits on colonial military power. Sameetah Agha’s chapter also explores the intersections of culture, knowledge and military power on the North-West Frontier. Focusing on the opening of hostilities in the 1897 frontier uprising, Agha provides a close reading of an incident at Maizar, in Waziristan, in which a body of colonial troops was attacked by the tribesman, apparently in contravention of the tribal code of Pukhtunwali. While many colonial accounts explained the incident as a consequence of

12  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand Waziri ‘fanaticism’, Agha reconstructs a more complex and revealing series of events, highlighting tensions between civilian and military officials and illustrating the varied and differentiated responses of tribal groups to colonial expansion. Agha’s chapter calls into question high-political readings of the frontier encounter, showing significant slippage between metropolitan strategic priorities and the realities of an expanding colonial state. Following the proceedings of a military tribunal set up to try tribal intermediaries (maliks) suspected of organizing the attack at Maizar, Agha shows how the maliks were able to exploit civil–military tensions in order to negotiate their own positions relative to the colonial state and the tribal population of Waziristan. Rereading the dynamics of civil–military relations Agha’s chapter describes a form of ‘sub-imperialism’ at work on the frontier, mapping not only the interests of the officers and officials on whose accounts we rely but also those of the tribesmen and maliks who were able to make themselves heard through the Maizar tribunal. Agha’s chapter thus not only complicates prevailing assumptions about the dynamics of civil–military relations on the frontier but also illustrates how a careful reading of the colonial military archive can illuminate questions of much wider historical import.21 In different ways, the chapters from Rand and Agha illustrate how the military history of the North-West Frontier can be read to reveal some of the wider historical processes at stake during the expansion and consolidation of the Victorian Raj. Kaushik Roy’s analysis of the Indian Army’s performance in Malaya in the Second World War reveals a very different empire, at a very different historical moment.22 Roy provides a detailed analysis of the organizational and operational-tactical failings which contributed to the collapse of imperial military power in Malaya – the precursor to the wider disaster in Singapore and Burma. While the Indian Army was ineffective in Malaya – a fact Churchill used to underline his depiction of the Indian Army as a ‘coolie force’ – so too were Commonwealth forces and war-raised British troops.23 In explaining the disastrous performance of the ‘Sepoys against the Rising Sun’,24 Roy highlights the importance of organizational culture and ideological factors. Racism and racial discrimination on the part of certain British commanding officers and Japanese propaganda undermined the Indian soldiery’s morale. Performance was further impaired by the rapid expansion of the Indian Army during the early years of the war, particularly by the resultant ‘milking’ in which experienced NCOs and sepoys were replaced by raw recruits who lacked training with rifles, machine guns and mortars. Similarly, few of the wartime commissioned officers were

Introduction 13 able to provide the kinds of direction and coordination delivered by more effective, more patrician old India hands. While contemporary analyses of the disaster were often framed by intra-force mud-slinging, the poor performance of Allied troops was a supra-national phenomenon. If the sepoys were easily defeated by the battle-hardened Japanese, their performance reflected the stresses and limits on the Indian Army’s command and operational culture during the first phases of the war in Asia. Though there were further defeats to come, the army also proved itself capable of regrouping and of delivering significant victories over the Japanese. By highlighting failure in the organizational culture of the Indian Army, this chapter attempts to link ‘traditional/operational’ military history with the broader cultural history of warfare. Cat Wilson considers the performance of Indian troops in her analysis of Winston Churchill’s accounts of the Indian Army’s contribution to the Second World War. Charting Churchill’s jaundiced views of Indians in general, and of the sepoys and sowars of the Indian Army in particular, Wilson shows how Churchill’s six-volume epic on The Second World War marginalized and downplayed the range and significance of the Indian Army’s contribution to the Allied war effort, just as he had marginalized the contributions the Indian Army made at crucial junctures during the First World War in his earlier World Crisis.25 Though the Indian Army played a pivotal role in reconquering Burma and in stalling Panzerarmee Afrika’s advance in North Africa and later throwing it back in Tunisia and also in the Allied advance along the spine of Italy and in Greece,26 Churchill never acknowledged these important contributions in his writing, despite possessing ample evidence to document their importance. For Churchill, whatever strength the Indian Army displayed on the battlefield was due to the presence of the British officers. In Churchill’s worldview, the Indian Army was largely comprised of treacherous and cowardly Indians liable to turn their guns against their masters if the opportunity presented itself. If Churchill’s prejudice is partly explained by his formative experiences in India, his selective representation of the war (and the army’s role in the war) also reflected his re-orientation to the coming, post-war world and his obsession with his own, and with Britain’s, wider strategic interests. Wilson concludes that Churchill never wrote history; rather, he wrote autobiography clothed as history with a view to preparing his return to Downing Street. A more balanced assessment of the Indian Army’s battlefield performance might have legitimized India’s independence, something which Churchill explicitly sought to avoid. If it has taken historians of the Second World War a

14  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand long time to arrive at a more balanced understanding of the conflict, and the contribution of the Indian Army to it, it is partly because Churchill’s account drowned out more sympathetic analyses but also because of the ambiguous place of the colonial Indian Army in the history and historiography of postcolonial India. Wilson’s reading of Churchill thus suggests curious parallels between colonial and nationalist historiographies of the Indian Army: while Churchill obscured the contribution of the Indian Army to sustain his fantasies about the longevity of the British Empire, the sepoys’ contribution to the war effort has also been marginalized by the dictates of Indian nationalist historiography, which accommodates the dubious martial pedigree of Subhas Chandra Bose much more readily than it does the millions who allied themselves with colonial power during the global conflicts of the twentieth century.27 The tensions between imperialist and nationalist historiographies, and the inability of both framings to adequately capture the diversity of forces influencing the Indian Army, are examined in more detail in Vipul Dutta’s analysis of the Indian Military Academy (IMA). Dutta also shows the important, and in some ways, transformative effects of the Second World War on Indianization and, ultimately, on the military’s role during independence. The IMA occupied a key space between policy and practice, and Dutta’s reading of the IMA illustrates how a granular approach can reveal nuances and complexities in the histories of those individuals and institutions that served South Asia’s colonial armed forces. This approach extends extant debates on the Indianization of the officer corps by documenting the variety of interests and calculations which shaped the history of the IMA. Prevailing interpretations of Indianization have been dominated by accounts which read imperial policy as gradualist or, more critically, as wilfully obstructive.28 Where the gradualists see Indianization as a ‘slow and steady’ process, more critical works have claimed that racial and political hierarchies lead some senior officers to obstruct the opening of the officer corps, with only the outbreak of war in 1939 forcing a more thorough-going process of Indianization.29 Dutta’s chapter reveals a more complex history in which the IMA developed in response to a host of contingent historical factors. While London established the IMA in the hope of integrating India more effectively in imperial defence, and perhaps also of excluding greater numbers of Indian candidates seeking entry to metropolitan facilities, the Government of India hoped the establishment of the IMA would acknowledge Indian aspirations to ‘self-rule’. For the sons of Indian Army officers, and those who aspired to commissions in the army, the IMA offered a

Introduction 15 route, but not the only route, to ranking service. As Dutta shows, hierarchies of status and preference were vital throughout, significantly complicating the bipolar interpretations which underpin much of the existing literature. The changing nature of conflict, and of training, was also important here. Though nationalism and imperial reaction were key throughout, the establishment of the IMA also reflected the increasingly complex nature of combined operations and the greater penetration of Indian society by the state occasioned by economic and political shifts in the interwar period. The establishment and early years of the Academy might thus be seen not simply as a response to high-political struggles over nationalism but as a key site for the working out of more variegated interests. The Academy’s entrance requirements, curriculum and examination procedures reveal the centrality of the military in the emergence of new connections between the state and the population. The effects of the Second World War, and the hasty process of decolonization it begot, produced a further series of unintended effects, in part because of the IMA’s key role in negotiating the complex matrix of interests which were at stake in the recruiting of an officer corps for both colonial and postcolonial armies. Simplistic accounts which stress either nationalism or imperialism obscure the wider range of historical forces which helped to shape the IMA and which a careful reading of the institution’s history can reveal. The final chapter in the collection, from Florian Stadtler, focuses on the impact of the Second World War on South Asians living in Britain. While the Indian Army’s contribution to the First World War is now well known and there is greater understanding of the various roles played by the Indian Army during the Second World War, much less has been written about the wartime work of the many South Asians in the metropolis. Stadtler’s chapter shows not only the varied contributions made by Indians but also popular efforts to mobilize charitable support among the British population for Indian soldiers and prisoners of war. While most nationalists in South Asia opposed the Raj’s unilateral declaration of war, Indian nationalists in Britain occupied a variety of positions vis-à-vis the war against Nazism. While some actively participated in the European theatre – one Mr Pujji, for example, served in RAF fighter squadrons during the war – others undertook propaganda and auxiliary work. ‘Nationalist’ politicians, including Krishna Menon, aligned the struggle against Nazism with the struggle for democracy in India. Others established charity funds and carried out propaganda works to mobilize the Indian diaspora to the British war effort against the Nazis. If many of these contributions are obscured in metropolitan narratives which depict Britain

16  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand ‘standing alone’ against the Nazis, these histories sit equally uneasily with the meta-narratives of postcolonial Indian nationalism. As with the First World War – in which Gandhi devoted considerable energy to supporting the British war effort – many Indian nationalists saw opportunity and possibility in the challenges facing the imperial state. Stadtler’s chapter suggests that the Indian diaspora calibrated their actions in light not only of the politics of imperialism and nationalism in South Asia but also in response to the unfolding events of the war. That many of these calculations, and the contributions they preceded, have been marginalized in British and Indian accounts of the period suggests, once again, the central and yet ambiguous role that war and military service has played in the interconnected histories of Britain and colonial South Asia. As with the history of the IMA, colonial and nationalist historiographies have failed to adequately account for the complexity and diversity of these connections. If the memorialization of war has encouraged a more inclusive account of these relationships, too often these new histories simply temper flattening nationalist historiographies with contemporary visions of multicultural nationhood. Stadtler’s chapter, like the others in this collection, illustrates the many and complex negotiations which connected warfare, culture and society across, and beyond South Asia. * * * This volume is not intended to provide a comprehensive overview of South Asia’s military history. Though the chapters are presented chronologically, no attempt has been made to ensure consistent coverage. Our aim is to illustrate the variety of ways in which the military history of colonial South Asia might be written, not to provide an exhaustive account of that history.30 The chapters presented here reflect some of the various ways in which historians of colonial South Asia have conceptualized the relationship between culture and conflict. If the previous chapters demonstrate a field which is far from exhausted, they also reflect some of the difficulties and tensions which historians have confronted in writing and thinking about the role of culture and conflict in South Asian history. Culture is, of course, a challenging analytical construct, which can be conceived and utilized in various forms: in the widest terms, as a way of thinking about how human beings make sense of the world but also in much narrower terms in studies of national, institutional and regimental cultures which are sometimes said to produce specific forms of action and behaviour.31 Historical analyses of the effects of ‘operational culture’ in specific actions may share little in common with rhetorical analyses of the representations of imperial conflict in metropolitan media. Tracing the culture of the

Introduction 17 sepoys through their gestures, literature and legacy is a very different project to examining the command culture of senior officers, officials and politicians. In these ways, the military history of colonial South Asia is also, and always was, a cultural history: culture was central to the ways in which colonial conflicts were represented and understood, while colonial conflict produced transformative cultural encounters which registered (and continue to register) far beyond South Asia. While the heterogeneity of the field is reflected in this collection, a number of recurrent themes may be identified. The chapters which follow demonstrate the multiple and sometimes conflicted systems of knowledge which mediated the administration and operations of the Indian Army. Tracing ideas across these pan-imperial networks helps to show not only the interdependence of knowledge and power but also the contradictions, limits and blind spots of these systems. Colonial sources, which might have been dismissed as hopelessly partial, may thus be productively reread to throw light on the contested and negotiated history of colonial conflict. Similarly, complicating national and nationalist historiographies is an important step towards better understanding the history of imperial armies and conflicts.32 In this sense, no singular ‘frontier thesis’ can explain engagements with the frontier in colonial South Asia. Frontiers shifted and differed enormously; so too did the means and the mechanisms by which frontier regions were engaged and the significance with which they were invested. The chapters thus show the complex and differentiated worlds which interlocked around, and through, the colonial military. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the chapters demonstrate that though the military history of colonial South Asia sits at the interface of several historiographies – South Asian, global, military, imperial, new military, new imperial – dialogues across these cognate fields are both possible and productive. If engaging with culture has been (and remains) challenging for much military history, so too has engaging with military history been challenging for social and cultural historians of empire – in South Asia and beyond. The chapters collected here do not resolve these challenges, but we hope that they indicate the value, and the importance, of identifying and addressing these issues. The centrality of conflict – and of the military – to the history of colonial South Asia, and the richness and diversity of the archival sources which exist to document the history of the imperial military, surely demand greater correspondence and dialogue between military and cultural historiographies. While skirmishes between practitioners with different methodological orientations and expertise are to be welcomed, combined operations may also deliver significant advances. We hope that these chapters provoke

18  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand some productive skirmishes, and suggest possible routes for combined advances.

Notes 1 Until 1903, separate Presidency armies were maintained in Bengal, Bombay and Madras. For clarity, unless indicated otherwise, we use the term ‘Indian Army’ to refer, collectively, to all of the military forces raised by the East India Company and the Raj. 2 More than 1.2 million South Asians served the imperial war effort in the First World War; by the Second World War, some 2.5 million did, by which point the imperial military accounted for fully 70 per cent of colonial expenditure. See also Kaushik Roy (ed.), The Indian Army in the Two World Wars (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2012); Roy, India and World War II: War, Armed Forces, and Society (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2016); Yasmin Khan, The Raj at War: A People’s History of India’s Second World War (London: Bodley Head, 2015); Srinath Raghavan, India’s War: The Making of Modern South Asia, 1939–1945 (Gurgaon: Allen Lane, 2016). We still lack an academic volume dealing holistically with India’s experience during the First World War, but one can refer to DeWitt C. Ellinwood and S.D. Pradhan (eds.), India and World War I (New Delhi: Manohar, 1978); Budheswar Pati, India and the First World War (New Delhi: Atlantic Publishers and Distributors, 1996) and Amarinder Singh, Honour and Fidelity: India’s Military Contribution to the Great War, 1914–1918 (2014, reprint, New Delhi: Lotus, 2015). 3 Santanu Das, ‘Indians at Home, Mesopotamia and France, 1914–1918: Towards an Intimate History’, in Santanu Das (ed.), Race, Empire and First World War Writing (2011, reprint, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 82–3. 4 Tarak Barkawi, ‘Subaltern Soldiers: Eurocentrism and the Nation-State in the Combat Motivation Debates’, in Anthony King (ed.), Frontline: Combat and Cohesion in the Twenty-First Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), pp. 24–5. 5 For the construction of Sikh/Singh identity of the Jat farmers of colonial Punjab, see Richard G. Fox, Lions of the Punjab: Culture in the Making (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1985). For the evolution of Gurkha identity among the various tribes of Nepal like Magars, Gurungs, Rais and Limbus, the best account remains Lionel Caplan, Warrior Gentleman: ‘Gurkhas’ in the Western Imagination (Providence; Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1995). For the construction of martial race theory, see Heather Streets, Martial Races: The Military, Race and Masculinity in British Imperial Culture, 1857–1914 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2010). 6 Gavin Rand, ‘“Martial Races” and “Imperial Subjects”: Violence and Governance in Colonial India, 1857–1914’, European Review of History: Revue Europeenne D’histoire, vol. 13, no. 1 (2006), pp. 1–20. 7 For the continuity in the regimental structures of colonial and postcolonial Indian and Pakistan armies, see John Gaylor, Sons of John Company: The Indian and Pakistan Armies, 1903–1991 (1992, reprint, New Delhi:

Introduction 19 Lancer, 1993). For a wider analysis of the army’s role in postcolonial India, see Steven I. Wilkinson, Army and Nation: The Military and Indian Democracy Since Independence (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015). 8 Kaushik Roy, ‘The Hybrid Military Establishment of the East India Company in South Asia: 1750–1849’, Journal of Global History, vol. 6 (2011), pp. 195–218. 9 Alexander Bubb has argued that imperial service was key to formulations of Irish identity. See his ‘The Life of the Irish Soldier in India: Representations and Self-Representations, 1857–1922’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 46, no. 4 (2012), pp. 769–813. 10 Edward W. Said, Orientalism (1978, reprint, London: Penguin, 1995). 11 Clive Dewey, ‘The New Military History of South Asia’, International Institute of Asian Affairs Newsletter, vol. 9 (Summer 1996) [accessed 13 June 2016]. 12 Jeremy Black, Rethinking Military History (Abingdon; New York: Routledge, 2004). For a critique of Black’s account – and a defence of recent military histories – see Mark Moyar, ‘The Current State of Military History’, The Historical Journal, vol. 50, no. 1 (2007), pp. 225–40. Robert M. Citino in ‘Military Histories Old and New: A Reintroduction’, American Historical Review, vol. 112, no. 4 (2007), pp. 1070–90, asserts that the role of chance and chaos examined in military history writing can teach other historians a good deal about challenging determinism. 13 Manchester University Press’s ‘Culture and Imperialism’ series contains several works exploring metropolitan responses to imperial conflict, and a useful account of Victorian soldiers in Africa, but no comparable volume on India. See J. M. MacKenzie (ed.), Popular Imperialism and the Military: 1850–1950 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1992); Edward Spiers, The Victorian Soldier in Africa (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005). 14 Stephen Howe (ed.), The New Imperial Histories Reader (London; New York: Routledge, 2009). 15 David E. Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj: The Indian Army, 1860–1940 (London: Macmillan, 1998). 16 Philip J. Stern, ‘From the Fringes of History: Tracing the Roots of the English East India Company-state’, in Sameetah Agha and Elizabeth Kolsky (eds.), Fringes of Empire: Peoples, Places, and Spaces in Colonial India (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 19–44. 17 While the Cambridge school argue that the British intervened in India due to pull factors and established a minimalist polity based on collaboration with certain indigenous groups in the subcontinent, nationalist histories claim that from the very first the British had the objective of dominating India and created a maximalist suppressive polity. 18 Douglas M. Peers, Between Mars and Mammon: Colonial Armies and the Garrison State in Early Nineteenth Century India (London; New York: I.B. Tauris, 1995). 19 Erica Wald, ‘Health, Discipline and Appropriate Behaviour: The Body of the Soldier and Space of the Cantonment’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 46, no. 4 (2012), pp. 815–56.

20  Kaushik Roy and Gavin Rand 20 Alex Mckay, ‘“Tracing Lines upon the Unknown Areas of the Earth”: Reflections on Frederick Jackson Turner and the Indo-Tibetan Frontier’, in Agha and Kolsky (eds.), Fringes of Empire, p. 80. 21 In a recent article, Sameetah Agha conceptualizes sub-imperialism as the local machinery of imperialism, arguing that it was the driving force in shaping imperialism in the fringes of British Empire. Sameetah Agha, ‘Inventing a Frontier: Imperial Motives and Sub-Imperialism on British India’s Northwestern Frontier, 1889–98’, in Agha and Kolsky (eds.), Fringes of Empire, p. 95. Before Agha, the concept of sub-imperialism for expansion of the British Empire in east India was put forward by P. J. Marshall. See his Bengal: The British Bridgehead, Eastern India 1740–1828, The New Cambridge History of India, II: 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987). 22 The most detailed chronological account of the collapse of the Commonwealth force in Malaya-Singapore remains Alan Warren’s Britain’s Greatest Defeat: Singapore 1942 (2002, reprint, London: Hambledon Continuum, 2006). 23 Alan Jeffreys in a recent essay notes the doctrinal failure of LieutenantGeneral A. E. Percival’s force to fight effectively in the jungle caused the imperial collapse. Alan Jeffreys, ‘The Indian Army in the Malayan Campaign, 1941–1942’, in Rob Johnson (ed.), The British Indian Army: Virtue and Necessity (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014), pp. 177–97. 24 For more on the Indian Army’s collapse in Malaya-Singapore, refer to Kaushik Roy, Sepoys Against the Rising Sun: The Indian Army in Far East and South-East Asia, 1941–45 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), pp. 66–152. 25 The Indian Army played an important role in stemming the German advance in France at a crucial juncture in 1914 and did sterling service at the Dardanelles, across Egypt-Syria-Palestine and in East Africa. For the Indian Army’s contribution in France, see Gordon Corrigan, Sepoys in the Trenches: The Indian Corps on the Western Front, 1914–15 (Staplehurst: Spellmount, 1999) and the more recent Shrabani Basu, For King and Another Country: Indian Soldiers on the Western Front, 1914–18 (New Delhi: Bloomsbury, 2015). The best academic book in this regard is George Morton-Jack, The Indian Army on the Western Front: India’s Expeditionary Force to France and Belgium in the First World War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). For the disaster in Kut and the Indian Army, see Nikolas Gardner, The Siege of Kut-al-Amara: At War in Mesopotamia, 1915–1916 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2014). See also S. D. Pradhan, Indian Army in East Africa (New Delhi: National Book Organization, 1991) and D. C. Verma, Indian Armed Forces in Egypt and Palestine: 1914–1918 (New Delhi: Rajesh Publications, 2004). 26 We still lack specific volumes dedicated to the Indian Army’s performance in Burma, East Africa, Western Desert and Italy during World War II but some important works are as follows: Alan Jeffreys, ‘Indian Army Training for the Italian Campaign and Lessons Learnt’, and Christopher Mann, ‘Failures in Command and Control: The Experience of 4th Indian Division in the Second Battle of Cassino, February 1944’, in Andrew L. Hargreaves, Patrick J. Rose and Matthew C. Ford (eds.), Allied Fighting Effectiveness in North Africa and Italy, 1942–1945 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), pp. 103–19,

Introduction 21 188–205. See also Alan Jeffreys and Patrick Rose (eds.), The Indian Army, 1939–47: Experiences and Development (Surrey: Ashgate, 2012). See also Alan Jeffreys, Approach to Battle: Training the Indian Army during the Second World War (Solihull: Helion, 2017). 27 See Leonard A. Gordon, Brothers Against the Raj: A Biography of Sarat & Subhas Chandra Bose (New Delhi: Viking, 1990); Romain Hayes, Bose in Nazi Germany (Noida: Random House, 2011); Sugata Bose, His Majesty’s Opponent: Subhas Chandra Bose and India’s Struggle Against Empire (New Delhi: Allen Lane, 2011). 28 Stephen P. Cohen, The Indian Army: Its Contribution to the Development of a Nation (1971, reprint, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1990). For Philip Mason’s liberal paternalist framework in analyzing the genesis and growth of the Indian Army, see his A Matter of Honour: An Account of the Indian Army, Its Officers and Men (1974, reprint, Dehradun: EBD Publishers, 1988). 29 Lieutenant-Colonel Gautam Sharma, Nationalisation of the Indian Army: 1885–1947 (New Delhi: Allied, 1996); Pradeep P. Barua, The Army Officer Corps and Military Modernisation in Later Colonial India (Hull: University of Hull Press, 1999); Michael Creese, Swords Trembling in Their Scabbards: The Changing Status of Indian Officers in the Indian Army, 1757–1947 (Solihull: Helion & Co. Ltd., 2015). 30 Other volumes already provide such synopses. See, for example, Pradeep P. Barua, The State at War in South Asia (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2005); Daniel P. Marston and Chandar S. Sundaram (eds.), A Military History of India and South Asia: From the East India Company to the Nuclear Era (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008); Kaushik Roy, The Oxford Companion to Modern Warfare in India: From the Eighteenth Century to Present Times (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2009); Kaushik Roy, The Army in British India: From Colonial Warfare to Total War 1857–1947 (London; New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2012). 31 For an overview, see Jeremy Black, War and the Cultural Turn (Cambridge; Malden, MA: Polity, 2011). For a cultural analysis of western warfare see Martin van Creveld, The Culture of War (New York: Ballantine Books, 2008). For historiography of the colonial Indian Army generally see Kaushik Roy, ‘The Historiography of the Colonial Indian Army’, Studies in History, New Series, vol. 12, no. 2 (1996), pp. 255–73; ibid., ‘Mars in Indian History’, Studies in History, New Series, vol. 16, no. 2 (2000), pp. 261–75; Kaushik Roy, ‘Introduction: Armies, Warfare and Society in Colonial India’, in Kaushik Roy (ed.), War and Society in Colonial India: 1807–1945 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 1–52. 32 Tarak Barkawi, ‘Decolonising War’, European Journal of International Security, vol. 1, no. 2 (2016), pp. 199–214.

1 The Indian Army A historiographical reflection Ian F. W. Beckett

The historiography of the army in British India has followed, as might be expected, the more general development of military history both in Britain and elsewhere. The more traditional ‘drum and trumpet’ school of military history, with an emphasis upon decisive battles and great commanders, held the field until the second half of the twentieth century. There was also an undeniable air of imperial triumphalism of the ‘Deeds That Won the Empire’ variety, itself an 1897 title by an Australian Methodist minister, W. H. Fitchett, though many of the ‘drum and trumpet’ authors were former soldiers. The traditional approach was supplanted at least in academe by the ‘war and society’ school in the late 1960s and early 1970s. By the 1980s and 1990s this was accepted as the ‘new’ military history, in which historians were rather more interested in the impact of war upon states, societies, institutions and individuals. It is hardly ‘new’ any longer, and military historians have increasingly drawn upon more recent approaches such as those of cultural historians, and also non-historical methodologies. In many respects, the ‘agrarian’, ‘subaltern’ and ‘cultural’ studies familiar to those who specialize in South Asian history preceded and anticipated this development among Western military historians. What follows, therefore, is an attempt by a non-specialist in South Asian history, though one whose work has occasionally trespassed on the Indian Army, to survey the broad development of the historiography. It is acknowledged that it draws largely on British and North American publications and theses, and that there will be additional South Asian publications and theses that have not come to the author’s notice. Beginning with the traditional approach, there is no shortage of standard early histories such as John Williams’s splendidly titled An Historical Account of the Rise and Progress of the Bengal Native Infantry: From Its First Formation in 1757, to 1796 When the Present Regulations Took Place, Together with a Detail of the Services

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 23 on which the Several Battalions Have Been Employed (1817). The principal later histories are Arthur Broome, History of the Rise and Progress of the Bengal Army (1850); William Wilson, History of the Madras Army (1882); F. G. Cardew, Sketch of the Services of the Bengal Native Army: To the Year 1895 (1903); and Sir Patrick Cadell, A History of the Bombay Army (1938). Too often perhaps, early histories are dismissed when their authors trawled a great deal of primary documentation, some of which may have been lost subsequently. Perhaps deserving of particular mention as major descriptive works in the great narrative tradition of William Napier’s account of the Peninsular War are John Kaye’s three-volume History of the Sepoy War (1864–67), and Colonel George Malleson’s completion and expansion of Kaye, the six-volume History of the Indian Mutiny (1878–80). Kaye was Secretary of the India Office Political and Secret Department until 1874. He had already written a three-volume history of the First Afghan War, History of the War in Afghanistan (1857–58). Malleson, who had held a number of posts in civilian administration in India, retired from the army in 1877. He also penned biographies of both Robert Clive and Warren Hastings. The work of Kaye and Malleson has been described by P.J.O. Taylor in his valuable A Companion to the Indian Mutiny of 1857 (1996), as ‘verbose all-embracing histories: authoritative and dogmatic; entirely noble in sentiment, entirely British in attitude and sentiment’.1 Another prolific author, whose work is not without some merit, however, was Sir George MacMunn, a former quartermaster general in India. The Romance of the Indian Frontiers (1931), for example, is at least indicative of a certain imperial mindset, not least in its pen portraits of frontier tribes, but The Armies of India (1912) and The Martial Races of India (1933) – both illustrated with the fine paintings of A. C. Lovat – have sociological interest. Of course, there is also the plethora of traditional regimental histories such as P. R. Innes, The History of the Bengal European Regiment now the Madras Fusiliers, and How It Helped to Win India (1885), or George Younghusband, The Story of the Guides (1908). Turning to the modern historiography, there are a number of useful general works, beginning with Kaushik Roy, The Oxford Companion to Modern Warfare in India (2009). Other than Richard Holmes, Sahib (2005), the British – as opposed to the Indian – Army in India has been generally neglected, though it is touched upon in Tony Heathcote, The Military in British India: The Development of British Land Forces in South Asia, 1600–1947 (1995), and Heathcote’s The Indian Army: The Garrison of British Imperial India, 1822–1922 (1974). Heathcote also contributes to the valuable essays collected in Alan J Guy and

24  Ian F. W. Beckett Peter Boyden (eds.), Soldiers of the Raj: The Indian Army, 1600–1947 (1997), based on a major exhibition at the National Army Museum. Other contributors include Brian Robson, G. J. Bryant, Douglas Peers, Randolf Cooper, Mark Jacobsen and S. L. Menezes. The volume also gives full coverage to the uniforms and weaponry of the Indian Army. Douglas Peers, Erica Wald and Raffi Gregorian, however, have published essays on vice, health and discipline as they affected British troops.2 In terms of other general histories, there are popular histories of the Indian Army by Philip Mason, A Matter of Honour: An Account of the Indian Army, Its Officers and Men (1974), and S. L. Menezes, Fidelity and Honour: The Indian Army from the Seventeenth to the Twenty-First Century (1993). More recent academic interpretations can be found in Partha Sarathi Gupta and Anirudh Deshpande (eds.), The British Raj and its Indian Armed Forces, 1857–1939 (2002); Daniel Marston and Chandra Sundaram (eds.), A Military History of India and South East Asia: From the East India Company to the Nuclear Era (2007); and Kaushik Roy (ed.), War and Society in Colonial India, 1807–1945 (2006). Each has a range of useful essays. Gupta and Deshpande, for example, have essays by Chandar Sundaram and Gupta on considerations of Indianization between 1885 and 1891 and between 1918 and 1939 respectively, and Vivien Ashima Kaul looks at Bengal sepoys’ links with society between 1858 and 1895. Marston and Sundaram have a more straightforward chronological coverage and include essays by Sundaram on the Indian National Army and by Marston on partition. Roy is thematic in approach with sections on discipline, military culture and military effectiveness, and has an excellent introduction on the impact of ‘agrarian’, ‘subaltern’ and ‘cultural’ studies on the specific historiography of the Indian Army. Roy is also responsible for The Army in British India: From Colonial Warfare to Total War, 1857–1947 (2013), which is primarily concerned with operational and tactical developments. Stephen Peter Rosen, Societies and Military Power: India and Its Armies (1996), puts the British experience in the much longer context of Indian history from antiquity to the post-independence era, and the longer time frame is also presented in Pradeep Barua, The State at War in South Asia (2005). Whereas Rosen tends to follow the theme of inherent Western dominance then current in the historiography, Barua looks beyond societal and cultural interpretations to analyze the military effectiveness of successive Indian states. In some respects, however, this still leads back to greater European military prowess in later periods. The latest ‘long durée’ approach is Kaushik Roy, Military Manpower, Armies and Warfare

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 25 in South Asia (2013), which argues that class and culture have shaped the composition of South Asian armies from antiquity to the present. Rather less known perhaps are the details of the British presence in the East Indies and on the China coast, for which there are three studies by Alan Harfield, British and Indian Armies in the East Indies, 1685–1935 (1984); British and Indian Armies on the China Coast, 1785–1985 (1990); and Bencoolen: A History of the Honourable East India Company’s Garrison on the West Coast of Sumatra, 1685–1825 (1995). To stay for the moment with the wider context of Indian military history, there was the assumption, as in Rosen, that what has been come to be characterized as the early modern ‘military revolution’ was essentially a phenomenon in the West, and explains Western dominance as Europe began to expand. It has become increasingly clear that, in expanding their empires, Europeans adapted to local conditions, including existing patterns of warfare. Concentration on North America had tended to mean that less attention has been paid to the consolidation of British power in India that followed from victory in the Seven Years War. Nonetheless, there has been an increasing body of scholarly work on warfare in India that leads back to the debate on the military revolution and the adaptation of European methods to the subcontinent. There are two useful introductions. Douglas Peers (ed.), Warfare and Empires: Contact and Conflict between European and Non-European Military and Maritime Forces and Cultures (1997), covers aspects of European military interaction with Africa, Asia and the Americas from 1415 onwards. Three are essays on the East India Company’s fortifications and army by Bruce Watson and Seema Alavi, and coverage of the Maratha Wars by John Pemble and Randolf Cooper. The equally wide-ranging Wayne Lee (ed.), Empires and Indigenes: Intercultural Alliance, Imperial Expansion, and Warfare in the Early Modern World (2011), concentrates on evidence of European adaptation of indigenous military and diplomatic norms, with an essay on the ‘military revolution’ in India by Douglas Peers. In India in particular, it is apparent that the East India Company conformed to traditional means of raising armed forces within the existing military labour market, as suggested by Dirk Kolff, Naukar, Rajput, and Sepoy: The Ethnohistory of the Military Labour Market of Hindustan, 1450–1850 (1990). There have also been a number of suggestive general surveys of the merging of Western and Indian systems in chapters or articles by Peter Marshall, Dirk Kolff, Bruce Lenman, Pradeep Barua, Jos Gommans, Stewart Gordon, Kaushik Roy and G. J. Bryant.3 Bryant’s unpublished

26  Ian F. W. Beckett 1975 thesis remains the most detailed coverage of the early period of the East India Company (EIC), albeit that much of it has now appeared in separate essays or chapters.4 Also unpublished is John Bourne’s 1978 thesis on the Company’s later civil and military patronage.5 Based on his earlier London thesis, there is also Amiya Barat, The Bengal Native Infantry: Its Organisation and Discipline, 1796–1852 (1962), as well as the solid narrative focus of James Lawford, Britain’s Army in India: From Its Origins to the Conquest of Bengal (1978). The application of the concept of the fiscal-military state to India is considered in C. A. Bayly (ed.), Origins of Nationality in South Asia: Patriotism and Ethical Government in the Making of Modern India (1998). It is also worth noting that the concept of the garrison state – the military-led mind-set – has been the subject of study in the Indian context. Douglas Peers, Between Mars and Mammon: Colonial Armies and the Garrison State in Early Nineteenth Century India (1995), emphasises the relative precariousness of Company and British rule. Military concerns thus fuelled the First Burma War (1824–26) and the seizure of Bharatpur (1825–26).6 The theme of a garrison state has also been followed for the later period by Tan Tai Yong, The Garrison State: The Military, Government and Society in Colonial Punjab, 1849–1947 (2005), who argues that the administration, political economy and society of the Punjab became highly militarized through the army’s dependence on recruits from the area. Turning now more to the chronology, the developing relationship between the East India Company and native sepoys has been examined by Seema Alavi, The Sepoys and the Company: Tradition and Transition in Northern India, 1770–1830 (1995); and Channa Wickremesekera, The Best Black Troops in the World: British Perceptions and the Making of the Sepoy, 1746–1805 (2002). There are additional articles by Alavi, A.N. Gilbert and Bryant.7 The service of the first British regiment to serve in India is touched upon in an Army Records Society volume, Alan Guy (ed.), Colonel Samuel Bagshawe and the Army of George II, 1731–62 (1990), Bagshawe being second in command of the 39th Foot in India from 1754 to 1756. Bryant, Alan Guy and Peers have also examined British officers in the Company’s service.8 Attempts to restructure the officer corps met with opposition, as examined by Raymond Callahan, The East India Company and Army Reform, 1783–98 (1972). Indeed, there was a ‘white mutiny’ in 1809. Peers has also looked at the Company’s officers in the first half of the nineteenth century.9 Indications of potential disciplinary problems with native armies were already evident with the mutiny at Vellore in 1806, caused by an order for sepoys to remove

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 27 caste marks and shave beards. The best source is James Hoover, Men Without Hats: Dialogue, Discipline and Discontent in the Madras Army, 1806–07 (2007), although there are also essays by R. E. Frykenberg and Devadas Moodley, as well as an unpublished thesis by A. D. Cameron.10 As suggested by Peers, indiscipline was partially a reflection of different military cultures.11 Vellore may be the reason why there have been particular studies of the Madras Army in the early nineteenth century by Lorenzo Crowell and C. A. Montgomery. Both are unpublished theses, though Crowell has two published articles.12 The standard history of the British conquest is Sir Penderel Moon, The British Conquest and Dominion of India (1989), though there have been two suggestive articles by Bryant, and there is a recent thesis by Manu Sehgal.13 One early challenge for the Company in expanding British influence was the state of Mysore, presided over by first Haidar Ali and then his son, Tipu Sultan, resulting in three wars between 1767 and 1799, and culminating in the taking of the fortress of Srirangapatnam. Aspects of the conflict are investigated in Anne Buddle (ed.), The Tiger and the Thistle: Tipu Sultan and the Scots in India, 1760–1800 (1999), accompanying an exhibition at the National Gallery of Scotland. The exhibition focussed on the artistic legacy of the conflict and, in passing, it is worth mentioning a shorter catalogue of an exhibition at the National Army Museum of Indian ‘Company’ images of the British and EIC armies, Indian Armies, Indian Art: Soldiers, Collectors and Artists, 1780–1880 (2010). The Mysore conflicts appear ripe for a new study, though Roy has contributed an article on the use of rockets by Mysore’s rulers.14 A second challenge was that posed by the Marathas, against whom three wars were fought between 1778 and 1819. The background is provided by Stewart Gordon, Marathas, Marauders and State Formation in Eighteenth Century India (1994), which can again be supplemented by an article by Roy on Maratha firepower.15 General surveys are provided by K. G. Pitre, The Second Anglo-Maratha War, 1802–05 (1990), and Randolf G. S. Cooper, The Anglo-Maratha Campaigns and the Contest for India: The Struggle for Control of the South Asian Military Economy (2005). It was in the Second Maratha War (1803– 05), of course, that Arthur Wellesley, later Duke of Wellington, first made his mark. Jac Weller’s Wellington in India (1972) was an early study, but it can be supplemented by Anthony Bennell, The Making of Arthur Wellesley (1997), and Bennell’s Army Records Society edition of The Maratha War Papers of Arthur Wellesley, 1803 (1998). In addition, there is John Pemble’s article on resources, and Enid Fuhr’s 1994 thesis on the Second Maratha War.16 Cooper and Bennell also

28  Ian F. W. Beckett contribute essays on Wellesley in India to Alan Guy (ed.), The Road to Waterloo: The British Army and the Struggle against Revolutionary and Napoleonic France, 1793–1815 (199), another National Army Museum exhibition catalogue. Inevitably, perhaps, the coming of the Mutiny (and rebellion) of 1857–58 looms large in studies of the Indian Army in the early nineteenth century. Of course, those general histories of the Indian Army previously mentioned remain relevant. Continuing unrest was illustrated by the mutiny at Barrackpur in 1824, covered by Premansu Kumar Bandyopadhyay, Tulsi Leaves and the Ganges Water (2003).17 Ostensibly, the mutiny was a refusal to serve in the First Burma War, although the underlying context as in so many instances of mutiny was one of more mundane ‘bread and butter’ issues. Service ‘overseas’, however, was a continuing problem, and Bandyopadhyay has examined a number of issues relating to early sepoy service beyond India’s frontier.18 Interpretation of the Mutiny has varied widely, not least among Indian historians. Tapti Roy, The Politics of a Popular Uprising: Bundelkhand, 1857 (1994), an example of the ‘subaltern studies’ approach, casts the mutiny as a convergence of sepoy rebellion and wider revolt by ‘lower’ social groups, suggesting that the ‘people’ forced indigenous elites into action against the British. Erik Stokes (ed. by Christopher Bayly), The Peasant Armed: The Indian Revolt of 1857 (1986), sees the mutiny as a peasant agrarian uprising. Stokes also rejects the idea of a widespread native conspiracy, but the idea of conspiracy is embraced by J. A. B. Palmer, The Mutiny Outbreak at Meerut in 1857 (1966), and Saul David, The Bengal Army and the Outbreak of the Indian Mutiny (2009). John Pemble, The Raj, The Indian Mutiny and the Kingdom of Oudh (1977) situated the outbreak of mutiny specifically in the circumstances pertaining to Oudh. Contemporary historiography and literary aspects have been examined by Christopher Hibbert, War of No Pity: The Indian Mutiny and Victorian Trauma (2008), and by G. Chakravarty, providing comparisons with the pre-Mutiny image of the army as examined by Peers.19 The theory of Rudrangshu Mukherjee that the massacre of the Europeans, including women and children, at Cawnpore replicated British violence has been rejected by Barbara English.20 Alison Blunt also looks at the issue of the treatment of British women.21 Mukherjee reiterates his argument in Spectre of Violence: The 1857 Kanpur Massacres (1998) but then in Awadh in Revolt, 1857–58: A Study of Popular Resistance (2001), modifies it to some extent by suggesting that perceived British intent was the spur, but still sees the relationship

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 29 between British officers and sepoys as resting on racial violence.22 In a different kind of revisionism, Mukherjee, Mangal Pandey: Brave Martyr or Accidental Hero? (2005), attempts to recover the mind-set of the sepoy at the time of the Mutiny, downplaying later nationalist interpretations, but this is questioned by Richard Forster, who argues that Pandey’s actions were not isolated from proto-nationalism.23 Kim Wagner, The Great Fear of 1857: Rumours, Conspiracies and the Making of the Indian Uprising (2010), turns attention back to the sepoys themselves, and to contingency in the context of their longstanding grievances. Recent collections include Sabyasachi Bhattacharya (ed)., Rethinking 1857 (2007); and Biswamoy Pati (ed.), The Great Rebellion of 1857: Exploring Transgressions, Contexts and Diversities (2010), while Rosie Llewellyn-Jones, The Great Uprising in India, 1857–58: Untold Stories, Indian and British (2007), presents a number of specific case studies on lesser-known aspects. One lesser-known aspect of the aftermath is the ‘white mutiny’ by European regiments of the East India Company when they were incorporated into the British Army in 1859. Peter Stanley, White Mutiny: British Military Culture in India, 1825–75 (1998), examines the events, interpreting them as part of a reshaping of social relationships in British society between ‘masters and men’.24 So far as the new Indian Army after 1858 is concerned, the issue of the martial races has drawn attention as in David Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj: The Indian Army, 1860–1940 (1994); Lionel Caplan, Warrior Gentleman: Gurkhas in Western Imagination (1995); Heather Streets, Martial Races: The Military, Race and Masculinity in British Imperial Culture, 1857–1914 (2004), which encompasses Scottish Highlanders as well as Sikhs and Gurkhas; and Kaushik Roy, Brown Warriors of the Raj: Recruitment and the Mechanics of Command in the Sepoy Army, 1859–1913 (2008).25 A fine and important study of the army’s relationship with the post-1857 Punjab is Rajit Mazumder, The Indian Army and the Making of the Punjab (2003). Others contributing to the debate on the martial races in chapters or articles include Peers, Philip Constable, Mary Des Chene and Thomas Metcalf.26 Unpublished theses also bear on recruitment.27 Particular mention should be made of the four-volume Mutiny on the Margins: New Perspectives on the Indian Uprising of 1857 series (2013) deriving from an AHRC-funded project for the 150th anniversary at the University of Edinburgh in 2007–08 that involved conferences and other events in both Edinburgh and London. Under the overall editorship of Crispin Bates, the first volume deals with ‘Anticipations and Experiences in the Locality’, the second with ‘Britain

30  Ian F. W. Beckett and the Indian Uprising’, the third with ‘Global Perspectives’ and the fourth, edited by Bates and Gavin Rand, with ‘Military Aspects of the Indian Uprising’. The latter includes contributions from Bates, Rand, Roy, James Frey (looking back to Vellore), Sabyasachi Dasgupta, Gautam Chakravarty and Gajendra Singh. The project website has useful additional resources including primary sources.28 The shadow cast by the events of 1857–58 was long, and Roy has investigated aspects of discipline in the later nineteenth century.29 Roy has also discussed logistics and its contribution to both sepoy welfare and military strength.30 A different perspective is that of Nile Green, Islam and the Army of Colonial India: Sepoy Religion in the Service of Empire (2009), examining the Hyderabad Contingent between 1850 and 1930. Indianization of the officer corps was to become much more of an issue in the twentieth century, but Pradeep Barua, Gentlemen of the Raj: The Indian Officer Corps, 1817–1949 (2003), sets it in the context of an idea first raised by Sir Thomas Munro at Madras in 1817. Chandar Sundaram also examines the longer perspective in his 1996 thesis, and there is also Michael Creese’s 2007 thesis on Indian officers in the Indian cavalry between 1858 and 1918.31 European volunteers in India in the later period have been generally neglected beyond the cataloguing of units in Chris Kempton, The Regiments and Corps of the HIEC and Indian Army Volunteer Forces (2012). Roy, however, contributes to a recent edited collection.32 In strategic terms, the security of India was increasingly seen in the context of the perceived Russian threat in Central Asia. The doyen of strategic analyses so far as India is concerned is Edward Ingram in The Beginning of the Great Game in India, 1828–34 (1979), Commitment to Empire: Prophecies of the Great Game in Asia, 1797–1800 (1981); In Defence of British India: Great Britain in the Middle East, 1775– 1842 (1984); and Britain’s Persian Connection, 1798–1828: Prelude to the Great Game in Asia (1992). One should also add G.J. Alder, British India’s Northern Frontier, 1865–95 (1963); D.R. Gilliard, The Struggle for Asia, 1828–1914 (1977); and Malcolm Yapp, Strategies of British India: Britain, Iran and Afghanistan, 1798–1850 (1980), and Robert Blyth, The Empire of the Raj: India, Eastern Africa and the Middle East, 1858–1947 (2003), as significant contributions.33 Later aspects of the strategic debate have been examined by Adrian Preston and Rob Johnson, parts of whose thesis on Indian defence appears in his The Afghan Way of War: Culture and Pragmatism – A Critical History (2011). Preston, however, invariably exaggerates his case as to the

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 31 influence of Indian Army perspectives on the actual strategic priorities of British governments.34 There have been a number of other theses on aspects of the perceived Russian threat to India that remain unpublished.35 Inevitably, current engagement in Afghanistan has resulted in many more popular accounts of the three Anglo-Afghan Wars of 1838–42, 1878–81 and 1919, to add to those that already existed. The best academic treatment of the First Afghan War remains J. A. Norris, The First Afghan War, 1838–42 (1967), while the Second Afghan War is well served in Brian Robson, The Road to Kabul: The Second Afghan War, 1878–81 (1986).36 Robson also deals with the reforming Eden Commission, whose work was carried out against the background of the war in Afghanistan.37 Other campaigns such as the Kandyan Wars, Burma Wars and the Persian War, all of which have popular accounts devoted to them, would repay more academic study, although A.T.Q. Stewart, The Pagoda War: Lord Dufferin and the Fall of the Kingdom of Ava, 1885–86 (1972), is an account for the general reader by an academic historian.38 John Pemble, The Invasion of Nepal: John Company at War (1971), is exemplary and has recently been reprinted. The Indian expedition to Abyssinia has also drawn attention, the outstanding academic account being Darrell Bates, The Abyssinian Difficulty: The Emperor Theodorus and the Magdala Campaign, 1867–68 (1979). The First and Second Sikh Wars and the Abyssinian expedition are covered in essays in Brian Bond (ed.), Victorian Military Campaigns (1967), and they are still useful although, again, the Sikh Wars require a modern academic study.39 Ultimately, despite occasional setbacks such as Maiwand, for which there is the popularly aimed but well-researched Leigh Maxwell, My God Maiwand! Operations of the South Afghanistan Field Force, 1878–80 (1979), the British enjoyed the advantages of superior firepower and technology in their colonial campaigns. Tim Moreman, The Army in India and the development of Frontier Warfare, 1849–1947 (1998), provides a particularly useful guide to the learning process on the North West Frontier.40 Again, inspired by more recent events, techniques of political pacification have also been assessed, as in Hugh Beattie, Imperial Frontier: Tribe and State in Waziristan (2002); Martin Ewans, Securing the Indian Frontier in Central Asia: Confrontation and Negotiation, 1865–95 (2010); Christopher Wyatt, Afghanistan and the Defence of Empire: Diplomacy and Strategy during the Great Game (2011); and Christian Tripodi, Edge of Empire: The British

32  Ian F. W. Beckett Political Officer and Tribal Administration on the North West Frontier, 1877–1947 (2011). There is an earlier pioneering study of the relationship of army and political officers by W. Murray Hogben.41 While Beattie’s focus is Waziristan, R. O. Christensen’s 1987 thesis on relations with the Afridi remains unpublished, although Christensen has published an essay, and a suggestive book review. There is also a pioneering study of the North-East Frontier by Timothy Holt.42 It goes without saying that these academic works are far superior to the usual crop of popular histories of warfare on the frontier. In many respects, however, H. L. Nevill, Campaigns on the North West Frontier, is still just as useful despite having been published in 1912. Mention should also be made of the Official History, Frontier and Overseas Expeditions from India 7 vols. (1907–13). There was also a separate six-volume official history of the Second Afghan War compiled by Sir Charles MacGregor in 1885. It was suppressed by Frederick Roberts, however, with a two-volume abridged version substituted in 1897 only for this also to be suppressed with a bowdlerized single volume finally appearing in 1908. Fortunately, copies survive in the British Library.43 Intelligence contributed significantly to security in India. Inevitably perhaps, the ‘Great Game’ has attracted considerable interest from popular authors. Intelligence, however, is also the subject of C. A. Bayly, Empire and Information: Intelligence-gathering and Social Communication in India, 1780–1870 (1996); Richard Popplewell, Intelligence and Imperial Defence: British Intelligence and the Defence of the Indian Empire, 1904–24 (1995); and, most recently, James Hevia, The Imperial Security State: British Colonial Knowledge and Empire-Building in Asia (2012). Studies of many of those who made their name in India are frequently outdated, inadequate or non-existent. Gerald Lake, Charles Napier, Hugh Gough, John Nicholson, Henry Havelock, Colin Campbell, Donald Stewart and William Lockhart all spring to mind as subjects ripe for revision. Hugh Rose, however, is well served in the Army Records Society edition of his papers by Brian Robson, Sir Hugh Rose and the Central India Campaign, 1858 (2000). David James, Lord Roberts (1954), also badly needs updating but centring on Roberts is Rodney Atwood, The March to Kandahar: Roberts in Afghanistan (2008). Atwood is now preparing a new biography.44 Heather Streets, Ian Beckett and Rob Johnson have also examined aspects of Roberts’s Indian career, highlighting some less admirable attributes.45 There is also an edition of Roberts’s papers edited by Brian Robson, Roberts in India: The Military Papers of Field Marshal Lord Roberts, 1876–93

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 33 (1993). MacGregor’s highly revealing diary of the Second Afghan War has been published as William Trousdale (ed.) War in Afghanistan, 1879–80: The Personal; Diary of Major General Sir Charles Metcalfe MacGregor (1985). The contribution of that other great imperial proconsul to the development of the Indian Army, Kitchener, has been examined in a chapter by Tim Moreman focussing on the development of the General Staff in India, while the attempted pre-war reform of the army is the subject of a thesis by Benjamin Gillon.46 Turning to the twentieth century, the wider Indian Army context is covered in Anirudh Deshpande, British Military Policy in India, 1900–45: Colonial Constraints and Declining Power (2005). For the great challenge of the Great War, there is DeWitt Ellinwood and S. D. Pradhan (eds.), India and World War I (1978), but it needs updating.47 The problematic performance of the Indian Army on the Western Front is the subject of a popular account, Gordon Corrigan, Sepoys in the Trenches: The Indian Corps on the Western Front, 1914–15 (1999), which is supplanted by the academic study of George MortonJack, The Indian Army on the Western Front (2013). Some pioneering articles on the Indian Corps were contributed, of course, by Jeffrey Greenhut, whose 1978 thesis was not otherwise published.48 Also unpublished is I. D. Leask’s 1989 thesis on the wartime expansion of the army.49 Mark Harrison has touched on medical issues.50 A central tenet of subaltern studies is the emphasis upon history from below, but the voice of the sepoy is difficult to recover. There is the well-known but disputed autobiography of Sita Ram, From Sepoy to Subedar, first published in 1873. The instructive diary of a Rajput is presented in De Witt Ellinwood, Between Two Worlds: A Rajput Officer in the Indian Army, 1905–21, Based on the Diary of Amar Singh of Jaipur (2005). For the Great War, however, there are the surviving censor’s reports, albeit that this is the voice of the sepoy as first recorded by regimental scribes and then translated for the benefit of the censors. Based on this material, David Omissi (ed.), Indian Voices of the Great War: Soldiers’ Letters, 1914–18 (1999), is an important source for the experience of ordinary Indian soldiers. Susan VanKoski has also used those from Punjabi soldiers, the Punjab experience also being examined by Tan Tai-Yong.51 An American thesis by Andrew Tait Jarboe, which has only just been completed, extends the study of the Indian soldier abroad from the Western Front to hospitals in Britain and France and to POW camps in Germany.52 R.A. McLain also explores concepts of masculinity in another American thesis.53 Nikolas Gardner and Roy cover equally difficult experiences for Indian troops in Mesopotamia.54 The context is explored in P.K. Davis,

34  Ian F. W. Beckett Ends and Means: The British Mesopotamia Campaign and Commission (1994), while a number of the essays in Kaushik Roy (ed.), The Indian Army in the Two World Wars (2011), are especially relevant to Mesopotamia, as well as the Indian contribution to the campaigns in Egypt and Palestine. Light is also shone on Mesopotamia in an Army Records Society volume, Andrew Syk (ed.), The Military Papers of Lieutenant General Frederick Stanley Maude, 1914–17 (2012). Charles Townshend, When God Made Hell: The British Invasion of Mesopotamia and the Creation of Iraq, 1914–21 (2010), carries the story into the Indian Army’s role in the post-war pacification of Iraq.55 The Singapore Mutiny of 1915 involving the 5th (Native) Light Infantry has been the subject of perhaps excessive interest with more recent studies tending to give it an external and political context it lacked, since familiar internal issues were at its root.56 Nonetheless, the Indian Army did not break in either world war, as suggested by Raymond Callahan.57 By contrast, one further aspect of the contribution of Indian manpower to the Great War that has been neglected is the question of the Indian labour contingents on the Western Front and elsewhere. These would pay far more attention than they have received thus far, work on the Chinese Labour Corps being far more prominent. The problem of post-1918 ‘Indianization’ is touched upon in another Army Records Society volume, Mark Jacobsen (ed.), Rawlinson in India (2002), Rawlinson being Commander-in-Chief in India from 1920 to 1925, and the subject of Jacobsen’s earlier thesis.58 More significant in the historiography of the interwar period, however, is internal security. This inevitably raises the question of Amritsar in 1919, on which radically different views are offered by Nigel Collett, The Butcher of Amritsar: General Reginald Dyer (2006), and Nick Lloyd, The Amritsar Massacre: The Untold Story of One Fateful Day (2011), Lloyd also elaborating on the theme in articles.59 Lloyd and Rob Johnson also contribute essays on interwar policing to Roy (ed.), The Indian Army in Two World Wars. Imperial policing in India generally has also come under the spotlight from Srinath Raghaven, Gyanesh Kudaisya and especially from Simeon Shoul, who died tragically young and before he could convert his 2006 thesis into a monograph, leaving just one journal article.60 The longer-term context is examined by D Gorge Boyce.61 Much of this particular area of study plays into a developing interest generally in the development of British counter-insurgency and a contentious debate on whether or not post-1945 British campaigns adhered or not to an apparent doctrine of ‘minimum force’.

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 35 There is another unpublished thesis by N. Narain from 1993 on the role of the colonial army in interwar India and, similarly, Susan VanKoski’s 1996 American thesis on provision for Indian Army veterans.62 For continuing warfare on the frontier there are the later chapters of Moreman’s monograph mentioned earlier as well as Alan Warren, Waziristan: The Faqir of Ipi and the Indian Army: The North West Frontier Revolt (2000); and Brian Robson, Crisis on the Frontier: The Third Afghan War and the Campaign in Waziristan, 1919–20 (2004).63 Edward Spiers covers the debates on the use of both explosive bullets and gas on the frontier.64 David Omissi in Air Power and Colonial Control: The Royal Air Force, 1919–39 (1990) examines aerial policing in India as well as elsewhere in the empire. On interwar strategic concerns, there are a number of unpublished theses as well as articles.65 Some of those works on political pacification mentioned earlier such as Beattie and Tripodi remain relevant since their date range extends into the twentieth century, while Robert Taylor has looked at the organization of local forces in Burma.66 For the Second World War in the Far East, there are two recent studies looking at how the ‘forgotten’ Fourteenth Army in Burma was transformed into one confident of operating in the jungle, namely Daniel Marston, Phoenix from the Ashes: the Indian Army in the Burma Campaign (2003), and Tim Moreman, The Jungle, the Japanese and the British Commonwealth Armies at War, 1941–1945: Fighting Methods, Doctrine and Training for Jungle Warfare (2005). Marston’s focus is on the Indian, rather than the British, soldier. Moreman, Marston, Raymond Callahan and Alan Jeffreys all contribute to Roy (ed.) The Indian Army in Two World Wars. The Second World War experience of the Indian Army including the Middle East is also well covered in Alan Jeffreys and Patrick Rose (eds.), The Indian Army, 1939–47: Experience and Development (2012), the contributors including Moreman, Marston, Callahan and David Omissi.67 The Indian involvement in the fall of Singapore in February 1942 was a particularly low point, as discussed by Alan Warren.68 The fate of Singapore contributed to the creation of the Indian National Army, which is among the subjects dealt with in Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper, Forgotten Armies: The Fall of British Asia, 1941–45 (2006). Bayly and Harper have continued the story of the reassertion of colonial rule in Forgotten Wars: Freedom and Revolution in Southeast Asia (2007), a period also partly covered by Peter Dennis, Troubled Days of Peace: Mountbatten and South East Asia Command, 1945–46 (1987). An older work on the INA is Peter Fay, The Forgotten Army: India’s Armed Struggle for Independence,

36  Ian F. W. Beckett 1942–45 (1993). Indian perspectives on the INA are found in K.K. Ghosh, The Indian National Army: The Second Front of the Indian Freedom Movement (1969), and another article by Chandar Sundaram.69 R.B. Osborn deals with the army and partition in an unpublished 1994 American thesis.70 There are also useful essays on partition in Jeffreys and Rose (eds.), The Indian Army, 1939–47.71 This chapter has concentrated upon chronology at the expense of theme, although it is to be hoped that it is clear that there is a rich and varied historiography of growing sophistication for the army of British India. As the papers presented at the Greenwich symposium in 2013 also suggest, yet further work is underway to illuminate even more aspects of the colonial military experience in India. Indeed, recently published volumes include Kaushik Roy, War, Culture and Society in Early Modern Asia, 1740–1849; Peter Lorge and Kaushik Roy (eds.), Chinese and Indian Warfare: From the Classical Age to 1870; and Kaushik Roy, Cavalry, Guns and Military Transition in Early Modern Asia: A Comparative Study of China, India, Persia and the West, as well as Gajendra Singh, The Testimonies of Indian Soldiers and Two World Wars: Between Self and Sepoy. In abundant forms, therefore, the output of academic work on the Indian Army fully reflects the evolution of military historiography from those early traditional accounts of daring do in Bengal.

Notes 1 P. J. O. Taylor (ed.), A Companion to the ‘Indian Mutiny’ of 1857 (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 392. 2 Douglas Peers, ‘Imperial Vice: Sex, Drink and the Health of British Troops in North Indian Cantonments, 1800–58’, in David Killingray and David Omissi (eds.), Guardians of Empire: The Armed Forces of the Colonial Powers, c. 1700–1964 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), pp. 25–52; Erica Wald, ‘Health Discipline and Appropriate Behaviour: The Body of the Soldier and Space of the Cantonment’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 46 (2012), pp. 815–56; Raffi Gregorian, ‘Unfit for Service: British Law and Looting in India in the Mid-Nineteenth Century’, South Asia, vol. 13 (1990), pp. 63–84. For disease generally, see Kaushik Roy, ‘Managing the Environment: Disease, Sanitation and the Army in British India, 1859–1915’, in Ranjan Chakrabarti (ed.), Situating Environment History (Delhi: Manohar, 2007), pp. 187–219. 3 Peter J. Marshall, ‘Western Arms in Maritime Asia in the Early Phases of Expansion’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 14 (1980), pp. 13–28; Dirk Kolff, ‘The End of an Ancien Regime: Colonial War in India, 1798–1818’, in J. A. de Moor and H. L. Wesseling (eds.), Imperialism and War: Essays on Colonial Wars in Asia and Africa (Leiden: Brill, 1989), pp. 22–49; Bruce Lenman, ‘The Transition to European Military Ascendancy in India,

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 37 1600–1800’, in John Lynn (ed.), The Tools of War: Instruments, Ideas and Institutions of Warfare, 1445–1871 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1990), pp. 100–30; Pradeep Barua, ‘Military Developments in India, 1750–1850’, Journal of Military History, vol. 58 (1994), pp. 559–616; Jos Gommans, ‘Indian Warfare and Afghan Innovation During the Eighteenth Century’, Studies in History, vol. 11 (1995), pp. 261–80; Stewart Gordon, ‘The Limited Adoption of European-style Military Forces by Eighteenth Century Rulers in India’, Indian Economic and Social History Review, vol. 35 (1998), pp. 229–45; G. J. Bryant, ‘Asymmetric Warfare: The British Experience in Eighteenth Century India’, Journal of Military History, vol. 68 (2004), pp. 431–69; Kaushik Roy, ‘Military Synthesis in South Asia: Armies, Warfare and Indian Society, 1740–1849’, Journal of Military History, vol. 69 (2005), pp. 651–90. 4 G. J. Bryant, ‘The East India Company and Its Army, 1600–1778’, PhD, University of London, 1975. 5 John Bourne, ‘The Civil and Military Patronage of the East India Company, 1784–1858’, PhD, University of Leicester, 1978. 6 See also Douglas Peers, ‘Gunpowder Empires and the Garrison State: Modernity, Hybridity and the Political Economy of Colonial India, c.1750–1860’, Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, vol. 27 (2007), pp. 245–58. 7 Seema Alavi, ‘The Company Army and Rural Society: The Invalid Thana, 1780–1830’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 27 (1993), pp. 147–78; A. N. Gilbert, ‘Recruitment and Reform in the East India Company Army, 1760–1800’, Journal of British Studies, vol. 15 (1975), pp. 89–111; James Hoover, ‘The Recruitment of the Bengal Army: Beyond the Myth of the Zemindar’s Son’, Indo-British Review, vol. 21 (1993), pp. 144–56; G. J. Bryant, ‘The Cavalry Problem in the Early British Indian Army, 1750–85’, War in History, vol. 2 (1995), pp. 1–21; ibid., ‘Indigenous Mercenaries in the Service of European Imperialists: The Case of the Sepoys in the Early British Indian Army, 1750–1800’, War in History, vol. 7 (2000), pp. 2–28. 8 G. J. Bryant, ‘Officers of the East India Company’s Army in the Days of Clive and Hastings’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 6 (1978), pp. 203–27; Alan Guy, ‘“People Who Will Stick at Nothing to Make Money”: Officers’ Income, Expenditure and Expectations in the Service of John Company, 1750–1840’, in Alan J. Guy and Peter B. Boyden (eds.), Soldiers of the Raj: The Indian Army, 1600–1947 (London: National Army Museum, 1997), pp. 39–56; Douglas Peers, ‘Colonial Knowledge and the Military in India, 1780–1860’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 33 (2005), pp. 157–80. 9 Douglas Peers, ‘The Habitual Nobility of Being: British Officers and the Social Construction of the Bengal Army in the Early Nineteenth Century’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 25 (1991), pp. 545–69. See also Peers, ‘Between Mars and Mammon: The East India Company and Efforts to Reform Its Army, 1796–1832’, Historical Journal, vol. 25 (1991), pp. 385–401; idem, ‘Soldiers, Scholars and the Scottish Enlightenment: Militarism in Early Nineteenth Century India’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 16 (1994), pp. 441–60. 10 R. E. Frykenberg, ‘New Light on the Vellore Mutiny’, in Kenneth Ballhatchet and John Harrison (eds.), East India Company Studies: Papers

38  Ian F. W. Beckett Presented to Professor Sir Cyril Philips (Hong Kong: Asian Research Series, 1986), pp. 212–15; idem., ‘Conflicting Norms and Political Integration in South India: The Case of the Vellore Mutiny’, Indo-British Review, vol. 13 (1987), pp. 51–63; Devadas Moodley, ‘Vellore, 1806: The Meanings of Mutiny’, in Jane Hathaway (ed.), Rebellion, Repression and Reinvention: Mutiny in Comparative Perspective (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2001), pp. 87–102; A.D. Cameron, ‘The Vellore Mutiny’, PhD, University of Edinburgh, 1984. 11 Douglas Peers, ‘Army Discipline, Military Cultures and State-Formation in Colonial India, c.1780–1860’, in Huw Bowen, Elizabeth Mancke and John Reid (eds.), Britain’s Oceanic Empire: Atlantic and Indian Ocean Worlds, c.1550–1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 282–307; idem, ‘Sepoys, Soldiers and the Lash: Race, Caste and Army Discipline in India, 1820–50’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 23 (1995), pp. 211–47. 12 Lorenzo Crowell, ‘The Military in a Colonial Context: The Madras Army circa 1832’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 24 (1990), pp. 249–72; idem, ‘Logistics in the Madras Army, c.1830’, War & Society, vol. 10 (1992), pp. 1–33; idem, ‘The Madras Army in the Northern Circars, 1832–33: Pacification and Professionalism’, PhD, Duke University, 1982; C. A. Montgomery, ‘The Sepoy Army and Colonial Madras, c.1806–57’, DPhil, University of Oxford, 2002. 13 G. J. Bryant, ‘Pacification in the Early British Raj, 1755–86’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 14 (1985), pp. 3–19; idem, ‘The Military Imperative in Early British Expansion in India, 1750–85’, Indo-British Review, vol. 21 (1993), pp. 18–35; Manu Sehgal, ‘British Expansion and the East India Company, 1770–1815’, PhD, University of Exeter, 2011. 14 Kaushik Roy, ‘Rockets Under Haidar Ali and Tipu Sultan’, Indian Journal of the History of Science, vol. 40 (2005), pp. 635–55. 15 Kaushik Roy, ‘Firepower-centric Warfare in India and the Military Modernisation of the Marathas, 1740–1818’, Indian Journal of the History of Science, vol. 40 (2005), pp. 597–634. 16 John Pemble, ‘Resources and Techniques in the Second Maratha War’, Historical Journal, vol. 19 (1976), pp. 375–404; Enid M. Fuhr, ‘Strategy and Diplomacy in British India Under Marquess Wellesley: The Second Maratha War, 1803–06’, PhD, Simon Fraser University, 1994. See also W. A. C. Halliwell, ‘British Relations with the Marathas under the Wellesley Regime’, PhD, University of Southampton, 2000. 17 See also Premansu Kumar Bandyopadhyay, ‘The Water of the Ganges and the Tulsi Leaves: Symbol of Sepoy Solidarity Against the Expedition to Burma, 1824–26: Anatomy of the Sepoy Mutiny at Barrackpore, 1824’, Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, vol. 55 (1995), pp. 889–900. 18 Premansu Kumar Bandyopadhyay, ‘The Role of Indian Sepoys in the British Imperial Wars Outside India, 1762–1801: Apportionment of the Cost Between the East India Company and the Imperial Government’, Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, vol. 51 (1990), pp. 706–13; idem, ‘Expansion of the Trade in, and Expulsion of the French from Egypt and the Red Sea Areas: The English East India Company’s Sepoy Expedition from India to Egypt, 1801–02’, Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, vol. 57 (1996), pp. 831–45.

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 39 19 G. Chakravarty, ‘Imagining Resistance: British Historiography and Popular Fiction on the Indian Rebellion, 1857–59’, PhD, University of Cambridge, 1999; Douglas Peers, ‘Those Noble Exemplars of the True Military Tradition: Constructions of the Indian Army in the Mid-Victorian Press’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 31 (1997), pp. 109–42. 20 Rudrangshu Mukherjee, ‘ “Satan Let Loose upon the Earth”: The Kanpur Massacres in India in the Revolt of 1857’, Past & Present, no. 128 (1990), pp. 92–116; Barbara English, ‘The Kanpur Massacres in India and the Revolt of 1857’, Past & Present, no. 142 (1994), pp. 169–78. 21 Alison Blunt, ‘Embodying War: British Women and Domestic Defilement in the Indian Mutiny’, Journal of Historical Geography, vol. 26 (2000), pp. 403–28. 22 See also Rudrangshu Mukherjee, ‘The Sepoy Mutinies Revisited’, in Mushirul Hasan and Narayani Gupta (eds.), India’s Colonial Encounter: Essays in Memory of Eric Stokes (Delhi: Manohar, 1993), pp. 193–204, but reproduced in Kaushik Roy (ed.), War and Society in Colonial India: 1807–1945 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 114–25. 23 Richard Forster, ‘Mangal Pandey: Drug-crazed Fanatic or Canny Revolutionary?’, Columbia Undergraduate Journal of South Asian Studies, vol. 1 (2009), pp. 3–23. 24 Peter Stanley, White Mutiny: British Military Culture in India, 1825–75 (London: Hurst & Co., 1998); idem, ‘Military Culture and Military Protest: The Bengal Europeans and the White Mutiny of 1859’, in Hathaway (ed.), Rebellion, Repression, Reinvention, pp. 103–18; idem, ‘“Dear Comrades”: Barrack Room Culture and the White Mutiny of 1859–60’, Indo-British Review, vol. 21 (1996), pp. 165–75. 25 See also David Omissi, ‘Martial Races: Ethnicity and Security in Colonial India, 1858–1939’, War & Society, vol. 9 (1991), pp. 1–27; Lionel Caplan, ‘Bravest of the Brave: Representations of the Gurkha in British Military Writings’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 25 (1991), pp. 571–98; Kaushik Roy, ‘Beyond the Martial Race Theory: A Historiographical Assessment of Recruitment in the British-Indian Army’, Calcutta Historical Review, vols. 21–22 (1999–2000), pp. 139–54; idem, ‘The Construction of Regiments in the Indian Army, 1859–1913’, War in History, vol. 8 (2001), pp. 127–48; idem, ‘Recruiting for the Leviathan: Regimental Recruitment in the British Indian Army, 1859–1913’, Calcutta Historical Review, vols. 23–24 (2001–04), pp. 59–81. 26 Douglas Peers, ‘Those Noble Exemplars of the True Military Tradition: Constructions of the Indian Army in the Mid-Victorian Press’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 31 (1997), pp. 132–40; Mary Des Chene, ‘Military Ethnology in British India’, South Asia Research, vol. 19 (1999), pp. 122– 35; Philip Constable, ‘The Marginalisation of a Dalit Martial Race in Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century Western India’, Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 60 (2001), pp. 439–78; Thomas Metcalf, ‘Sikh Recruitment for Colonial Military and Police Forces, 1874–1914’, in Thomas Metcalf (ed.), Forging the Raj: Essays on British India in the Heyday of Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), pp. 250–81. 27 A. P. Coleman, ‘The Origins of the Gurkhas in British Service’, MPhil, University of London, 1995; R. K. Mazumder, ‘The Making of the Punjab: Colonial Power, the Indian Army and Recruited Peasants’, PhD, University of London, 2001; G. McCann, ‘Sikhs, the Indian Army and the Raj, c.1890–1920’, MPhil, University of Cambridge, 2002.

40  Ian F. W. Beckett 28 ‘Mutiny at the Margins: The Indian Uprising of 1857’, www.csas.ed.ac. uk/mutiny (accessed 10 June 2015). 29 Kaushik Roy, ‘Coercion Through Leniency: British Manipulation of the Courts Martial System in the Post-Mutiny Indian Army, 1859–1913’, Journal of Military History, vol. 65 (2001), pp. 937–64’; idem, ‘Spare the Rod, Spoil the Soldiers? Crime and Punishment in the Army of India, 1860–1913’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, vol. 84 (2006), pp. 9–23. 30 Kaushik Roy, ‘Feeding the Leviathan: Supplying the British-Indian Army, 1859–1913’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, vol. 80 (2002), pp. 144–61; idem, ‘Equipping Leviathan: Ordnance Factories of British India, 1859–1913’, War in History, vol. 10 (2003), pp. 398–423. 31 Chandar Sundaram, ‘A Grudging Concession: The Indianisation of the Indian Army’s Officer Corps, 1817–1917’, PhD, McGill University, 1996; Michael Creese, ‘Swords Trembling in Their Scabbards: A Study of Indian Officers in the Indian Cavalry, 1858–1918’, PhD, University of Leicester, 2007. See also Chandar Sundaram, ‘“Martial” Indian Aristocrats and the Military System of the Raj: The Imperial Cadet Corps, 1900–14’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 25 (1997), pp. 415–39; idem, ‘Preventing “Idleness”: The Maharajah of Cooch Behar’s Proposal for Officer Commissions in the British Army for the Sons of Indian Princes and Gentlemen, 1897–98’, South Asia, vol. 18 (1995), pp. 115–30. 32 Kaushik Roy, ‘India’, in Ian F. W. Beckett (ed.), Citizen Soldiers and the British Empire, 1837–1902 (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2012), pp. 101–20. 33 See also G. J. Alder, ‘Britain and the Defence of India: The Origins of the Problem, 1798–1815’, Journal of Asian History, vol. 6 (1973), pp. 14–44; idem, ‘India and the Crimean War’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 2 (1973–74), pp. 15–37; M.E. Yapp, ‘British Perceptions of the Russian Threat to India’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 21 (1987), pp. 647–65; Christian Tripodi, ‘Grand Strategy and the Graveyard of Assumptions: Britain and Afghanistan, 1839–1919’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 33 (2010), pp. 701–25. 34 Adrian Preston, ‘The Eastern Question in British Strategic Policy During the Franco-Prussian War’, Canadian Historical Association Historical Papers, vol. 5 (1972), pp. 55–88; idem, ‘Sir Charles MacGregor and the Defence of India, 1857–77’, Historical Journal, vol. 12 (1969), pp. 58–77; Keith Jeffery, ‘The Eastern Arc of Empire: A Strategic View, 1850–1950’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 5 (1982), pp. 531–45; Robert Johnson, ‘Russians at the Gates of India? Planning the Defence of India, 1885– 1900’, Journal of Military History, vol. 67 (2003), pp. 697–744; idem, ‘The Penjdeh Crisis and Its Impact on the Great Game and the Defence of India, 1885–97’, PhD, University of Exeter, 2000. 35 T. A. Heathcote, ‘British Policy and Baluchistan, 1854–76’, PhD, University of London, 1969; A. Bali, ‘The Russo-Afghan Boundary Demarcation, 1884–95: Britain and the Russian Threat to the Security of India’, PhD, University of Ulster, 1986; G. Tealakh, ‘The Russian Advance in Central Asia and the British Response, 1834–84’, PhD, University of Durham, 1991; S. Dutta, ‘Strategy and Structure: A Case Study in Imperial Policy

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 41 and Tribal Society in British Baluchistan, 1876–1905’, PhD, University of London, 1991; C. M. Wyatt, ‘Afghanistan in the Defence of India, 1903– 15’, PhD, University of Leeds, 1995. 36 See also Ian F. W. Beckett, ‘Cavagnari’s Coup de Main’, Soldiers of the Queen, vol. 82 (1995), pp. 24–28. 37 Brian Robson, ‘The Eden Commission and the Reform of the Indian Army, 1879–95’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, vol. 60 (1982), pp. 4–13. 38 See also Oliver Pollak, ‘A Mid Victorian Controversy: The Case of the Combustible Commodore and the Second Anglo-Burma War, 1851–52’, Albion, vol. 10 (1978), pp. 171–83. 39 See Ian F. W. Beckett, ‘The Indian Expeditionary Force on Malta and Cyprus, 1878’, Soldiers of the Queen, vol. 76 (1994), pp. 6–11. 40 See also Tim Moreman, ‘The British and Indian Armies and North West Frontier Warfare, 1849–1914’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 20 (1992), pp. 35–64; idem, ‘The Arms Trade and the North West Frontier Pathan Tribes, 1890–1914’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 22 (1994), pp. 187–216; idem, ‘The Army in India and the Military Periodical Press, 1830–98’, in David Finkelstein and Douglas Peers (eds.), Negotiating India in the Nineteenth Century Media (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2000), pp. 210–32. 41 W. Murray Hogben, ‘British Civil-Military Relations on the North West Frontier of India’, in Adrian Preston and Peter Dennis (eds.), Swords and Covenants (London: Croom Helm, 1976), pp. 123–46. 42 R. O. Christensen, ‘Conflict and Change Among the Afridis, and Tribal Policy, 1839–1947’, PhD, University of Leicester, 1987; idem, ‘Tribesmen, Government and Political Economy on the North West Frontier’, in Barbara Ingham and Colin Simmons (eds.), Development Studies and Colonial Policies (London: Frank Cass, 1987), pp. 175–93; idem, ‘Tradition and Change on the North West Frontier’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 16 (1982), pp. 159–66; Timothy Holt, ‘Dealing with the Tribes: Political Officers and Expansion on the North East Frontier of India, 1826–1914’, M.St., University of Oxford, 2012. 43 See Brian Robson, ‘The Strange Case of the Missing Official History’, Soldiers of the Queen, vol. 76 (1984), pp. 3–6. 44 See also Rodney Atwood, ‘“So Single-minded a Man and So Noble hearted a Soldier”: Field Marshal Earl Roberts of Kandahar, Waterford and Pretoria’, in Ian F. W. Beckett (ed.), Victorians at War: New Perspectives (Society for Army Historical Research Special Publication No. 16, 2007), pp. 59–74. 45 Heather Streets, ‘Military Influence in Late Victorian and Edwardian Popular Media: The Case of Frederick Roberts’, Journal of Victorian Culture, vol. 8 (2003), pp. 231–56; Ian F. W. Beckett, ‘Soldiers, the Frontier and the Politics of Command in British India’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, vol. 16 (2005), pp. 280–92; Rob Johnson, ‘General Roberts, the Occupation of Kabul, and the Problems of Transition, 1879–80’, War in History, vol. 20 (2013), pp. 300–22. 46 Tim Moreman, ‘Lord Kitchener, the General Staff and the Army in India, 1902–14’, in David French and Brian Holden Reid (eds.), The British General Staff: Reform and Innovation, 1890–1939 (London: Frank Cass,

42  Ian F. W. Beckett 2002), pp. 57–74; Benjamin Gillon, ‘British Planning for the Defence of India and the Reorganisation of the Indian Army, 1902–15’, PhD, University of Glasgow, 2008. 47 See also DeWitt Ellinwood, ‘Ethnicity in a Colonial Asian Army: British Policy, War and the Indian Army, 1914–18’, in DeWitt Ellinwood and Cynthia Enloe (eds.), Ethnicity and the Military in Asia (London: Transaction Books, 1981), pp. 89–143. 48 Jeffery Greenhut, ‘Race, Sex and War: The Impact of Race and Sex on Morale and Health Services for the Indian Corps on the Western Front, 1914’, Military Affairs, vol. 45 (1981), pp. 71–4; idem, ‘The Imperial Reserve: The Indian Corps on the Western Front, 1914–15’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 12 (1983), pp. 54–73; idem, ‘The Imperial Reserve: The Indian Infantry on the Western Front, 1914– 18’, PhD, University of Kansas, 1978. 49 I.D. Leask, ‘The Expansion of the Indian Army during the Great War’, PhD, University of London, 1989. 50 Mark Harrison, ‘Disease, Discipline and Dissent: The Indian Army in France and England, 1914–15’, in Mark Harrison, Roger Cooter and Steve Sturdy (eds.), Medicine and Modern Warfare (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1999), pp. 185–203. 51 Susan VanKoski, ‘Letters Home 1915–16: Punjabi Soldiers Reflect on War and Life in Europe and Their Meanings for Home and Self’, International Journal of Punjab Studies, vol. 2 (1995), pp. 43–63; Tan Tai-Yong, ‘An Imperial Home Front: Punjab and the First World War’, Journal of Military History, vol. 64 (2000), pp. 371–410. 52 Andrew Tait Jarboe, ‘Soldiers of Empire: Indian Sepoys in and Beyond the Imperial Metropole During the First World War, 1914–19’, PhD, Northeastern University, 2013. 53 R.A. McLain, ‘The Body Politic: Imperial Masculinity, the Great War and the Struggle for the Indian Self, 1914–18’, PhD, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 2002. 54 Nikolas Gardner, ‘Sepoys and the Siege of Kut-al-Amara, 1915–16’, War in History, vol. 11 (2004), pp. 307–26; Kaushik Roy, ‘The Army in India in Mesopotamia from 1916 to 1918: Tactics, Technology and Logistics Reconsidered’, in Ian F. W. Beckett (ed.), 1917: Beyond the Western Front (Leiden: Brill, 2009), pp. 131–58. See also E. Latter, ‘The Indian Army in Mesopotamia, 1914–18’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, vol. 72 (1994), pp. 92–102, 160–79, 232–46. 55 See also Mark Jacobsen, ‘Only by the Sword: British Counterinsurgency in Iraq, 1920’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, vol. 2 (1991), pp. 323–63. 56 Nicholas Tarling, ‘The Singapore Mutiny, 1915’, Journal of the Malaysian Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society, vol. 55 (1982), pp. 26–59; R. W. E. Harper and H. Miller, Singapore Mutiny (Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1984); Ian F. W. Beckett, ‘The Singapore Mutiny of February 1915’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, vol. 62 (1984), pp. 132–55; Tilak Raj Sareen (ed.), Secret Documents on the Singapore Mutiny, 1915 (New Delhi: Mounto Publishing House, 1995); Christine Doran, ‘Gender Matters in the Singapore Mutiny, 1915’, Sojourn, vol. 17 (2002), pp. 76–93; Kuwajima Sho, Mutiny in Singapore: War, Anti-war and the War for India’s Independence (New Delhi: Rainbow Publishers,

The Indian Army: a historiographical reflection 43 2006); idem, ‘Indian Mutiny in Singapore, 1915: People Who Observed the Scene and People Who Heard the News’, New Zealand Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 11 (2009), pp. 375–84; Leon Comber, ‘The Singapore Mutiny (1915) and the Genesis of Political Intelligence in Singapore’, Intelligence and National Security, vol. 24 (2009), pp. 529–41; Tim Harper, ‘Singapore 1915 and the Birth of the Asian Underground’, Modern Asian Studies vol. 47 (2013), pp. 1782–1811. 57 Raymond Callahan, ‘The Indian Army, Total War and the Dog That Didn’t Bark in the Night’, in Hathaway (ed.), Rebellion, Repression, Reinvention, pp. 119–30. 58 Mark Jacobsen, ‘The Modernisation of the Indian Army, 1925–39’, PhD, University of California, 1979. 59 Nick Lloyd, ‘The Amritsar Massacre and the Minimum Force Debate’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, vol. 21 (2010), pp. 382–403; idem, ‘Sir Michael O’Dwyer and Imperial Terrorism in the Punjab, 1919’, South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, vol. 33 (2010), pp. 363–80. 60 Srinath Raghaven, ‘Protecting the Raj: The Army in India and Internal Security, 1919–39’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, vol. 16 (2005), pp. 253– 79; Gyanesh Kudaisya, ‘In Aid the Civil Power: The Colonial Army in Northern India, 1919–42’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 32 (2004), pp. 41–68; Simeon Shoul, ‘Soldiers, Riot Control and Aid to the Civil Power in India, Egypt and Palestine, 1919–39’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, vol. 36 (2008), pp. 120–39; idem, ‘Soldiers, Riot Control and Aid to the Civil Power in India, Egypt and Palestine, 1919– 39’, PhD, University of London, 2006. 61 D. George Boyce, ‘From Assaye to The Assaye: Reflections on British Government, Force and Moral Authority in India’, Journal of Military History, vol. 63 (1999), pp. 643–68. 62 N. Narain, ‘Co-option and Control: The Role of the Colonial Army in India, 1918–47’, PhD, University of Cambridge, 1993; Susan VanKoski, ‘The Indian Ex-soldier from the Eve of the First World War to Independence and Partition: A Study of Provision for Ex-soldiers and the Ex-soldier’s Role in Indian National Life’, PhD, Colombia University, 1996. 63 See also Tim Moreman, ‘Small Wars and Imperial Policing: The British Army and the Theory and Practice of Colonial Warfare in the British Empire, 1919–39’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 19 (1996), pp. 105–31; idem, ‘Watch and Ward: The Army in India and the North West Frontier’, in Killingray and Omissi (eds.), Guardians of Empire, pp. 137–56; Alan Warren, ‘Bullocks Treading Down Wasps? The British Army in Waziristan in the 1930s’, South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, vol. 20 (1997), pp. 35–56. 64 Edward Spiers, ‘The Use of the Dum-Dum Bullet in Colonial Warfare’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 13 (1985), pp. 157– 84; idem, ‘Gas and the North West Frontier’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 6 (1983), pp. 94–112. 65 Lesley Jackman, ‘Afghanistan in British Imperial Strategy and Diplomacy, 1919–41’, PhD, University of Cambridge, 1978; J.C. Rawson, ‘The Role of India in Imperial Defence Beyond Her Frontiers and Home Waters, 1919–39’, DPhil, University of Oxford, 1976; Brandon Marsh, ‘Ramparts of Empire: India’s North West Frontier and British Imperialism, 1919–47’,

44  Ian F. W. Beckett PhD, University of Texas at Austin, 2009; Keith Jeffery, ‘An English Barrack in the Oriental Seas? India in the Aftermath of the First World War’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 15 (1981), pp. 369–86; Pradeep Barua, ‘Strategies and Doctrine of Imperial Defence: Britain and India, 1919–45’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 25 (1997), pp. 240–66. 66 See also Christian Tripodi, ‘Peace-making Through Bribes or Cultural Empathy: The Political Officer and Britain’s Strategy Towards the North West Frontier, 1901–1945’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 31 (2008), pp. 123–51; idem, ‘Good for One but Not the Other: The Sandeman System of Pacification as Applied to Baluchistan and the North West Frontier, 1871–1947’, Journal of Military History, vol. 73 (2009), pp. 767–802. For Burma, see Robert Taylor, ‘Colonial Forces in British Burma: A National Army Postponed’, in Tobias Rettig and Karl Hack (eds.), Colonial Armies in Southeast Asia (Abingdon: Routledge, 2009), pp. 195–210. 67 See also Kaushik Roy, ‘Military Loyalty in the Colonial Context: A Case Study of the Indian Army During World War Two’, Journal of Military History, vol. 73 (2009), pp. 497–530; Tarak Barkawi, ‘Culture and Combat in the Colonies: The Indian Army in the Second World War’, Journal of Contemporary History, vol. 41 (2006), pp. 325–55. 68 Alan Warren, ‘The Indian Army and the Fall of Singapore’, in Brian Farrell and Sandy Hunter (eds.), Sixty Years on: The Fall of Singapore Revisited (Singapore: Eastern Universities Press, 2003), pp. 270–89. 69 Chandar Sundaram, ‘A Paper Tiger: The Indian National Army in Battle, 1944–45’, War and Society, vol. 13 (1995), pp. 35–59. 70 R. B. Osborn, ‘Field Marshal Sir Claude Auchinleck: The Indian Army and the Partition of India’, PhD, University of Texas at Austin, 1994. 71 See also Robin Jeffrey, ‘The Punjab Boundary Force and the Problem of Order, August 1947’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 8 (1974), pp. 491–520.

2 Sepoys and sebundies The role of regular and paramilitary forces in the construction of colonialism in Bengal, c. 1765–c. 1820 James Lees Both modern historians and contemporary Anglo-Indian commentators have placed great emphasis on the role of the British East India Company’s (EIC) army in establishing and consolidating colonial authority over a vast Indian population, particularly its importance in countering violent resistance from within civil society. This chapter aims to refine that view through an examination of the EIC’s deployment of its regular and paramilitary forces in Bengal during the half-century after 1765, the year in which the Mughal Emperor granted it the diwani (revenue-collecting rights) of Bengal. It seeks to demonstrate that the regular army was not widely used to police Indian society, and that this role was principally undertaken by a variety of paramilitaries who have largely been ignored in the modern historiography. It will examine the reasoning behind the EIC’s desire to limit the forces available to its district officials, investigating the consequences of this policy for the nature of local administration in late eighteenth and early nineteenth-century Bengal, and on the development of the early EIC state more widely. The grant of the diwani revolutionized the EIC’s standing as a territorial power, presenting it with the opportunity of accumulating vast wealth through the taxation of Bengal’s inhabitants. Simultaneously, it necessitated the provision of far larger armed forces, both regular and paramilitary, than had previously been required. These were needed to ensure the steady generation and collection of territorial revenue by protecting the province’s frontiers from external threats, and its hinterland from the disruption caused by internal disaffection. The EIC’s regular army was initially an insignificant body, only a few hundred strong and tasked simply with protecting its factories and outposts from opportunistic bandits and the depredations of commercial rivals and Indian powers.1 From the middle of the eighteenth century, however, these small garrisons swiftly grew into a very substantial and

46  James Lees efficient armed force. During the late 1740s, the EIC began to regulate its troops through the introduction of a system of martial law based upon that used by the contemporary British (Crown) Army.2 The units hastily raised and organized by Clive following the recapture of Calcutta in 1757 formed the core of what was to become the Bengal Army, but it was only as the EIC developed as a territorial power in northern India after 1765 that this force began to be seriously augmented.3 Approximately 25,000 troops, mainly sepoys (Indian infantrymen), were enrolled in the army of the Bengal Presidency by 1768. By 1805 that figure had risen to 64,000, at which point the EIC’s Indian Army (the combined armed forces of the Bengal, Bombay and Madras presidencies) numbered more than 150,000 men.4 This rapid expansion of the EIC’s military establishment occurred in tandem with its massive acquisition of territory through a series of conflicts with Indian powers, notably the Maratha Confederacy and Mysore, over the course of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Having defeated the forces of these powers, it was necessary for the army to pacify the region, to ensure the smooth running of local government until the populace grew more accustomed to, and compliant with, the EIC’s rule. In the 1820s, the Anglo-Indian soldieradministrator Sir John Malcolm proclaimed that the army was the ‘collateral means by which the great fabric of our power in India . . . [is] . . . supported’.5 For Malcolm, there was no doubt that colonial rule in India was sustained mainly by an Indian belief in the reach and power of the EIC state, and that a great factor in maintaining that opinion lay in the widespread ‘dread of our arms’ among the Indian population at large.6 Writing on the EIC’s forces in the late eighteenth century, Raymond Callahan has observed that ‘even in times of nominal peace the strength of the Indian Army remained high’ because ‘hunting down and dispersing bands of plunderers . . . coercing refractory local chieftains, and “revenue work” made continual demands upon the Company’s forces’.7 It is the purpose of this chapter to critique the idea that the late eighteenth and early nineteenth-century Indian Army was a de facto military police force, imposing the EIC’s will on its newly acquired, and fractious, civil population. Obvious though the link would appear to be, the simple fact of the army’s existence does not equate to it having been the key instrument in combating low-level indigenous resistance within the colonial state. As the next section will demonstrate, in contrast with the practice common to British India after the late 1810s – by which point the EIC’s military and political dominance had been established – from the late 1760s until the early

Sepoys and sebundies 47 1800s the central colonial authorities at Fort William consistently shied away from using their regular army to suppress disorder and resistance among their Indian subjects.

I Douglas Peers, in his analysis of the EIC’s military dispositions in India after the 1810s, has observed that: ‘The army’s role as a gendarmerie of last resort is attested to by the geographical distribution of troops and garrisons . . . troops were not concentrated along India’s vulnerable frontier. Instead they were scattered across India in small garrisons, where they were in a position to monitor local society and if needs be stamp out any signs of resistance.’8 The annual Bengal military statements of the late 1810s confirm this view of the army as scattered piecemeal across the subcontinent, and support the idea that its widespread deployment was designed to expose as much of the population to it as possible, thereby maximizing its power as a deterrent against civil insurrection. Throughout the period after 1765, the overwhelming majority of the EIC’s armed forces were regular sepoy infantry, with a small number of European battalions9 and limited cavalry and artillery.10 An examination of the regular sepoy and the few European (EIC and Crown) foot regiments serving with the Bengal Army during 1820 reveals that the 60 battalions serving in mainland India11 were distributed between 71 different posts in garrisons ranging from one company to a maximum of just four battalions (Barrackpur);12 only 13 of the garrisons were more than a battalion strong, and, of these, only six were composed of more than two battalions.13 These statistics clearly support Peers’s observations on the widely dispersed distribution of the Anglo-Indian military after the later 1810s. However, they contrast strongly with the marked trend in military dispositions apparent during the previous 50 years. Although in the regular infantry figures for 1815, 1810, and, to an extent, 1805, one may observe a similarly diffuse pattern of distribution,14 for the period between the early 1760s and the early 1800s a rather different set of principles appears to have determined the siting and composition of garrisons. In 1763, the EIC had 9,494 sepoys and 632 European infantrymen in Bengal, based at 11 posts, of which six contained approximately 1,000 or more men, and the remainder (with the exception of the battalion at Chittagong) were outposts of companies or half-companies.15 The Bengal Army’s infantry corps grew rapidly, reaching 25,158 in 1772.16 By 1777, its hugely increased size makes clearer the pattern,

48  James Lees suggested by the ratio of soldiers to posts in 1763, in which a considerable part of the army’s strength was concentrated in a few, very large garrisons. The returns of that year show that the army’s 30 battalions of infantry (Indian and European) were distributed between 14 posts. Nine of these were garrisoned by single battalions, leaving 21 battalions (70 per cent of the Bengal Army’s infantry strength) concentrated at just five posts, while eight battalions (nearly 30 per cent of the infantry) were stationed at just one post (Bilgram in Awadh).17 This pattern of distribution continued with the growth of the army in the following decade. In 1785 there were 44 battalions of infantry (Indian and European) on the Bengal establishment, distributed between 19 posts, none of which was garrisoned by less than a battalion.18 Two-thirds of this infantry were based at just five posts: the cantonments of Baharampur, Barrackpur and Kanpur, and the two forts of Chunar and Fatehgarh. The distribution remained nearly identical for 1787.19 In 1792, 18 of the 43 infantry battalions were based at just four posts: Baharampur, Barrackpur, Dinapur and Kanpur, with a further six battalions away serving against Mysore. The remaining 19 battalions were distributed either singly or in pairs at 13 posts.20 The pattern continues in the figures for 1800, although with a lessening in the troop concentration: of 30 battalions, one-third was based at just three posts (Chunar, Kanpur and Midnapur), with the remaining 20 battalions distributed between 18 posts.21 By 1805 the distribution shifts towards the pattern observed by Peers,22 with a move towards the deployment of many more, smaller garrisons which were dispersed across north India, as was to become the norm for the Bengal Army over the subsequent decades.23 Even allowing for the detachment of large sections of the Bengal Army on foreign service, the statistics for the period between the early 1760s and the early 1800s indicate Fort William’s distinct preference, as far as practical exigencies permitted, for relatively few, but large, garrisons across northern India. During the first 50 years of EIC rule, frequent conquests massively increased the territory under its control. Necessarily, the size of its army increased in tandem: in 1805 the EIC’s Indian Army was more than eight times larger than its predecessor of 1763.24 Yet, it was now being deployed in smaller and smaller garrisons. Indeed, if one looks at the 1820 figures, five of the six largest posts had fewer than four battalions each, and these were deployed not in the Bengal Presidency, but in or immediately adjacent to the central western territories recently seized from the Marathas, which still required a relatively high concentration of troops for pacification, and which now formed the EIC’s north-west frontier.25 More than

Sepoys and sebundies 49 two-thirds of the Bengal Army’s infantry were deployed across the presidency in formations of less than two battalions, and one-third of its total infantry strength was deployed in sub-battalion groupings. The argument for the later period is that the wider dispersal of troops in smaller garrisons was an indicator of Fort William’s desire to monitor Indian society more closely and to enhance public exposure to its military might. If this is accepted, then it raises questions regarding the rationale behind the earlier policy of concentration and the reasons for the shift away from it during the first quarter of the nineteenth century. In answering those questions, it is necessary to examine both the physical positioning of the garrisons and their composition. A geographical analysis of the deployment of the Bengal Army and its embedded Crown forces between the 1760s and the early 1800s demonstrates a clear bias in favour of positioning large garrisons on, or in very close proximity to, the Ganges and its major tributaries. The six largest, and most consistently used, military posts during this period were on the Ganges itself (Chunar, Fatehgarh and Kanpur), on its Hugli tributary (Barrackpur and Fort William) or on its source stream, the Bhagirathi (Baharampur). The overwhelming majority of the smaller posts, such as Allahabad, Anupshahr, Benares and Munger, were similarly located. It is notable that a significant proportion of the Bengal Army’s force was actually deployed beyond the geographical boundaries of the Bengal Presidency in this period. In 1763, nearly a third of the EIC’s infantry was concentrated at Bilgram in Awadh; in 1785, three of the five largest posts were Kanpur and Fatehgarh in Awadh, and Chunar, to the south at Benares. Again, in 1800, the largest garrison (including four regular sepoy battalions and the Crown’s 78th Highlanders) was at Kanpur; and in 1805, even without counting the battalions serving in the forces assembled against the Marathas, over three-quarters of Bengal Army’s total regular infantry strength was deployed outside the presidency. Such deployment suggests concern with a strategy to protect the presidency from external threats, principally the Marathas, against whom the EIC fought three wars between 1775 and 1818, rather than with the internal policing of Bengal. Of course, the presence of large bodies of EIC troops in adjacent client states did help to ensure the loyalty, or at least the acquiescence, of their rulers; but this was more of a diplomatic manoeuvre, designed to subdue potentially recalcitrant rajas (Hindu rulers), rather than to prevent the criminal misbehaviour of their subjects. As Gerald Bryant has shown, for example, the proximity of the EIC garrison at Chunar helped guarantee the Wazir of Awadh’s continued payment of the war indemnity imposed on him

50  James Lees following the Buxar campaign in 1764; it also served to maintain Awadh as a ‘cost-free barrier to the restless “country” powers further into Hindustan’.26 The defence of Bengal, beyond its frontiers, on the line of the Ganges as it passed through Awadh and Benares, suggests that the potential for using the presidency’s waterways to supply troops and to enable their mobilization was thoroughly appreciated by the EIC’s military planners. The course of the Ganges describes an arc from the north to the south-east as far as Chunar, facing, during this period, the Maratha territories to west. Beyond Chunar it goes on to bisect Bengal, although it still provided a baseline from which operations could be undertaken against the Maratha province of Berar to the south. In north-eastern and north-central India, where the overland transportation of large bodies of troops was severely hampered by poor roads and supply difficulties, the capacity to move its forces rapidly across the province by river afforded the EIC a crucial strategic benefit.27 The Ganges served a dual function, both as a medium of military transportation and as a natural barrier which could hamper hostile forces moving eastwards.28 This, combined with the (notionally) stabilizing influence of EIC garrisons in client states, helps to explain why, and how, the Bengal Presidency was being defended, to a great extent, beyond its western frontier. The high concentration of troops at relatively few posts, and the physical location of these garrisons, suggest that, during this early period, Fort William did not intend that the Bengal Army should act as a military police force, quelling civil unrest across the presidency’s rural hinterland. Prior to the first quarter of the nineteenth century it was not dispersed across the EIC’s territory in a multitude of small garrisons ‘to monitor local society’; in fact, a very substantial proportion of it was not actually based in the EIC’s territory at all. While Bengal Presidency’s borders with Bhutan, Burma and Nepal to the north and east were rendered comparatively secure by the difficult local terrain and the reasonably good diplomatic relations which Fort William enjoyed with those states, the ‘vulnerable frontier’ on the line of the Ganges was not. The concentration of the Bengal Army clearly indicates that, at least until the EIC’s decisive victory in the Second Anglo-Maratha War (1803–05), regular operations against indigenous powers to the west and south were to be its prime occupation. Drawing attention to the proliferation of many, small garrisons scattered across India after the 1810s, D. Peers has argued that ‘the army was the means through which peasant resistance could be checked, either through direct punitive actions, or more usually by displays of

Sepoys and sebundies 51 force designed to impress upon rural society the omnipotence of colonial rule’.29 As has been shown earlier, this army distribution pattern was in marked contrast to that which had prevailed during the previous 50 years; its concentration during the earlier period minimized that section of the Indian population routinely exposed to theatrical displays of military power. The difference in patterns of deployment before and after the 1810s suggests that Fort William’s thinking with regard to the policing of civil society, or at least the priority it accorded to that function, was also different. The policy of concentrating the army, apparently preserving it for regular warfare, casts much doubt on its importance as an instrument of ‘military policing’ during this period. If it was preserved chiefly for regular operations, then this in turn prompts the question of what, if any, forces were employed by the EIC for the routine coercion of Bengal’s rural population.

II As the EIC gradually expanded its administrative control in Bengal, following the grant of the diwani by the Mughal Emperor in 1765, it had to take responsibility for suppressing violent disorder within its new territory in order to secure the steady flow of taxes into its coffers. Ostensibly, this policing function remained within the remit of the Nawab (Muslim ruler) of Bengal – with whom, in theory, the EIC shared governmental power – but it rapidly became apparent that neither the Nawab’s government nor the local zamindars (Hindu landowning gentry) were able to guarantee the security of the mofussil (countryside) at a level acceptable to the EIC.30 Consequently, the EIC was drawn into a policing role, which entailed the provision of armed forces to prevent resistance and disorder among the rural population from disrupting the district administrations’ collection and remittance of territorial revenue. Troops were needed to act as guards for local treasuries and government offices, to escort convoys of specie and to combat any disorderly groups that threatened the largely agrarian economy of Bengal’s districts. They were also required to enforce the collection of taxes from obstructive landowners. The EIC’s large standing army might have seemed an obvious body for this work, but Fort William was steadfastly against that solution, and as late as 1795, Governor General Sir John Shore observed that such a practice was ‘pregnant with Evils of a most serious nature’.31 For the upper echelons of the colonial administration, the deployment of regular troops in support of the district authorities was undesirable on several counts. As has been seen, the EIC’s regular army

52  James Lees was kept concentrated on the vulnerable frontier in western Bengal to facilitate its rapid deployment against rival powers; distributing it piecemeal across Bengal would greatly reduce the EIC’s capacity to respond in strength to any threat moving eastwards from within Hindustan. Furthermore, the discipline of troops split up into small parties on detached duties would suffer, and some would be tempted to take advantage of their independence to oppress the local populace by extorting money and goods. Such problems had emerged among the first troops which the EIC had raised for revenue service in 1766 – Robert Clive’s pargana battalions – and the costly experiment was not one to be repeated.32 Instead the EIC decided that, as any forces acting in support of the district collector would most likely be ruined by the nature of the service on which they were employed, it would be as well to use the cheapest troops possible. Consequently, following the disbandment of the pargana battalions in 1770, and until the increasingly widespread deployment of the Bengal Army following the EIC’s decisive victory over the Marathas in 1805, the collectors of Bengal’s districts were supported by a heterogeneous assortment of paramilitaries. Units acting in this capacity were commonly referred to as ‘revenue troops’ and were placed at the immediate disposal of the district authorities. These forces were composed of militia sepoys (mostly invalided regular sepoys) until 1784, when they were replaced with cheaper ‘sebundy’ revenue troops, poorly trained and equipped irregulars.33 Hereafter, until the establishment of better quality ‘provincial battalions’ and wider regular deployment during the early 1800s, the troops assigned to this revenue duty were usually the unreliable sebundies, or, infrequently, regular Bengal Army formations.34 Auxiliary armed forces could be levied by collectors (if Fort William permitted the expense) through the local recruitment of barqandazes (mercenaries, occasionally armed with matchlock muskets) or armed peons.35 In addition to being of variable, and often dubious, quality, these revenue troops were also frequently very few in number, with two companies (operationally, a total of perhaps 180 men) typically being assigned even to major districts. Some collectors received no allocation of militia or sebundies at all, and were wholly reliant on recruiting whatever mercenary troops were available locally as the exigencies of their district demanded. An example of the paucity of the forces allocated to the districts may be seen in fact that by the mid-1780s – at which point the infantry strength of the Bengal Army stood at some 40,000 of all ranks – the paramilitary infantry allocated for revenue service was scarcely one-tenth of that number.36

Sepoys and sebundies 53 While the urgent necessity of reducing overheads profoundly shaped Fort William’s policy towards provincial revenue duties, it is clear that there were other forces at work. Concerns over the internal security of British India and the EIC’s military reputation also provided arguments both for and against the strengthening of this subordinate branch of the armed forces, but these considerations alone do not entirely account for the weakness of the establishments permitted by the EIC to its local officials in the rural hinterland and on the fringes of its territory. A further explanation for the consistent under-resourcing of these district officials may be found in Fort William’s desire to exert greater restraint on its diffuse and overextended state mechanisms.

III The desire for the increased centralization of armed forces went beyond the strategic deployment of the army at a provincial level and into the internal ordering of the few revenue troops that were stationed in the districts. For the central government, the lesson of the pargana battalions had been clear: the dispersal of troops in small parties throughout the mofussil hampered the maintenance of discipline, and, frequently, resulted in bands of sepoys extorting bribes and otherwise mistreating the population in the more remote parts of the EIC’s territory. The practice of dispersal continued, however, during the 1770s, in which period revenue collection duties were being performed by the militia. By 1783, the government was so incensed at its continuance that the Committee of Revenue was forced to circulate a notice throughout Bengal, exhorting the concentration of each district’s forces, and threatening severe punishment if district chiefs and their military officers did not attend to the injunction. The Honble Board having remarked that Seapoys are Often employed in . . . trifling . . . Services & in Small Detachments & Suffered to remain Singly or in small Parties for a . . . [length] . . . of time at fixed-Stations without use or necessity . . . have positively forbidden this practice, & have declared their Censure & disapprobation of it, with a Resolution to punish in an . . . [exemplary] . . . manner every . . . [deviation] . . . from the above prohibition.37 The harshness of this circular, and the frequency with which the issue was referred to in correspondence from the central government,38 indicate the importance attached to the centralization of force by

54  James Lees Fort William. However, it met with little immediate success, since the various threats to the districts from border raiders, dakaits (bandits), sannyasis and faqirs (respectively, armed Hindu and Muslim mendicants), often occurred simultaneously. It was usually not possible to bring the whole of the district’s body of revenue troops to bear on one threat without dangerously weakening the local government’s grip on another part of the district, perhaps even its administrative headquarters. The paucity of military resources available to district officials meant that, even if their attempts to counter threats were limited to preventing only the most significant disruptions to the revenue stream, it was still necessary to distribute their troops among a number of small independent commands. The prohibition of this practice by Fort William was an attempt to apply the policy of centralizing its armed forces at a subcontinental level to the microcosm of the district. This was intended to reduce the number of individuals in the EIC’s hierarchy who enjoyed the capacity for undertaking significant, independent, violent action. A compromise had to be found between the desirability of attempting to suppress all instances of resistance within a district and the risk inherent in allowing so many individuals to exercise command of armed forces in the EIC’s name without the direct supervision of a higher authority. Fort William preferred that command be concentrated in the single person of the district chief, rather than dispersed piecemeal among the junior NCOs of his revenue troops by virtue of their isolation at distant outposts. Yet, at the same time it expected that the district revenues would be realized, meaning that, at the very least, the more threatening instances of armed resistance had to be countered, and this often demanded the despatch of troops to several sectors of the district simultaneously, thereby forcing the collector to juggle the conflicting directives of his superiors. The principle of concentration, which preferred command of the district’s armed forces to reside with the collector, as head of the district, also extended to the place of that official within the EIC’s military hierarchy as a whole. The district administration’s capacity to extract revenue efficiently could be seriously hindered by allowing local authorities only a handful of inferior quality troops for the immediate security of their territory. Yet, there was an equal, if not greater, danger in allowing these officials to have control of significant bodies of soldiers. It was necessary to pitch the delegation of command at a level which allowed the revenue stream to be secured while minimizing the harm that could be done through the actions of overambitious or incompetent district administrators. A public reverse inflicted on a

Sepoys and sebundies 55 large formation of soldiers engaged in revenue duties, whose officers were subordinate to the district collector, would be especially damaging to a government heavily reliant on its military reputation to maintain order. But, by allowing that collector only a small body of second-rate troops, Fort William limited the scale of operations he would be likely to undertake, and, at worst, the loss of a handful of paramilitaries in a skirmish would be proportionately less harmful to the government’s capacity to impose rule. It was a question of choosing between suffering a multitude of what were, on a pan-Indian scale at least, relatively minor affronts to the government from perpetrators of low-level resistance, or delegating greater power to covenanted servants, who might sensibly defend the EIC’s interests, but who might equally be prone to use armed force on a whim, without considering the wider implications of their conduct. The general line of policy pursued by Fort William throughout the period can be interpreted not simply as an attempt to reduce overheads by restricting the quantity and quality of troops made available to district administrations, but, by so doing, also to limit the capacity of its largely amateurish and unreliable local officials for significant autonomous action. Unsurprisingly, given Fort William’s preferred policy, the annals of early colonial Bengal abound with examples of militarily underresourced collectors struggling to impose the government’s authority, with the EIC’s wider interests suffering as a consequence. In 1777, at Chittagong in east Bengal, the district’s chief, Francis Law, found himself unable to put down a rebellion by the Chakma people of the Hill Tracts, and suffered a reverse. The 50 Chittagong sepoys who were assigned to quell the disturbances failed utterly, even when confronted with an enemy who, by Law’s own admission, ‘have not the use of fire Arms, and whose bodys go uncloathed’.39 Consequently, the Chakma general Ranu Khan was able to conduct a low-level, and economically damaging, guerrilla war against the EIC that continued for several years, causing ‘mass insolvence’ in the district’s revenues.40 Likewise, when the dhing (peasant rebellion) broke out in Rangpur in north Bengal in early 1783, the collector, Richard Goodlad, found that his two companies of militia sepoys were insufficient to disperse the fractious cultivators. After initially attempting to persuade them to stand down through negotiation, he was eventually forced to concentrate Rangpur’s sepoys at the district headquarters to avoid their piecemeal destruction, thereby relinquishing control of much of the district to the rebels.41 Perhaps even more tellingly, in 1786, Rangpur’s Collector, William Amherst, faced by some 1,100 Nepalese border raiders and faqirs, was able to field just 17 sepoys, of whom only 12 were armed

56  James Lees with muskets, together with a score of barqandazes who were scarcely armed at all.42 Nor was it simply dramatic episodes such as rebellions and border conflicts that exposed the inadequacies of the district revenue troops; the routine affairs of local government were also jeopardized by the inadequacy of the forces allocated to district officials. In 1785, Matthew Day, the Collector of Dhaka, wrote to the Committee of Revenue requesting permission to raise a force of ‘Pykes and Burgundosses’ to replace the recently disbanded sebundies in undertaking the ‘constant pressing’ which was necessary to make the district’s zamindars pay their taxes.43 The sebundy corps had been superseded by a battalion of regular sepoy infantry, but realizing that ‘to employ regular Troops in the Excise of this Duty would not . . . meet with the approbation of the Hon’ble Board’, he solicited the Committee to allow 1,000 rupees a month for the maintenance of a paramilitary force.44 He could use such a body as the exigencies of local government demanded, whereas the dispersal of regular troops across his district in any formation smaller than a company was strictly prohibited by Fort William and would in all likelihood be resisted by their commander. Yet, 14 years later, in 1799, the collector of Dhaka was still complaining that the (now-reformed) sebundy sepoys at his station were not sufficient to provide escorts for the ‘overland shipments of treasure’ to Fort William. Consequently, he was, like his predecessor, forced to beg the nearest regular sepoy battalions to furnish detachments for his use, with varying degrees of success.45 The reckless decisions taken by some district collectors on the rare occasions when they found themselves in possession of a substantial armed force demonstrate fully the reasons for Fort William’s anxiety. A prime example of this may be seen in the unauthorized invasion of Nepal, in pursuit of raiders, ordered by the Rangpur Collector D. H. McDowall, following the reinforcement of his district by a battalion of regular Bengal sepoys in 1786.46 Yet, at the same time, some collectors were wary of disbanding their local paramilitaries and using regular troops when the army was employed on provincial duties, as there was considerably less flexibility in the way in which the regular forces could be utilized. Collectors could at least exert a measure of control over their paramilitary troops, whereas the army was answerable primarily to the central government, and these regular detachments might be suddenly withdrawn to meet a crisis elsewhere. However, if Fort William was reluctant to employ the regular Bengal Army as a force for the pacification of its territory, then the same could not be said of its attitude towards its ex-servicemen. From the 1780s onwards, much attention was directed towards the role of the EIC’s

Sepoys and sebundies 57 invalid thanahs in securing rural areas against unrest. These thanahs were the stations where EIC sepoys were settled with their families after retiring from service, either through age or infirmity. Such settlements of military pensioners served a twofold purpose. They were a very public demonstration of the EIC’s worth as an employer, identifying it closely with the Mughal practice of assigning rent-free jagirs (land grants) to imperial retainers, and thereby lending it legitimacy in the eyes of its Indian subjects.47 The settlements also represented ‘pockets of influence’ for the EIC, and were particularly useful ‘for policing Company territory and training its new recruits’ in frontier areas and in the recently conquered Maratha domains.48 As with its employment of paramilitaries, this was a key way in which the EIC minimized the costs arising from the pacification of Bengal, and retained its army for regular operations. The auxiliary function of the thanahs – as a demonstration of the benevolence of the colonial authorities towards collaborating groups – proved so valuable that the scheme was still being fostered, indeed augmented, well into the 1820s, by which time its importance as an instrument of policing had been much reduced by the recent redeployment of the Bengal Army.49

IV The function of the regular army within the structure of armed bodies, which supported the EIC’s government in Bengal during the 50 years after 1765, was not, then, principally, or even significantly, that of a military police force. Nor were these duties fulfilled by an effective system of civil police, extending upwards from paiks and dusadhs (village constables) to kotwals (town police), the district faujdar (sub-governor) and, later, the darogas (the EIC’s Indian police officers following Lord Cornwallis’s 1793 reforms). Throughout this period, the burden of combating serious armed threats at a local level was borne by a provincial paramilitary body, which, in its various incarnations, occupied a position somewhere between the regular army and the pre-EIC police network in the maintenance of the colonial state’s security. Throughout the second half of the eighteenth century, Bengal’s police network was in disarray and the effects of Cornwallis’s sweeping police reforms of the 1790s would take years to be fully felt. Moreover, as has been seen, there was considerable reluctance on the part of Fort William to spread the Bengal Army across the Bengal Presidency on policing operations, particularly while major Indian powers continued to threaten the EIC’s heartland. Until the 1810s, it was concentrated principally in a few large garrisons in the west and south, leaving the

58  James Lees northern and eastern districts of Bengal, from Rangpur in the north to Chittagong in the south-east, comparatively lightly defended. Dirk Kolff has argued that it was not until the 1810s, at which point the EIC’s most powerful Indian opponents, the Maratha Confederacy and Mysore, had been comprehensively defeated, that the colonial government could exert something approaching a monopoly on the use of arms over its Indian subjects.50 It is surely no coincidence that, in parallel with the EIC’s rise to political and military supremacy, we see the greater dispersal of the army in many, relatively small and scattered posts, explained by Peers as the army’s redeployment as a police force ‘to monitor local society’. With the removal of the last great Indian power which could seriously contend with the EIC for the subcontinental hegemony, there was no immediate threat which required the routine concentration of the army in readiness for mobilisation, so now the secondary function of policing local society could be attended to. This is not to imply that the regular army was now charged with enforcing the law; the development of a more effective civil police force after the 1810s, and the government’s longstanding reluctance to use the army in that way, combined to ensure that this was not the case. Rather, with the EIC’s paramount status confirmed, it was, in the view of Fort William, both safe and fitting to disperse the army throughout the Bengal Presidency in a multitude of garrisons as a highly visible symbol of the colonial state’s coercive power. The suppressing influence which the widespread dispersal of troops had on Indian society certainly benefitted district administrators. However, until this point in the early nineteenth century, the EIC’s reluctance to dilute the strength of the Bengal Army in low-level ‘pacification’ operations meant that district officials had to make do with a secondary corps, variously composed of militia, sebundies or provincial battalions, supported by whatever armed peons and barqandazes could be recruited without incurring the wrath of Fort William. It was with this force – undermanned and, in the main, badly trained and equipped – that they were expected to impose the colonial government’s authority, guaranteeing the operation of the civil, and later criminal, courts, and, most importantly, safeguarding the revenue stream from the disruption brought about by various kinds of civil unrest. The military context of the EIC’s colonial bureaucracy is central to understanding the nature of early British rule in India, and the interaction between the colonial military and bureaucratic arms in this instance is perhaps surprising. Rather than using its large,

Sepoys and sebundies 59 well-organized army as an instrument for the coercion of civil society in support of government (as might have been expected), the EIC actually under-resourced its local government militarily, for reasons of economy, frontier defence, and also to impose checks upon the activities of its far-flung network of isolated officials. This exacerbated a professional culture of extreme competition for potentially huge financial rewards, and led to a heightened concern among local officials with their personal standing in the EIC’s hierarchy, rather than with tackling the problems of governing a population which was, at best, ambivalent towards them. While many of these district collectors were daring in their efforts to enrich themselves personally, they were also, for that very reason, often risk-averse in their governmental practice. They needed, above all, to hold onto their posts in order to benefit from their illicit perquisites. District collectors frequently ignored serious unrest among the local populace when this seemed safer than hazarding a chancy armed intervention, which might incur the wrath of their superiors were it not completely successful. Such considerations led to the widespread suppression of unpalatable information by local officials, who, fearing censure and loss of position, were reluctant to let the central government know too much about district affairs. This practice – strongly informed by Fort William’s military dispositions – acted against the penetration of Indian society by any effective colonial bureaucracy until well into the nineteenth century, hindering the accumulation of the ‘colonial knowledge’ needed to refine governmental systems and procedures. It also continues to present problems today for scholars using the often disingenuous and incomplete records of the EIC’s early district bureaucrats.

Notes 1 The ‘Indian Army’ consisted of 500 men and 20 officers by the middle of the eighteenth century. P. J. Marshall, East Indian Fortunes: The British in Bengal in the Eighteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), p. 15. 2 G. J. Bryant, The Emergence of British Power in India, 1600–1784: A Grand Strategic Interpretation (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2013), p. 45. 3 Ibid., p. 126. 4 R. Callahan, The East India Company and Army Reform (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971), p. 6. 5 J. Malcolm, The Political History of India from 1784 to 1823, vol. 1 (London: John Murray, 1826), p. 7. 6 Ibid., p. 144. 7 Callahan, East India Company, p. 7.

60  James Lees 8 D. M. Peers, Between Mars and Mammon: Colonial Armies and the Garrison State in Early Nineteenth Century India, 1819–1835 (London: I. B. Tauris, 1995), p. 11. 9 In this period, the infantry battalion had a nominal strength of approximately 700 officers and other ranks, although in practice disease and injury rendered large numbers unfit for duty. Indian service was particularly hard for the EIC’s Europeans and the Crown regiments: on average, between 1783 and 1787, the EIC European battalions were 33 per cent under their nominal strength, and their British Army counterparts 53 per cent understrength. See Callahan, East India Company, pp. 75, 148–9. Until Cornwallis’s military reforms were (partially) implemented, each battalion was numbered as a separate unit, but between 1796 and 1824, when the structure reverted to the pre-1796 system, they were paired off to form two-battalion regiments. This made very little difference in operational terms, as the battalions rarely served together. The main effect of the Cornwallis reforms was hugely to increase the number of European officers serving with regular Indian infantry units. Previously, it was common for battalions to be commanded by a captain and an adjutant, with most of the companies under the charge of Indian NCOs (the subedars and jemadars). After 1796, regiments were commanded by colonels, and lieutenant colonels commanded battalions which were comprised of 10 companies and staffed by a major, four captains, 11 lieutenants and 5 ensigns. 10 For example, in 1815, 75 battalions of regular infantry were serving with the Bengal Army, but only 10 cavalry regiments (eight EIC and two Crown) and three battalions of foot artillery. See the Bengal Military Establishment Annual Statement 1814–15, L/MIL/8/24, pp. 1–13, India Office Records, British Library (hereafter IOR, BL), London. This ratio between the three arms of the service is fairly typical of the early EIC period, if with rather more cavalry than had been usual in the preceding decades. In 1767 the Bengal establishment contained 2,712 European privates and NCOs (with 217 commissioned officers) and 22,087 sepoys (with 1,176 Indian NCOs and 30 European commissioned officers), but only 42 European cavalrymen and 298 sowars (Indian troopers). There were also only 298 European gunners in the Bengal Army in 1767, with Indian artillerymen not being employed until 1771. In that year there were 2,291 Indian gunners (with 296 Indian NCOs) and 330 European gunners (with 41 commissioned officers and NCOs). See ‘Ninth Report from the Secret Committee, appointed to enquire into the state of the East India Company’ (1773), Reports from Committees of the House of Commons, vol. 4, East Indies, 1772–1773 (London: House of Commons, 1804), p. 506. The extra expense of maintaining cavalry regiments as compared to infantry battalions, and the fact that it was not until the early 1800s that the EIC began to control territory capable of producing large bodies of high-quality horsemen, seriously limited that arm in the EIC’s service. See Callahan, East India Company, p. 4. 11 There were actually 61 regular infantry battalions on the strength of the Bengal Army in 1820 (30 double-battalion sepoy line regiments and the single-battalion 1st Bengal Europeans). However, the second battalion of the 20th Bengal Native Infantry Regiment was serving overseas: of its 10 companies, six were at Prince of Wales Island, two at Bencoolen, and two

Sepoys and sebundies 61 at Singapore. Bengal Military Establishment Annual Statement 1819–20, L/MIL/8/29, BL, IOR. 12 At this time a company of infantry on active service might be expected to number some 100 men. 13 Bengal Military Establishment Annual Statement 1819–20, L/MIL/8/29, BL, IOR. 14 In 1810, for example, there were some 60 battalions of EIC and Crown infantry in mainland India, covering 62 posts in garrisons of between one company and five battalions. See the Bengal Military Establishment Annual Statement 1809–10, L/MIL/8/19, pp. 5–171, BL, IOR. In 1805 the figures seem to hint at an early adoption of the widespread deployment described by Peers. However, the figures are skewed by the absence of 25.5 infantry battalions, away on service with the army assembled for the Second Anglo-Maratha War. The remaining 41.5 battalions were distributed between 35 posts, and, other than the four battalions on service in Bundelkhand, only 10 of these posts were more than a single battalion strong and none had more than two battalions. 15 In 1763, Bengal’s regular sepoys were distributed as follows: Fort William (1,090); Gauhati (1,080); Patna: (2,822); Burdwan (969); Midnapore (1,456); Chittagong [‘Islamabad’] (686); on service in Manipur [‘Meckly’] (971); Lakhipur (121); Dhaka (121); Malda (57); Kasimbazar (121). ‘Ninth Report from the Secret Committee’, p. 509. 16 Ibid., p. 506. 17 Bengal Military Consultations, 22 January to 31 December 1777, ‘Dispositions of all troops under the Presidency of Fort William. Abstract of officers from the returns of the army, August 31st 1777’ encl. 24 September 1777, pp. 161–62, IOR P/18/44. 18 Bengal Military (incomplete) and Civil Statement, 1784–85, pp. 122–72, IOR L/MIL/8/1. 19 Bengal Military and Civil Statement, 1786–87, pp. 194–258, IOR L/MIL/8/2. 20 Bengal Military and Civil Statement, 1791–92, pp. 1–6, IOR L/MIL/8/6. 21 Bengal Military and Civil Statement, 1799–1800, pp. 2–6, IOR L/MIL/8/10. 22 In 1805, there were 68 battalions of regular infantry (EIC and Crown) on the Bengal establishment: 25.5 were serving in the army fighting the Maratha Confederacy, a further four were on service in Bundelkhand, and the remaining 38.5 were distributed over 36 posts, ranging from five companies to two battalions in strength. See the Bengal Military Establishment Annual Statement 1804–05, pp. 214–21, IOR L/MIL/8/15. 23 Peers, Between Mars and Mammon, p. 247. 24 Callahan, East India Company, p. 6. 25 In this period, the Bengal Presidency was comprised of the province of Bengal (present-day West Bengal and Bangladesh), as well as Assam, Bihar, Orissa and Tripura. 26 Bryant, Emergence of British Power in India, p. 180. 27 G. J. Bryant, ‘Pacification in the Early British Raj’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 14, no. 1 (October 1985), p. 3. 28 In this regard, the EIC was continuing the pre-colonial defensive system of the subah (Mughal province) on its western frontier. Bryant, Emergence of British Power in India, p. 155. 29 Peers, Between Mars and Mammon, p. 11.

62  James Lees 30 Bryant, Emergence of British Power in India, p. 182. 31 Secret Department, Minute and Resolution of the Governor General in Council, 29 June 1795, BL, IOR F/4/8/709. 32 Governor-General’s Minute, 2 October 1783, BL, IOR, F/4/8/709. The pargana was an administrative subunit consisting of several villages which was used for revenue assessment purposes. 33 The term ‘sebundy’ (plural ‘sebundies’) was an Anglo-Indian word used loosely during the eighteenth century to describe a body of troops employed on revenue service, originating in the Persian sihbandi (sih meaning ‘three’), and signifying three-monthly (quarterly) payments. After the turn of the nineteenth century it became identified less with revenue service than with the irregular (and often inferior) quality of troops. As late as 1869 a corps of labourers raised at Darjeeling was denominated ‘The Sebundy Corps of Sappers and Miners’. See H. Yule and A. C. Burnell, Hobson-Jobson: The Definitive Glossary of British India, K. Teltscher (ed.) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), p. 456. 34 J. Lees, ‘Retrenchment, Reform and the Practice of Military-Fiscalism in the Early East India Company State’, in S. Reinart and P. Røge (eds.), Political Economy of Empire in the Early Modern World (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), pp. 177–81. 35 Although the term barqandaz (lit. ‘lightning-thrower’) originally referred to the early musketeers of the Mughal imperial armies, by the later eighteenth century it had also come to signify these mercenary troops who were variously armed and trained. Their poor quality may be inferred from an incident during the 1783 Rangpur dhing (peasant rebellion) in which an EIC subaltern disguised his militia sepoys with white cloth, after which ‘the Ding allowed them to come very nigh taking them for Burgundasses, whom they are not affraid of’. A. Macdonald to R. Goodlad, 22 February 1783, W. K. Firminger (ed.), Bengal District Records: Rangpur, vol. 3 (Letters Received: 1783–85) (Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Record Room, 1920), p. 13. 36 Sebundy returns for 1785 in Bengal Military (incomplete) and Civil Statement, 1784–85, pp. 75–7, IOR L/MIL/8/1. 37 Revenue Committee Circular, 25 August 1783, Firminger, BDR: Rangpur, vol. 3, p. 70. 38 Injunctions from Fort William to keep troops centralized were a common feature of district correspondence in this period, often appended to any communiqué concerning armed force, however tangentially. For example, a letter to the collector of Dhaka on a vaguely related subject ends, ‘we also desire that you will strictly adhere to the late Regulations as to the mode of deputing Sepoys into the Mofussil.’ Committee of Revenue to M. Day, 12 April 1784, in S. Islam (ed.), Bangladesh District Records: Dacca District, 1784–1787, vol. 1 (Dhaka: Dhaka University Press, 1981), p. 68. 39 Chief at Chittagong to Governor General and Council, 10 April 1777, in S. Islam (ed.), Bangladesh District Records: Chittagong, 1760–1787 (Dhaka: Dhaka University Press, 1978), p. 239. 40 Ibid., p. 239. 41 R. Goodlad to A. Macdonald, 13 February 1783, in W. K. Firminger (ed.), Bengal District Records: Rangpur, vol. 4 (Letters Issued: 1779–85) (Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Record Room, 1921), p. 133.

Sepoys and sebundies 63 42 W. Duncanson to W. Amherst, 11 February 1786, W. Duncanson to W. Amherst, 17 February 1786, in W. K. Firminger (ed.), Bengal District Records: Rangpur, vol. 5 (Letters Received: 1786–87) (Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Record Room, 1927), pp. 16, 20. 43 M. Day to the Committee of Revenue, 15 February 1785, Islam, BDR: Dacca, p. 121. 44 Ibid., p. 121. 45 E. Moore to Board of Revenue, 8 February 1799, BL, IOR, Bengal Revenue Council, 6 January–24 February 1799, P/52/41. 46 D. H. McDowall to the Board of Revenue, 14 May 1786, in W. K. Firminger (ed.), Bengal District Records: Rangpur, vol. 6 (Letters issued: 1786–87) (Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Record Room, 1928), pp. 52–4. 47 Seema Alavi, ‘The Company Army and Rural Society: The Invalid Thanah, 1780 to 1830’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 27, no. 1 (February 1993), pp. 154–6. 48 Ibid., p. 157. 49 Seema Alavi, The Sepoys and the Company: Tradition and Transition in Northern India, 1770–1830 (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1995), pp. 135–43. 50 D. H. A. Kolff, Naukar, Rajput, and Sepoy: The Ethnohistory of the Military Labour Market of Hindustan, 1450–1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 3.

3 Intelligence and strategic culture Alternative perspectives on the first British invasion of Afghanistan Huw J. Davies Writing almost a century before the events discussed in the following pages, soldier, diplomatist and politician Henry Seymour Conway commented to his brother on ‘how this great world is the sport of chance & how the powers of Europe seem to be playing a game of Whisk for Empire . . . It’s really a miserable affair; & to one who reflects seriously upon it the most mortifying proof of human littleness’.1 The image of the Great Powers of Europe carving up territory for their respective empires is an appealing one, evoking popular satirical cartoons depicting representatives of the Great Powers posed with knives and forks preparing to dissect a map of the world. Recent historiography of the First Anglo-Afghan War has reflected these images, seeking to present the British in caricature, as fumbling bumbling incompetent idiots incapable of rational thought, hell-bent on personal gain and imperial expansion, and fearful of a distant Russian menace, which, at any moment, might descend in hordes upon India, throwing the British out of the subcontinent.2 Indeed, the majority of work on Britain’s involvement in Afghanistan in the nineteenth century has sought to frame it within the context of Great Power rivalry, specifically that between Britain and Russia: the so-called Great Game.3 That there was among the British political and military class a fear of Russian expansionism cannot be denied, but the degree to which it was the primary cause of the invasion of Afghanistan can be questioned. It is easy to conclude that Britain blundered into a costly invasion and occupation of Afghanistan if one maintains three assumptions: namely, that the British were incompetent, there was no overall strategy and there was a genuine belief that Russia posed a threat to British India. Setting aside these assumptions, it is not so easy to make such a judgement. Alternative explanations are therefore required. In fact, there were at least three views of British Indian affairs in the late 1830s: the view from London, the view from Lahore and the view from Calcutta.

Intelligence and strategic culture 65 While they influenced each other, they should be considered separately. Moreover, these views were based on the information, framed within a pre-existing knowledge context, that London, Lahore and Calcutta had at its disposal. Drawn from different sources, each centre had different information at its disposal, which further complicated the analysis conducted at each location. The view from London largely accounts for the idea of Russia posing an existential threat to British India. The stories of unemployed Russo-phobic British military officers painting pictures of imminent disaster are well known. None perhaps better exemplifies this particular vein of paranoid thought than Lieutenant Colonel George de Lacy Evans, who in 1828 published a pamphlet, On the Designs of Russia. Coinciding with Russian military aggression against the Persians and the Turks, De Lacy Evans feared that Russia, with an expansionistminded political establishment and military, would seize control of Constantinople, and from there threaten British interests in the Mediterranean and India.4 Historians have recognized that, in the wake of the Napoleonic Wars, a generation of glory-seeking military personnel, many of whom lived in relative penury on half-pay, were all too willing to identify threats in the hope of advancing their own careers, or those of close family members. The press, who, even in the nineteenth century were more than willing to promulgate alarmist stories in the hopes of increasing circulation, picked many of these narratives up. In the wake of the successful Russian military campaign of 1829, which saw the capture of Adrianople, The Times exclaimed that ‘the schemes of Catherine [the Great] have abundantly succeeded’ and cited De Lacy Evans’s hyperbolic analysis of the threat from Russia as evidence of what new horrors lay ahead.5 Such populist scaremongering was hardly unusual, and it would be a mistake to assume that the British government arrived at similar conclusions based solely on the public and semi-public ramblings of military officers of questionable integrity. After all, Palmerston, who was Foreign Secretary at the outbreak of war with Afghanistan, had been Secretary-at-War during the Napoleonic Wars, and had been on the receiving end of sharp criticisms and exaggerated claims from personnel in the midst of war, notably Wellington, whose claims of under-resourcing have been well documented.6 If not from the military sphere, then, where did the British government get its information on the possibility of a Russian threat to India? The simple truth is the extensive web of intelligence networks that existed throughout Europe. Part of the responsibility of every British embassy was to establish a network of spies and correspondents

66  Huw J. Davies throughout the country they resided in. Though simplistic in nature, during the Napoleonic Wars these arrangements had proven remarkably effective.7 Information collected by correspondents (who remained in single locations and made diaries of events), agents (who travelled to strategically important locations) and spies (who often worked for the governments of foreign countries whether they were enemies or allies) was sent to the British ambassador or envoy. Rudimentary analysis was conducted throughout the collection process, before the ambassador, or more likely a secretary, cross-referenced the information for consistencies. Anything deemed to be of sufficient worth was transmitted back to London.8 The system became widely known as the ‘Family Embassy’, and was run on a shoestring budget.9 Although it was drawn-down after the end of the war in 1815, the trappings of the system continued to exist throughout the nineteenth century. Hidden among the ordinary diplomatic correspondence from ambassadors to virtually every country on the planet, there lies a treasure trove of intelligence documents. It is from here, then, that the British government obtained the majority of the information upon which it based policy decisions. And unsurprisingly, the various envoys and ambassadors sent to St Petersburg in the 1830s reported back intelligence findings that, despite significant inconsistencies, allowed Whitehall to conclude that Russia had expansionist interests in the south. One intelligence officer, who reported on Russia’s designs on Constantinople in 1835, overheard a Russian court official predicting that, from Constantinople ‘we shall not then be many hours from those English in India’,10 a comment that appeared to justify De Lacy Evans’s earlier concerns. Such depictions of the Russians as pantomime villains became more serious, however, in 1837. The British Ambassador, Lord Durham, managed to secure a spy in the Russian treasury.11 Thereafter, a seemingly disconnected set of events started to make sense. In January 1837, the Russian government borrowed six million roubles to expand its naval presence in the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea. In February, Durham reported on increased expenditure of trade missions to the Central Asian states.12 Then, came reports of money being spent on deepening parts of the Volga between Astrakhan and the Caspian Sea in order to enable navigation of the river by deep-draught vessels.13 In March, Durham was finally able to deliver comprehensive accounts of Russian finances between 1823 and 1836. Durham argued that the report enabled Britain to ‘judge correctly of [Russia’s] strength and weakness, of her powers of offence and defence, and consequently of the degree of importance which attaches to her political

Intelligence and strategic culture 67 demonstrations, and to her general position in the scale of European Powers’.14 They revealed that the Russian state was over Rs 390 million in debt, mostly incurred during the recent wars with Persia and Turkey. Interest payments on this debt amounted to over Rs 21 million a year. Total revenue of the Russian state amounted to Rs 502 million, while annual expenditure topped Rs 550 million, leaving a deficit of Rs 48 million.15 While not necessarily a disastrous state of affairs for a functioning economy, Russia’s annual income from foreign trade was falling, and it was clear that this financial situation could not continue for long. In order to pay this debt, significant increases in revenues from foreign trade would be required. In Durham’s judgement, this explained Russia’s increased interest in trade with the Central Asian states. Simultaneously, the Russians received news that English goods were now on sale in the bazaars (markets) of Bokhara and Tashkent, goods that had come via Kabul and India.16 This clearly represented a threat to Russian trading interests, Durham argued. In April, Durham received an explanation for the deepening of the Volga. ‘From St Petersburg by the Lakes of Ladoga and Illmen, and thence by the Volga to Astrakhan, there is an uninterrupted water communication,’ Durham explained. ‘In short, whatever there is of manufacture in Russia can be transported by water to the Caspian.’ Moreover, he continued, ‘in the event of War with any maritime European Power, no interruption need be apprehended, and what is of equal importance, supplies may also be drawn from this quarter in security, of that raw material for her manufactures, for which she is now dependent on the free passage of the Baltic and the Black Sea’.17 The implication was clear. In commercial terms, Russia was looking to facilitate more effective trading ties with Central Asian states, a policy that would clearly bring Britain and Russia into a direct commercial rivalry. In military terms, a reliable and relatively speedy means of communication and trade with Central Asia would afford Russia significant strategic depth, and make it extremely difficult to attack her indirectly. The seemingly incoherent ramblings of De Lacy Evans less than a decade earlier, now began to look frighteningly realistic. The only ‘obstacle to the success of these projects for the extension of the trade and commerce of Russia in this part of Asia,’ Durham argued, ‘is to be found in the barbarous and uncivilized state of the Turcoman and other savage tribes in the vicinity of Asterabad’. Durham expected, however, that merely expanding economic opportunity in the region would ‘sew the seeds of amelioration, and with the lapse of time, must arrive a better state of things’.18 And if this did not happen, the option always remained for Russia to expand militarily into

68  Huw J. Davies Central Asia: a waterborne trading route could also function perfectly well as a waterborne military supply line. All of this suggested increased Anglo-Russian commercial rivalry, but in November 1837, the situation took on a distinctly military character, when Persia invaded Afghanistan and began a prolonged siege of the north-western city of Herat. In early January 1837, Palmerston had written to Durham with the news that ‘Count Simonich, the Russian minister in Persia had urged the Shah to undertake a winter campaign against Herat’.19 Palmerston instructed Durham to find out if Simonich was acting under the orders of the Tsar, or if he had begun acting independently of his instructions from St Petersburg. Predictably, the response from the Russians was that Simonich had acted ‘in direct opposition to his instructions’. Indeed, Durham wrote in late February, ‘the count had been distinctly ordered to dissuade the Shah from prosecuting the present war at any time, in any circumstances.’20 Durham was left ‘in little doubt that the result . . . will be the recall of Count Simonich’.21 But, Simonich was not recalled. The British minister in Tehran, Sir John McNeill, continued to write with ever-increasing prophecies of doom. ‘The Russians habitually teach themselves to regard India as near at hand & easily approachable,’ McNeill argued. ‘I can imagine Count Simonich, though he is an intelligent soldier, so far deceiving himself as to suppose that Scinde is within the Shah’s reach as soon as he shall have made himself master of Herat’, he continued. ‘Looking at the Russian and Persian Correspondence with Kandahar and Cabool, . . . and at the confidential communications which pass between the Russian Mission and the Shah’s officers regarding the conduct of his present operations, I cannot doubt that a concert exists between the Persian & Russian Governments in regard to their proceedings in Afghanistan; and that the object of both is hostile to England.’22 This analysis chimed with Durham’s developing belief that Russia’s interest in Central Asia was not limited to commercial advantage. ‘It must also be remembered, with reference to . . . the invasion of India by the Russians, that there are but two routes for that purpose, one by Khiva, the other by Asterabad, and Afghanistan,’ Durham wrote in late May 1837. ‘The successful prosecution of an expedition by either of them, must depend on the cooperation of the Khivans and the Toorkman tribes on the one side, and the Persians and the Afghans on the other. This assistance is more likely to be afforded in consequence of commercial ties, than from other motives.’23 Durham argued for action to ensure that ‘these interests and feelings are enlisted on our

Intelligence and strategic culture 69 side, in the first instance,’ rendering ‘any practicable movements on the part of the Russian Army . . . impossible’.24 Durham was not arguing for a military response, but rather for a strategy that would freeze Russia out of Central Asia. Strategically, then, the British government in London was anticipating Russia would begin acting aggressively, and her intelligence apparatus was directed to find evidence of it. Durham’s agent in the Russian Treasury proved an invaluable asset and helped piece together seemingly irrelevant material. Facing considerable and increasing financial difficulty, the Russian state began establishing safe, reliable and fast means of communication with the lucrative markets in Central Asia. A riverine network from St Petersburg to the Caspian would not only ensure the security of this new commercial endeavour but would also remove one of Russia’s key vulnerabilities, namely a threat from European maritime powers to her sea-based trade in the Baltic and the Black Sea. Such independence would afford Russia significant commercial, and potentially military, power. For Britain, the balance of power in Europe appeared to be in jeopardy. Palmerston had recognized this in 1834 when he had suggested Russia would soon act aggressively. ‘We do not mean to break with her, by taking the offensive ourselves,’ he had written. ‘We wait ‘til she becomes the aggressor, knowing the advantage of having to repel an aggression instead of being party to make one. I mean the moral & political advantage.’25 Here, then, is the influence of strategic culture on the view from London. It was not necessarily concern about Russian aggression in Central Asia, Afghanistan or even India that drove British foreign policy in Central and South Asia; it was the prospect of increasing Russian power in Europe. The cheapest way to stymie Russian power in Europe was to curtail her power in Central Asia. Ideally, as Durham argued, this would be achieved by establishing commercial ties with Central Asian states before Russia was able to. At the same time as events in northern Afghanistan suggested increased Russian influence in the region, relations between Dost Muhammad’s Kabul and Ranjit Singh’s Lahore were approaching their nadir. If London seemed obsessed with Russian activities in Central Asia, Calcutta by contrast cared little about the possibility of a direct Russian threat to India. Rather, the Indian government observed with increasing alarm events on its North-West Frontier. Kabul and Lahore had been at loggerheads for the last decade. In some ways, this situation suited Calcutta’s strategic ends. Ranjit Singh had exhibited expansionist tendencies since he became Maharaja in 1799. Under his stewardship, the Punjab had been transformed into a burgeoning

70  Huw J. Davies economic and military power with a powerful and Europeanized army, the Dal Khalsa, capable by the 1830s of challenging the East India Company for control of the Cis-Sutlej states, as well as for influence in Sindh.26 Indeed, the Sikh army was considered so powerful that the East India Company sought to avoid conflict with it. When the British Commander-in-Chief, Sir Henry Fane, visited Lahore for the wedding of Ranjit Singh’s grandson, he was treated to an awe-inspiring display of Sikh military power. He estimated the Khalsa’s strength between 60 and 70 battalions, 700 artillery pieces and a large cavalry contingent of possibly 4,000 men.27 Moreover, the European drill demonstrated by the Sikh warriors, in particular by the Fauj-i-Khas – the Royal Bodyguard – heightened concerns that in a conflict with the Sikhs, the East India Company Army would prove unequal to the task of extending British control over the Punjab.28 Instead, Calcutta opted for a strategy of containment, subtly fostering conflict between the Sikhs and the Afghans. It was in the Company’s interests that a balance of power exists between the states on the border of British India, so that no one state would become so powerful that it might challenge British authority in India. ‘It seems very doubtful whether such a division of rule as now exists in Afghanistan is in any way hurtful to us’, wrote the governor general’s private secretary, William Colvin, in May 1837. ‘Each state is strong enough to maintain itself, and well disposed from position and interest towards us. This may probably be more beneficial than the neighbourhood of a very large and arrogant power.’29 This balance, while precarious, was easy to maintain so long as the Afghans and the Sikhs diverted one another from other expansionist agendas. In 1834, during an illfated British-sponsored attempt to restore Shah Shuja to the throne of Kabul, Ranjit Singh captured the Afghan summer capital of Peshawar. Traditionally viewed as one in a lengthening list of British failures, this in fact helped solidify the British containment strategy, by sowing the seeds of ongoing discord. So long as Peshawar remained in Sikh hands, Dost Muhammad Khan could never come to terms with his old enemy, not least because the perceived weakness would continue to foster internal opposition to his own regime. In 1837, while Ranjit Singh was celebrating his grandson’s wedding in Lahore, and with the lion’s share of the Khalsa engaged in ceremonial activities designed to impress the British, Dost Muhammad took the opportunity to attempt to retake Peshawar. The Battle of Jamrud was a shortlived affair. Despite outnumbering the Sikhs, the timely arrival of Hari Singh Nalwa, the Commander-in-Chief of the Khalsa, caused significant disquiet in the Afghan camp. A short skirmish led to a stalemate

Intelligence and strategic culture 71 which lasted until news emerged that Hari Singh had been killed. By then, reinforcements had arrived from Lahore, and Dost Muhammad was forced to retreat. To the British and the Sikhs, it looked as though Dost Muhammad had planned to raid into the north-west of India. The reality was, of course, much more complex. Internal tensions and the fault lines between and within tribal dynamics had created a situation that had compelled Dost Muhammad Khan to act. There was little Dost Muhammad could do but attempt to retake Peshawar, or he would face an internal challenge to his own authority. As the British suspected, he did not preside over a unified Afghanistan, but the situation was much worse than even they realized. For them, Afghanistan seemed split between the contending authorities of Saddozai Herat and Barakzai Kabul and Kandahar. Moreover, the divisions within the Barakzais meant Dost Muhammad was unable to trust or rely for support on his brethren in Kandahar. The British badly misjudged the balance of power in Afghanistan, believing Herat, rather than Kabul, was the dominant centre of power.30 The Saddozai regime in Herat was in fact weak and corrupt, facing internal and external enemies in the form – as we have seen – of Persia. From the outset, then, the British underestimated Dost Muhammad’s political strength, and by extension misunderstood the threats to his authority. To the north of Kabul, Mir Murad Beg of Qunduz maintained a constant challenge to Dost Muhammad’s authority in Bamian. There, Murad Beg had persecuted the Hazara population, forcing them to pay contributions of Rs 4 per household. Unable to respond because of more pressing matters to the south, Dost Muhammad was ‘compelled to content himself with merely observing them in silence’, which had caused the Hazaras to become disenchanted with Dost Muhammad’s leadership.31 Elsewhere, serious challenges to his authority existed in the Kohistan Hills to the north and east of Kabul, and among the Ghilzais who had cut the road between Kabul and Jalalabad. It was in response to armed robberies on this road that Dost Muhammad had dispatched his eldest son Muhammad Akhbar Khan to capture the culprits. When Akhbar captured the freebooters, the Ghilzais who had offered them sanctuary rebelled at the perceived infraction of their rights. At this point, intelligence had been received in Kabul ‘that Hari Singh with a large force . . . had arrived at [Rawal] Pindi in his progress to Peshawar’.32 To Dost Muhammad, it appeared as if the Sikhs were taking the opportunity to garrison the fort at Jamrud permanently. Such an action would only inflame the tribal tensions in the Khyber and Ghilzai regions, and further serve

72  Huw J. Davies to weaken his authority. Under such circumstances, Dost Muhammad had no choice but to act, because, as Malcolm Yapp argues, he ‘found it politically impossible to refuse appeals for assistance which were based upon Islamic and Pashtun tribal affinities’.33 The Political Officer Charles Masson communicated all of these events to Calcutta, and their importance was not lost on the British. The secretary to the Governor General, and his principal advisor, William Hay Macnaghten, found the intelligence ‘interesting as showing the obstacles which the Amir Dost Muhammad Khan had to contend with among his own people even previously to his engaging in actual hostilities with the Sikhs’.34 For Macnaghten, the internal fractures were evidence of the unstable nature of Afghanistan. ‘The state of parties in Afghanistan’, he had written in January 1837, ‘seems to be such as to preclude the probability for some time to come of the establishment of a strong and united power in that quarter.’35 In such a situation, and facing internal political and socio-economic difficulties that threatened his position, Dost Muhammad had cast around for support from external benefactors. His preferred option, Britain, appeared too closely aligned with the Sikhs, while they also harboured his primary Saddozai competitor, Shah Shuja. Russia was too distant to be able to offer efficient military support, and the Uzbek and Tajik states immediately to the north of Afghanistan in any event were too weak. The only remaining option appeared to be Persia. John McNeill, Britain’s envoy to the court of the Shah in Tehran, wrote a typically lengthy digest of the reasons behind a possible connection between Dost Muhammad Khan and Persia. ‘Descended by his mother from the Qizilbashes36 or Persians who have for some time past been settled in Kabul’, Dost Muhammad had, McNeill explained, ‘connected himself with that powerful lot and in any emergency must trust rather to them than to the native Afghans for the means of pursuing conquests or repelling aggressions’.37 Such a suggestion was patently absurd, but the timing of McNeill’s evidence struck a raw nerve in Calcutta. So far the cold war that had existed between the Sikhs and Afghans had prevented each from obtaining enough power to challenge Britain. But if Dost Muhammad was seeking support from Persia (which was itself supported by Russia), then this might change the balance irrevocably. ‘The British Government could not recognize any right of interference’, wrote the Governor General Lord Auckland, ‘by the Persian Monarch in the affairs of Afghanistan.’ By the same token, ‘commerce can never flourish amidst the horrors of war’, and it was the British aim that ‘tranquillity should be restored along the whole extent’ of the River Indus.38

Intelligence and strategic culture 73 Dost Muhammad was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. On the one hand, the internal divisions that compelled him to wage limited war against the Sikhs for control of the Khyber Pass and Peshawar indicated that his regime was so unstable that he might look to external aggression in order to bolster his authority. Such actions had been the mainstay of Afghan rule at the end of the eighteenth century. The then ruler, Shah Zeman, regularly attacked south into the Punjab and sometimes as far as Delhi. In response, Calcutta had sent an emissary to Persia to ‘relieve India from the annual alarm of Shah Zeman’s invasion’.39 Dost Muhammad’s attack on the Sikh fortress at Jamrud in 1837 was characterized in the same light. By attacking the Sikhs, Dost Muhammad was forcing his people ‘to unite & fight for their . . . religion with an ardent zeal which’ was, as Captain Claude Martine Wade, the British Political Officer deputed to Lahore and Ludhiana, explained to Ranjit Singh, comparable to ‘the desperate efforts of a feeble animal to save itself even against the power of man when its life was in danger’.40 In this light, then, the weakness of Dost Muhammad’s regime was a threat to the balance of power on the North-West Frontier. On the other hand, when Dost Muhammad sought external support in order to overcome his internal difficulties, he was characterized as a despot bent on self-aggrandizement. ‘It cannot be in our policy to have a Sikh power on our frontier crushed by a strong Mohammedan power’, Auckland wrote in June 1837.41 The potential strength of Dost Muhammed’s Afghanistan was now also a threat to the balance of power on the North-West Frontier. Similarly, Auckland worried that should Dost Muhammed fail in his bid to wrest Peshawar from the Sikhs, Ranjit Singh would take the opportunity to invade Afghanistan through the Khyber Pass, predicting he would ‘conquer Kabul but not subdue it, that he will give peace for tribute, and that he would return a little more difficult to deal with than before he went’. Moreover, ‘he will possibly attempt to do all this quickly as he well knows that reverses would raise many enemies against him.’42 Whether he succeeded or failed, Dost Muhammad would jeopardize the balance of power. For the moment, Auckland was focussed on preventing a general war between the Afghans and the Sikhs. British strategy depended on a continuous state of tension, not the outright defeat of one or the other. Auckland turned to the army as a means of deterring Dost Muhammad, and, by extension, Ranjit Singh, from engaging in outright hostilities with one another. ‘I know that your sword will always be ready,’ he wrote to his Commander-in-Chief, General Sir Henry Fane at the height of the crisis, ‘and [it] being known to be ready will tend to prevent the necessity of [its] use.’43

74  Huw J. Davies Auckland, like Durham in St Petersburg, preferred a policy of commercial penetration into Central Asia in order to offset the threat of Russian expansionism. ‘I need not say that to any violent change’, he wrote to McNeill, ‘I should much prefer the gradual extension of our influence by means of commercial intercourse on the line of the Indus and to the westward.’44 But the Sikh–Afghan conflict, and his inability to control it, led Auckland reluctantly to consider the use of military power in order to enact British policy. The traditional historiography of the events that led Auckland to authorize the invasion of Afghanistan focuses on the actions of a collection of political officers who were charged by Auckland and Macnaghten to collect intelligence on the political situation in Afghanistan, Persia and the Punjab. Faced with ever-increasing levels of uncertainty, Auckland appeared to suffer some sort of mental collapse. His chief advisors on Afghanistan – Wade, Macnaghten, and the Political Officer-cum-adventurer Alexander Burnes – have been depicted as self-serving and corrupt, seeking to advance their own interests with little regard for those of the British Empire or the East India Company.45 This is in part true, and I do not propose a rehashing of this well-trodden path. Rather, I want to point out some important and overlooked aspects of British strategic culture in India that contributed to the decision to go to war. First, it is worth highlighting that the influence of Russia in Afghanistan and Central Asia was a peripheral consideration for most policymakers in India. As Martin Bayly has recently argued, where Russia was taken into consideration, it was within the context of European affairs;46 that is to say, that British officials in India mentioned the Russian context in dispatches to London because that was what London wanted to hear about.47 As has been seen already, and as South Asian historians such as Ben Hopkins, and now C. A. Bayly, have pointed out, the relationship between Afghanistan and the Punjab, with the menacing presence of Persia in the background, was what dominated policy discussions.48 In early 1836, for example, Henry Ellis, the then British Minister in Tehran, wrote, ‘from Persia with greater dread of Russian aggression’ than Auckland was ‘disposed to feel here [in Calcutta].’ Auckland was deeply unconvinced by the analysis. ‘In direct aggression I hold her [Russia] to be actually powerless, and in indirect she can only become formidable under an exaggerated opinion of her power,’ he wrote confidently. ‘In the meantime,’ he continued, ‘I look to the extension of British power and influence in the direction of the Indus much more to our merchants than our soldiers and I am sanguine enough to hope that river may become a peaceable thoroughfare for our commerce.’49

Intelligence and strategic culture 75 To this end, then, Burnes had originally been dispatched to Afghanistan in 1836 on a commercial mission, and at that point, it was the ruler of the Sikhs, Maharaja Ranjit Singh, who gave more cause for alarm than the leader of Afghanistan. ‘It is difficult to see without some anxiety the exertions made on every occasion by the ruler of the Punjab to extend his power’, wrote Auckland in his initial instruction to Burnes. As a result, ‘all information from that quarter must be valuable, and it may not be useless ostensibly to mark that nothing which is there passing is viewed with indifference by the British Government, or escapes its notice.’50 The Indus, then, was considered by Auckland to be the ‘natural frontier’ of British interest and influence, and his initial perception was that it was Ranjit Singh that would need restraining. The circumstances of Sikh–Afghan conflict over Jamrud illustrated the salience of this concern. Auckland was frightfully worried that Afghan failure would encourage Sikh expansionism, and vice versa. In actual fact, the individuals that needed restraining were the political officers themselves. As Malcolm Yapp has commented, political officers viewed their deployment on fact-finding missions as the vanguard of British political influence.51 Burnes, and his counterpart in the Punjab, Wade, were no different, while the situation was made more complex by intense jealousy between the two, so much so that one acted to undermine the other on more than one occasion. This was not a unique circumstance, however, and it is the first aspect of British imperial strategic culture that is frequently overlooked. Britain had from the late 1790s progressively expanded her influence throughout the subcontinent. The most cost-effective and efficient means of the exertion of this influence was through indirect rule. Michael H. Fisher has demonstrated that British residents, civil servants and increasingly military personnel who opted for political service had to manipulate the rulers of the princely states over which Britain exerted indirect rule.52 Inevitably this enticed a certain type of individual into the political service, one looking for opportunities to enhance their careers. The frontier residencies were the most coveted, as they offered the greatest opportunity for intrigue and action, and were usually the best resourced. Burnes, Wade and their peers were successors to a generation of political officers who viewed British expansion in precisely the same light. Men like Mountstuart Elphinstone, who had led the first British embassy to Afghanistan in 1809, or John Malcolm, who led a similar mission to Persia in 1810. To them, while the main purpose of expansion was trading benefits, inevitably commercial expansion would entail some form of political engagement and eventually control.

76  Huw J. Davies Malcolm believed that ‘the only safe view that Britain can take of her Empire in India is to consider it, as it really is, always in a state of danger’.53 In line with such thinking, political, economic and, by extension, military expansions were all inevitable, at least until the natural frontier had been reached. Elphinstone had very clear views about the limits of British India. In his view, Afghanistan should be made an ally, which would mean that the British then ‘could turn the whole of our attention and resources to the defence of the noble frontier by the desert, the mountains, and the Indus’.54 Expansionism and aggrandizement, then, were not the sole dictates of a few political officers but was part of the strategic culture of British India at least until it suffered the reverse in Afghanistan in 1841, and possibly as late as 1857. Indeed, Auckland himself advocated expansion to the Indus – the so-called natural frontier – in response to a suggestion by the Commander-in-Chief, General Sir Henry Fane, that the British should view the Sutlej as the limits of British control. ‘In the event of a formidable invasion by nations from the west under the conduct and influence of European powers,’ Auckland argued, ‘when all not for us, would be against us, we should hardly leave the fertile plains of the Punjab [i.e. those between the Sutlej and the Indus] open to an enemy for the collection of his means and forces.’ Rather ‘our main strength would probably be upon the Indus, our advanced posts beyond it.’55 Here, Auckland was evoking the much-feared threat of Russian or Persian intervention to justify his point, but the main issue was the need to deny key resources – the fertile Sutlej-Indus Doab – to a potential enemy. Combine this with a second strategic-cultural phenomenon, namely the military garrison state identified by Douglas Peers, and it becomes a little clearer as to how the British decided on war. As Peers argues, the ‘British imagination in the nineteenth century situated India in an atmosphere in which war was viewed as a constant. Violence was considered to be deeply impregnated into Indian society’.56 Military personnel, from both the East India Company Army and the Queen’s Army, came to dominate the political decision-making process, and the political officer cadre alike.57 Burnes, Wade and the majority of their peers were all military officers seconded from the regiments to the political service. The Commander-in-Chief was one of the principal advisors to the Governor General.58 Military thought came to dominate political decision-making. That is not to say that the British Army in India wanted a war in Afghanistan. Indeed, Sir Henry Fane was opposed to the eventual decision to invade Afghanistan, and replace Dost Muhammed Khan

Intelligence and strategic culture 77 with his predecessor Shah Shuja ul-Mulk. His secretary, Major Marcus de la Poer Beresford, felt sure that he disapproved of it. ‘I have examined this proposed policy of the Governor General,’ he wrote in his journal on 3 July 1838, ‘and I neither think it wise nor just. It is not wise because Shah Shuja cannot be so useful an ally as Dost Muhammed, and will make for a more expensive one. It is not just for the present ruler of Kabul has not committed any offence which merits such punishment.’59 Yet, following a 10-page-long examination of the evidence, which conclusively demonstrated the unwise nature of the policy adopted by Auckland, Beresford makes a startling statement. ‘I ought not to find fault with the Governor General’s policy,’ he wrote, as ‘it opens to me the next view of service I have ever had.’ As a soldier, Beresford wanted to go to war. ‘I have some hope of smelling powder, burnt in earnest before I die’, he continues. ‘War is my garden . . . I am but a soldier.’60 Beresford’s conflicted responses to the policy suggest the reality that military personnel, particularly those serving in India in the nineteenth century, were highly unlikely to be opposed to a war, which offered prospects of earning military glory, and with it the prospect of promotion and prize money.61 Beresford was never going to turn down the opportunity for advancement or service. Does that mean that his impassioned analysis of Auckland’s policy was little more than false rage? It seems odd when he wrote it in a private journal. Instead, this points to the wider strategic culture inherent within India at this time, and within militaries generally. Individually, officers held views that might run contrary to the aims and terms of their service, but this did not, and does not, prohibit them from serving as part of a collective unit. Beresford was at one and the same time expressing a moral view that an invasion of Afghanistan was a terrible idea, a selfish view that the invasion would nevertheless be good for his career, and a collective view that militaries are generally subordinate to the political view and, moreover, that this was what an army was for. Despite significant reservations among the very highest ranks of the army, then, the strategic culture – that is to say, the prevailing assumptions and behaviour of the British in India as defined by their political, military, social and cultural experiences, not just in India, but on a global scale – was favourable towards war. These two elements of strategic culture also influenced the final aspect of Calcutta decision-making that needs attention; namely the use and abuse of intelligence. C. A. Bayly has exhaustively examined the pre-existing information networks that came to be used, with varied levels of success, by the British in India.62 Inevitably, though,

78  Huw J. Davies the British ‘mongrelized’ such networks to make them more familiar, combining them with their own understanding of how information should be gathered. The mongrelization of the intelligence networks was mirrored elsewhere in military circles, and was inevitable for a power that had recently emerged victorious in a war against a European superpower – namely Napoleonic France. Britain’s success there, capped by the battle at Waterloo on 18 June 1815, helped define a strong sense of British identity. But where defeat foster’s introspection and self-improvement, victory bred complacency and arrogance. The mongrelization of intelligence in India was not the incorporation of the effective elements of one intelligence network with the effective practices of another, but the domination of one proven successful elsewhere, with one proven successful but misunderstood in India. Even officers who had spent their whole careers on the subcontinent tended to embrace European techniques for collecting, processing and analyzing information. For instance, James Kirkpatrick, on learning that his Residency in Hyderabad would be reorganized in 1800, expressed approval because the new situation was ‘in conformity to the style in Europe’.63 Throughout the first half of the nineteenth century, Europeans with significant experience of intelligence gathering and analysis in Europe attained high-ranking positions in India. Sir Evan Napier was one of Whitehall’s most effective intelligence chiefs during the Napoleonic Wars, before becoming Governor of Bombay between 1812 and 1819.64 Lord William Bentinck, Auckland’s immediate predecessor, was Governor of Sicily and a general with extensive European experience before eventually becoming Governor General of India from 1828 to 1835. Auckland himself had no experience of India before arriving in 1836, but did have significant experience of political and administrative processes at Whitehall. In the absence of any organization whose sole responsibility was the acquisition and analysis of intelligence in an as objective capacity as possible, the task fell to those most capable of collecting the information. In Europe, this manifested itself in the gradual expectation that diplomats and ambassadors would be the conduit for intelligence collection, and, by extension, analysis; decisions, though, would be taken by statesmen based in Whitehall. With no other means available, and with the apparent success of such an ad hoc organization in Europe, this system was transferred to India by default. In Europe, the system worked because the prosecution of foreign policy could be closely regulated.65 In India, where no such safeguards existed, the system catalyzed spiralling imperial expansionism. Whereas only looking for

Intelligence and strategic culture 79 ‘good news’ was a common problem in Europe, the opposite was true in India, where only listening to ‘bad news’ was de rigueur. This explains how the Russian threat became an increasingly serious problem between 1836 and 1837. With no balance to the information he was receiving, Auckland could only identify what Martin Bayly has suggested was a ‘culturally-contingent understanding of how the weak Afghan polity would fall prey to outside influences’.66 After Burnes had arrived in Kabul, for example, Auckland began to worry that he could ‘hardly hope that Dost Muhammed will be satisfied with anything that would not be offensive to Ranjit Singh; and yet he ought to be satisfied that he is allowed to remain at peace and is saved from actual invasion’. Dost Muhammed was, according to Auckland, ‘restless and intriguing and will be as difficult to keep quiet, as are the other Afghans and Sikhs, Heratees, Russians and Persians. It is a fine imbroglio of embassy and intrigue,’ he wrote to Hobhouse, the President of the Board of Control, ‘with more bluster than of real strength anywhere. Yet it is impossible not to feel that the East and the West are careering insensibly nearer each other.’67 Auckland had embarked on a lengthy tour of northern India and established his headquarters in Simla for the summer of 1838, just as he was required to make the critical decision on British policy towards Afghanistan. Isolated in his hill station retreat, and with individuals who, as the products of the East India Company’s Political Service, were self-interested, glory-seekers, Auckland lacked a competent and balanced intelligence analysis apparatus. He was forced to analyze contradictory intelligence and make decisions based upon it. He determined on a strategy: bolstering the Anglo-Sikh alliance to maintain a precarious balance of power on the North-West Frontier. When Dost Muhammed threatened that, Auckland began to view Afghanistan as the problem rather than a solution. Dost Muhammed had, of course, a legitimate grievance with the Sikhs – the sovereignty of Peshawar remained an open, festering wound. Dost Muhammed had wanted to obtain British support in regaining the former Afghan summer capital. Burnes, in seeing an opportunity to outflank a Russian envoy, and secure an Afghan alliance, immediately agreed to what was nothing more than negotiations.68 But Auckland disapproved, and rescinded Burnes’s authority. Effectively, Auckland felt he was being manipulated, and that was intolerable. British indirect rule thrived by ensuring quasi-independent powers bent to British will. If they did not, then punitive action became necessary. This was not unusual but had been an established tenet of indirect rule for more than half a century. Backing down

80  Huw J. Davies would look weak, and would also betray Britain’s primary ally, Ranjit Singh. Dost Muhammed’s attempts to bolster his authority within Afghanistan might, if successful, similarly threaten the Sikh position, and create a disturbingly powerful Islamic state opposed to British interests. If he failed, Dost Muhammed’s authority might collapse completely, and leave an unstable and fractured state on British India’s North-West Frontier, an attractive prospect for Persia and Russia to extend their own influence. At the same time, disconcerting reports were coming in that low-key rebellions were occurring across India, perhaps prompted by Dost Muhammed’s attack on Jamrud, and Persia’s unpunished attack on Herat.69 At this point, whether suggestive of failure or success, any intelligence on Dost Muhammed Khan’s policies in Afghanistan would be interpreted in a negative light. The situation called for an immediate and decisive exertion of British military authority. Better to remove the cause of the problem completely – Dost Muhammed himself – and impose a new government capable of asserting widespread authority, friendly to Sikh power, and of acting in Britain’s interests. Such a policy played straight into the policy pursued in London. Palmerston wanted to stymie Russian advances in Central Asia, and military action would prove as effective, if not more effective, than mere commercial competition. If Britain imposed a puppet ruler in Kabul, then Russian influence would be frozen out of Afghanistan indefinitely, and that is precisely what the Russians perceived to have happened when the British entered Kabul unopposed in August 1839.70 In conclusion, then, this article has sought to reframe the conventional analysis of the origins of the First Anglo-Afghan War. In explaining the series of events that led to the outbreak of war, historians have attempted to unravel ‘this maze of intrigues’, as Mountstuart Elphinstone termed it.71 In doing so, the wider strategic cultural context is often overlooked. The motives for war were very different in London, Lahore and Calcutta. In London, the decision to support an intervention in Afghanistan was linked more to the need to maintain the European balance of power, contain Russian expansionism and retain strategic leverage in the form of maritime supremacy. How this was achieved was less relevant than the objective itself: Russia would be excluded by either commercial or military supremacy. In Lahore, the route to conflict lay in the balance of power that the Company sought to establish and maintain on the North-West Frontier. In attempting to bolster his authority in Kabul and Afghanistan, Dost Muhammed threatened this balance of power. Strong-arm tactics and attempts to recover Peshawar from the Sikhs rekindled unpleasant memories of

Intelligence and strategic culture 81 Afghan excesses at the end of the last century. Moreover, policymakers in Calcutta were just as concerned about Dost Muhammed’s weaknesses as his potential strength. Pressed into an irresolvable situation with the Sikhs vis-a-vis Peshawar, Dost Muhammed might turn to Russia or Persia for support. On the one hand, then, Dost Muhammed’s strengths might lead to a dominant and belligerent power on the frontier of British India, while on the other, his weaknesses might invite interest from Britain’s European enemies. It became easier to depose him than pursue alternatives that attempted to suit all parties, and as a result of three completely different scenarios, the British were persuaded to invade Afghanistan. The wider strategic cultural context helps to explain this admittedly bizarre policy decision. The first British invasion of Afghanistan took place within a context that viewed war in South Asia as a constant. Commercial and political expansion inevitably led to military conflict, and this would continue until Britain established a ‘natural frontier’, suggested by Elphinstone to be the river Indus. Moreover, to the average officer and soldier in the East India Company Army, or in the Queen’s Army, the prospect of war, and the potential glory and financial reward this entailed, proved collectively enticing, even if individuals were able harshly to criticize the policy decision. Such a culture perpetuated war rather than allowed military advisers to ask searching questions of the moral legitimacy of the conflict. All of this took place within a wider political context of expansionism, which saw civil servants and military officers manipulate intelligence and policy advice to their own ends within a framework of indirect rule. Finally, the mongrelization of intelligence apparatus in India prevented systematic unbiased intelligence analysis from taking place and promoted a culture of cognitive dissonance. The invasion of Afghanistan had a rational strategic decision-making process behind it, but one that was corrupted by a long-term strategic culture that perpetuated war.

Notes 1 Lewis Walpole Library, Farmington, CT MS vol. 89, Conway Papers, Conway to his brother, Anstain, 22 August 1744. 2 See, for example, among others, William Dalrymple, Return of a King: The First Battle for Afghanistan (London: Bloomsbury, 2013). An excellent exception is Robert Johnson, The Afghan Way of War: Culture and Pragmatism, a Critical History (London: Hurst, 2011). 3 See, for example, Malcolm Yapp, Strategies of British India: Britain, Iran and Afghanistan, 1798–1850 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980); Edward Ingram, The Beginning of the Great Game in Asia (Oxford: Clarendon

82  Huw J. Davies Press, 1973); Robert Johnson, Spying for Empire: The Great Game in Central and South-East Asia, 1757–1947 (London: Greenhill, 2006); and P. Hopkirk, The Great Game: On Secret Service in High Asia (Oxford: John Murray, 1990). The most convincing exception to this trend is Benjamin D. Hopkins, The Making of Modern Afghanistan (London: Palgrave, 2008). 4 George de Lacy Evans, On the Designs of Russia (London: John Murray, 1828), pp. 115–18. See for more detail on De Lacy Evans, Edward M. Spiers, Radical General: Sir George de Lacy Evans, 1787–1870 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1983), pp. 28–39. 5 The London Times, 11 September 1829. 6 For more on this see Huw J. Davies, Wellington’s Wars: The Making of a Military Genius (London: Yale University Press, 2012); and Joshua Moon, Wellington’s Two-Front War: The Peninsular Campaigns at Home and Abroad, 1808–1814 (Norman: Oklahoma University Press, 2011). 7 For more on British intelligence networks in the Napoleonic Wars, see Huw J. Davies, ‘Diplomats as Spymasters: A Case Study of the Peninsular War’, The Journal of Military History, vol. 76, no. 1 (January 2012), pp. 37–68; and ibid., ‘Integration of Strategic and Operational Intelligence During the Peninsular War’, Intelligence and National Security, vol. 21, no. 2 (April 2006), pp. 202–23. 8 See also J. R. Ferris, ‘Tradition and System: British Intelligence and the Old World Order, 1715–1956’, in G. Kennedy (ed.), Imperial Defence: The Old World Order, 1856–1956 (London: Routledge, 2008), pp. 178–81. 9 K. Hamilton and R. Langhorne, The Practice of Diplomacy: Its Evolution, Theory and Administration (London: Routledge, 1995), p. 61. See also Christopher Andrew, Secret Service: The Making of the British Intelligence Community (London: Heinemann, 1986). 10 Duke University Rubenstein Library, Raleigh, North Carolina, USA (DURL) Backhouse Papers 9/1, Hudson’s Report on Circassia, 19 December 1835. 11 The National Archives of the United Kingdom, Kew, London (TNA) FO64/233, Durham to Palmerston, St Petersburg, 13 February 1837. 12 TNA FO64/233, Durham to Palmerston, St Petersburg, 14 January 1837. 13 TNA FO64/234, Durham to Palmerston, St Petersburg, 8 April 1837. 14 Ibid., Durham to Palmerston, St Petersburg, 13 March 1837. 15 Ibid. 16 Ibid., Durham to Palmerston, St Petersburg, 8 April 1837. 17 Ibid. 18 Ibid. 19 TNA FO64/231, Palmerston to Durham, Foreign Office, 16 January 1837. 20 TNA FO64/233, Durham to Palmerston, St. Petersburg, 24 February 1837. 21 Ibid., Durham to Palmerston, St. Petersburg, 28 February 1837. 22 British Library (BL) Asia, Pacific and Africa Collection (APAC) Mss Eur F213/68, McNeil to Auckland, Tehran, 5 March 1838. 23 TNA FO64/234, Durham to Palmerston, St. Petersburg, 25 May 1837. 24 Ibid. 25 DURL Backhouse Papers 8/3, Palmerston to Ponsonby, Foreign Office, 22 August 1834.

Intelligence and strategic culture 83 26 See Hopkins, Modern Afghanistan, pp. 70–5; and Kaushik Roy, War, Culture and Society in Early Modern South Asia, 1740–1849 (London: Routledge, 2013), pp. 140–50. 27 Bikrama Jit Hasrat, Anglo-Sikh Relations, 1799–1849: A Reappraisal of the Rise and Fall of the Sikhs (New Delhi: V.V. Research Institute, 1968), pp. 150–1. 28 See Jean-Marie LaFont, Fauj-i-Khas: Maharaja Ranjit Singh and His French Officers (New Delhi: Guru Nanak Dev University, 2002). 29 BL Add MS 37691, f. 1–2, Colvin-Wade, Calcutta, 28 May 1837. 30 See ibid., ff. 40–45, Auckland-Loch, Calcutta, 11 July 1837. See also Yapp, Strategies of British India, p. 230. 31 National Archives of India, New Delhi, India (NAI) Political Department (PD)37/1/46, Extract of Intelligence from Masson, Kabul, 5 December 1836, forwarded by Wade to Macnaghten, Ludhiana, 13 May 1837. 32 Ibid. 33 Yapp, Strategies of British India, pp. 226–7. 34 Punjab Archives, Lahore, Pakistan (PAL) 119/24 ff.197–9, Macnaghten to Wade, Fort William, 5 June 1837. 35 PAL 119/4 ff. 29–32, Macnaghten to Wade, Fort William, 9 January 1837. 36 The Qizilbash were ethnic Persians whom Timur Shah had employed as his personal bodyguard. 37 PAL 119/22 ff. 160–180, McNeill to Macnaghten, Tehran, 22 January 1837. 38 PAL 119/55 ff. 472, Auckland to Ranjit Singh, Fort William, 11 September 1837. 39 John William Kaye, The Life and Correspondence of Major-General Sir John Malcolm, 2 vols. (London: John Murray, 1856), Malcolm to Ross, 10 August 1799, i, p. 90. See also R. Wellesley (First Marquess), The Dispatches, Minutes, and Correspondence of the Marquess Wellesley, K.G., During His Administration in India, 5 vols. (London: John Murray, 1836– 7), Mornington to Duncan, Fort St. George, 5 August 1799, ii, pp. 110–1. 40 NAI SC37/1/10 Wade to MacNaghten, Ludhiana, 23 May 1837. 41 BL Add MS 37691 ff. 12–14, Auckland to McNeill, Calcutta, 10 June 1837. 42 Ibid., ff. 5–6, Auckland to Fane, Barrackpore, 3 June 1837. 43 Ibid., ff. 5–6, Auckland to Fane, Barrackpore, 3 June 1837. 44 Ibid., ff. 12–14, Auckland to McNeill, Calcutta, 10 June 1837. 45 See, for example, Hopkirk’s Great Game, for a particularly romantic retelling of the story, where Macnaghten is portrayed as scheming and double-dealing, and Burnes as incompetent. More recently William Dalrymple has portrayed Macnaghten and Burnes (and the British in general) as borderline pantomime villains. See Dalrymple, Return of a King. 46 Martin J. Bayly, ‘Imagining Afghanistan: British Foreign Policy and the Afghan Polity, 1808–1878’, Unpublished PhD Dissertation, King’s College London, 2013. 47 Instructions were repeatedly issued to Burnes to keep Tehran and London informed of any intelligence specifically related to Russian interest. For example, in late September 1837, Macnaghten mentioned that ‘Captain Burnes will doubtless keep the British minister at Tehran acquainted with all the information he may obtain on the subject of Persian and Russian

84  Huw J. Davies intrigues’. PAL 119/59 ff. 499–500, Macnaghten to Wade, Fort William, 25 September 1837. 48 See Hopkins, Modern Afghanistan, p. 52. 49 BL Add Mss 37689, Auckland to Stanley Clark, Barrackpore, 2 April 1836. 50 BL APAC L/P&S/5/126 Memorandum of Instructions for Burnes’s mission to Afghanistan, Fort William, 29 September 1836. 51 Yapp, Strategies of British India, p. 10. 52 Residents were political officers assigned permanently as British liaison to the court of a native power. Michael H. Fisher, Indirect Rule in India: Residents and the Residency System, 1764–1858 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). 53 John Malcolm, A Political History of India from 1784 to 1823 (London, 1824), ii, p. 76. Cited in Douglas M. Peers, Between Mars and Mammon: Colonial Armies and the Garrison State in Early Nineteenth-century India (London: I. B. Tauris, 1995), pp. 44–5. 54 T. E. Colebrooke, Life of the Honourable Mountstuart Elphinstone (London: John Murray, 1884), i, p. 229. 55 BL Add MS 37691 ff. 16–18, Auckland to Fane, Calcutta, 14 June 1837. 56 Peers, Between Mars and Mammon, p. 2. 57 Fisher, Indirect Rule, p. 75. 58 Peers, Between Mars and Mammon, pp. 35–6. 59 BL APAC Mss Eur C70, ff. 348–58, Journal of Marcus de la Poer Beresford, Secretary to the Commander-in-Chief. 60 Ibid. 61 Davies, Wellington’s Wars, pp. 65–78. 62 C. A. Bayly, Empire and Information: Intelligence Gathering and Social Communication in India, 1780–1870 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 63 BL APAC Mss Eur F228/12, James Kirkpatrick-William Kirkpatrick, Hyderabad, 28 April 1800 64 For more on the intelligence gathering activities of Sir Evan Nepean, see Roger Knight, Britain Against Napoleon: The Organization of Victory, 1793–1815 (London: Allen Lane, 2013). 65 Ferris, ‘Tradition and System’, pp. 178–81. 66 Bayly, ‘Imagining Afghanistan’, p. 35. 67 BL APAC Mss Eur F213/9, Auckland to Hobhouse, Carnpore, 6 January 1838. 68 BL APAC Mss Eur C70, ff. 348–58, Beresford Journal. 69 BL Add MSS 38473, Skinner to Auckland, 2 June 1838. 70 See Alexander Morrison, ‘Twin Imperial Disasters: The Invasions of Khiva and Afghanistan in the Russian and British Official Mind, 1839–1842’, forthcoming in Modern Asian Studies. (I am grateful to Dr Morrison for providing me with the proofs of this forthcoming article.) 71 BL APAC Mss Eur F88/362, f. 102a.

4 ‘At Ease, Soldier’ Social life in the cantonment Erica Wald

Of all the ills flesh is heir to, there is nothing I dread worse than ennui; it is the pest of a soldier’s life, especially in India. From it there is no escaping. . . . Soldiers cannot lounge on a sofa and yawn over the pages of a Review, or the columns of a Morning Paper, nor can they fret their life out if the eggs are over or under done.1 —Peashawur. 1853

The evident boredom of the grenadier who wrote this lament to his diary in 1853 might seem surprising given that the 1840s and 1850s were a particularly unsettled period for British rule in India. Wars with the Sikhs and Burmese, as well as smaller-scale ‘pacification’ campaigns, occupied Crown and Company troops. The European rankand-file, as the ‘thin white line’ of colonial control, was thought to be integral to rule in India, not just in times of unrest, but as a visible reminder of European might. However, even at a juncture such as this, in practice the men spent relatively little time actively ‘soldiering’. On average, a European soldier in India had nine hours of drill per week and, barring periods of active service and a few hours here and there of guard duty, little else that they were required to do in a day (except to keep out of the sun). It was the far more numerous sepoys, the Indian troops under the employ of European forces, who composed the majority of the Company and Crown troops in India. For most of the period until the mid-nineteenth century, sepoys outnumbered European troops by a ratio of eight to one.2 The British relied on these Indian soldiers for the vast majority of regular, active duties. European troops cost much more, not just to recruit and train, but also to maintain, in India. A large measure of this cost came from the men’s higher susceptibility to disease. In 1781 General Stubbert explained to Warren Hastings

86  Erica Wald that even in the most healthy seasons, an eighth of the European force was rendered unfit for service due to illness.3 However, despite this and their much smaller numbers, European troops played a critically important psychological role for the Company, seen as a sort of racial backbone for the army. Yet, the men themselves complicated this narrative; while believed to be essential to the maintenance of imperial rule, they were equally seen to be volatile and potentially dangerous. The men were held in very low esteem not just by their commanding officers but also by Company administrators more broadly. Both Company and Crown saw them as little more than degraded louts whose ‘needs’ consisted of a (loosely defined) diet of food, sex and a place to sleep in order to perform their soldierly duties. As such, they were seen as a costly but volatile asset that needed to be protected and carefully managed. This understanding is clearly visible in the ways in which the internal economies of cantonments were controlled and regulated and, more specifically, in the social activities provided for the men. Soldiers were furnished with few entertainments – the only regularly supported recreations involved more salacious activities: regulated sex and drink. Lal Bazaars, the area of the cantonment where regulated prostitutes lived and worked, were established from the 1780s. The canteen system, introduced from the early 1820s, rationalized the distribution of spirits to soldiers. The canteen system also provided a much-needed space within the cantonment where the men could gather and socialize. However, the support for these activities resulted in a number of unwanted consequences for the army.4 Hospital admissions for venereal disease and alcohol-related problems attest to the fact that the canteen and brothel remained popular activities for the men throughout the nineteenth century. Despite the men’s frequent complaints about the lack of things to do, it was only when boredom came to be seen as a serious fiscal and logistical liability that any change took place within cantonments. A number of surgeons anxiously pointed to the consequences of this widespread ennui, citing as evidence mutinous and violent behaviour as well as the high levels of hospital admissions. This led some commanding officers and surgeons to suggest that the men be encouraged to engage in healthier alternatives such as ‘manly sports and recreations’.5 In a piecemeal fashion, alternative amusements began to materialize in cantonments across India throughout the nineteenth century. Coffee shops were situated next to the canteens and offered the men a place separate from the canteen or barracks to gather. Sports and activities which were seen to be more morally acceptable and uplifting

‘At Ease, Soldier’ 87 like cricket, reading, theatrical societies, regimental bands, gardening and temperance societies appeared in some stations. Regimental saving banks and schools opened later in the century with the hopes that both would promote good behaviour among the men. However, these healthier, more virtuous options were limited in scope and very few were officially, universally encouraged. Similar to the disparate and fractured nature of Company governance more generally, soldierly pastimes were unevenly supported. Variations existed not just across the three Presidencies (and their respective armies) of Bengal, Bombay and Madras, but within each of these and, until 1858, between Company and Crown. In reality, support for a particular activity, even if endorsed by the Governor General, was dependent on the whim of the commanding officer. Each officer held his own ideas about the ideal composition of the soldier and it was he who bore the greatest influence over the everyday lives of the rank-and-file. The bureaucratic structures and missives of the colonial state did not always completely penetrate cantonment boundaries. For the individual soldier, colonial governance remained personal, with decisions ‘from above’ selectively adhered to, or ignored, by their officers. The men’s background, or rather the perception of this, remained critical in shaping the kinds of activities that the men were permitted or encouraged to engage in during their many free hours. However, the army actively manipulated this, bearing very clear ideas about what was needed in order to rule India. This chapter suggests that the Company and Crown’s unwillingness to provide for the men’s social or intellectual wants was not simply a reflection of a particular imparted understanding of the composition of the European soldier. Instead, it shows that the conception, or understanding, of the rankand-file was itself deliberately shaped and manipulated. In this vision, the soldier was a combination of brute strength, an almost animalistic sexual drive, and very little in the way of brains. This notion would change over the course of the century – though not as dramatically as one might expect. By the time of Cardwell Reforms of 1870–71, a more definitive shift had taken place. As Edward Spiers has noted, Cardwell’s reforms established the framework within which the army operated until the end of the century.6 The reforms themselves followed numerous earlier changes to the structure of the army – from adjusting the length of service (enacted during the Anglo-Sikh Wars as a measure to reinforce troop strength) to altering recruiting tactics, pay and conditions of service. These earlier bursts of reform activity were piecemeal, rather than revolutionary. With each, however, came

88  Erica Wald attempts to address the men’s ‘moral’ and social needs in what was considered a more respectable fashion. Exploring the activities that were officially encouraged or sanctioned helps us understand how the army conceptualized the ideal soldier. What did this man look like; what purpose was he meant to serve in India and when did he become more reflective of the ‘nation’? This chapter examines the leisure activities open to the men in this period of time in order to form a more complete picture of the everyday lives of soldiers in India during the nineteenth century and, more critically, to assess how these reflected the army’s conception of the soldierly ideal.

Recruits and the ideal soldier While the imbalance between sepoy and European troop strength remained a constant, with the spread of its power the Company recruited greater numbers of European soldiers to serve in India. Despite the perceived importance of these men for ‘holding’ India, army and government officials (themselves drawn primarily from the upper- and upper-middle classes), held firm stereotypes about the ‘degraded’ class of men from which the European soldier was drawn. This understanding placed the men at the very bottom of an imagined, moral hierarchy. Indeed, as late as the twentieth century, the recruits of the eighteenth century were looked back upon as the ‘scum’ of the nation, a rowdy assortment of reprobates, drunkards and pickpockets thrown together with the labouring poor who completed their ranks.7 For much of the century, recruits to both Crown and Company armies had an average age of between 15 and 19 years and earned a daily wage of about one shilling.8 With this wage, it seems unlikely that many men, save those from the lower and working classes, would find army service terribly attractive. Until the mid-nineteenth century, Crown recruits had low levels of literacy and an even greater number were in poor physical condition even before their arrival in India.9 Moreover, the recruiting process itself was heavily reliant on the use of alcohol and, accordingly, drew men already fond of drink. While no recruit could be officially attested until 24 hours had passed since his enlistment (ostensibly to prevent rash, ill-chosen and drunken choices), recruiting sergeants often skirted this requirement by keeping the men in a constant state of intoxication until the 24 hours had passed.10 Following Cardwell’s reforms, the targeted age of enlistment increased. Even then, the system was far from fool-proof and Indiabound recruits remained young and often immature. An 1896 article confirmed that although the army now stipulated that boys must be

‘At Ease, Soldier’ 89 above the age of 20 to be sent to India, a sizeable number slipped through this net by inflating their age on enlistment papers.11 There were some significant variations between Company and Crown troops. British and Irish working class labourers composed the majority of both armies. However, as Peter Stanley has pointed out, the Company attracted a slightly higher calibre of man and there was a certain degree of respectability associated with service in their forces.12 The letters of Mauger Fitzhugh Monk, a native of Guernsey who enlisted under an assumed name following a financial scandal in England, confirmed this when he assured his father that ‘the number of men of good family & education in the barracks here under various circumstances is really astonishing’.13 In a later letter to his sister, Monk promised her that ‘in all but name the Company of Artillery are gentlemen, we have our own cooks, messengers and servants. Everything you can possibly want is brought to you in barracks and the only thing required of you is to keep yourself clean . . . sober and prove yourself smart at the guns’.14 This account points to a number of realities for the European soldier in India. While no doubt Monk’s letter reflected a degree of the Company man’s assumed superiority over his Crown counterpart, it was certainly true that the Company ranker could expect to encounter better-educated peers – at least in comparison to the average Crown soldier. Moreover, Monk’s sentiment echoes that of the grenadier in that both men highlight the lack of responsibilities that would otherwise occupy their days. Monk adds a more positive slant, suggesting the free time that this opened up made his lifestyle in India closer to that of a gentleman and would allow him to instead undertake activities aimed at professional advancement. Monk’s family background meant that his sense of expectation and entitlement was much higher than the average ranker. The majority of those aspiring to a higher station would find themselves disappointed; there was very little chance of promotion from the ranks. Despite assurances from Monk and other ‘gentlemen’ soldiers of the higher class of men serving in India, in the vision of the officers and administrators who made vast pronouncements on the soldiery, this viewpoint was largely disregarded. The army’s administration was not overly concerned with the men’s tender age or with the lack of ‘refinement’ among its ordinary European soldiers. Not only were both Crown and Company unwilling to offer greater pay to attract a higher calibre of soldiers, but for most of the nineteenth century they resisted all pressure to invest in the men’s education. Too much refinement was explicitly deemed to be undesirable among ordinary soldiers. The Duke of Wellington, Arthur

90  Erica Wald Wellesley, was distinctly uninterested in promoting education for the working classes.15 Wellesley’s conception of the soldier – the brainless brawn – was also used to justify his support for corporal punishment in the army, thinking this the only way to control such a mass of men. Regimental schools in limited stations were introduced only just before the public education movement in England achieved a number of successes in the 1870s and 1880s.16 In common with other ‘nonessential’ activities, regimental schools did not operate with the same degree of regularity as, for example, the canteen. Schools were subordinated to a host of other daily activities. They were also stratified by class: while the children of officers could expect to learn ‘classical subjects’, including Latin, at purpose-built schools in the hill stations, the curriculum for soldiers was more basic: arithmetic, writing and dictation, and these were infused with martial undertones. Discussions and debates on the ‘improvement’ of the soldiery – moral, intellectual and physical – began in the late 1810s. Officers and surgeons supporting a proposed moral uplift often linked it with the health of the men, suggesting this as a more ‘cost effective’ way of countering the rising costs of the army medical establishment. An anonymous medical writer (calling himself ‘A King’s Officer’) wrote his recommendations for such improvement in 1825. Reading, ‘private theatricals’ and savings banks were to be encouraged, as should a form of competitive gardening, whereby prizes would be awarded to those men found to be ‘the most diligent and successful horticulturalists’.17 Such proposals ran counter to those of the ‘Wellesley school’. The latter stood opposed to ‘refinement’ and remained in support of controlling the men by force. Wellesley’s views were often framed in opposition to those of liberal statesmen such as Richard Cobden and John Bright. However, for the rank and file in India, these distinctions were not so clear, with one politicized grenadier taking aim at both, commenting angrily on what he saw as ‘military murders’ (the continuation of corporal and capital punishment in the army) before moving to a direct attack on Cobden’s comments on the ‘pampered’ soldiery.18 Administrators and parliamentarians were often keen to point out that the European soldier serving in India was provided with a number of ‘comforts’ that his counterpart serving in Europe did not have. Indian servants within and without the cantonment provided everyday and military-specific services including laundry, saddle cleaning and porterage. Moreover, they argued, careful attention was paid to the men’s diet (and liquor rations). In the view of these parliamentarians, this amounted to nothing less than pampering – and the men were ungrateful and quite possibly spoiled by such treatment.

‘At Ease, Soldier’ 91 The European soldier was essential to the imperial project, but at the same time was disconnected from the growing conception of the nation.19 Seen as an instrument, rather than a citizen, generals like Wellesley and debating parliamentarians could continue to dismiss any ‘superfluous’ demands made for or by the men to allay their boredom or increase their comforts. Debates and discussions about the European soldier framed him as a low-class, degraded ruffian, or, as the politicized grenadier noted, as ‘the lowest class of animals, and only fit to be ruled with the Cat O’ nine tails’.20 The Company’s responses to the pleas and suggestions that a number of surgeons made to attend to the intellectual needs of the soldiery are revealing; a pattern of employing the least expensive means of doing so quickly emerges. What was sought was very much an army ‘on the cheap’. The Company was not particularly interested in expending already stretched resources to provide ‘healthier’ alternatives for the men. By characterizing the men as mindless mercenaries, both Company and Crown justified their decision to spend as little as possible on the men’s upkeep. The army’s assessment of the men’s mental capacities was linked to pronouncements on their sexual proclivities. The European army in India was made up of bachelors. Disconnected from family and the refining impulses that this increasingly implied, it became easier to portray the men as an undifferentiated mass, void of any value or order except for the discipline that the army infused in them. The men’s supposed animalistic need for sex was another element that supported this notion. Instead of discouraging such ‘dangerous’ propensities, or allowing the men to marry, the army did the reverse. Regulated brothels sprung up across India in the 1780s, and managed canteens (complete with a monopoly on the sale of liquor and intoxicants) were introduced in most cantonments from the 1820s. With canteens opening early in the morning and no other place to go, it is hardly a surprise that drinking and alcoholism were ever-present in European stations. The 1847 diary entry of the aforementioned grenadier recounted an imagined dialogue between himself and a peer, trying to draw him into the canteen: Often I have said to myself ‘I won’t drink anymore,’ for I’m sure it’s much better to keep sober, but no one who has not experienced it can know the difficulty of keeping such a resolution. First one will come and say ‘come on, aren’t you coming to the canteen, I have been looking for you this 10 minutes. ‘I would reply often ‘I would rather not go to the canteen tonight, I am going to begin

92  Erica Wald a reformation, for drinking does not suit my fancy and I would rather not go down tonight.’ ‘What, not go!’ he would say astonished.21 The grenadier’s observations suggest some of the ways by which the army attempted to mould the men into a ‘soldierly’ form (perhaps too unruly to be called an ‘ideal’), encouraging them to partake in activities deemed appropriate for their class. The assumption that supported the introduction of both brothel and canteen was that each would protect the men’s health – either by the provision of non-diseased prostitutes or unadulterated liquor and spirits. Alternative, perhaps more ‘wholesome’ recreations for the men were introduced in later years. Bundled with the regimental canteen came the coffee shop, library and regimental savings banks. On the surface, the introduction of these latter spaces appears uncomplicated and innocuous enough. However, each was the focus of debates within both the Military Board and the government. These centred round ideological differences as well as more prosaic matters of cost and the practicalities of space. Any investment in the men’s ‘betterment’, whether it was moral, intellectual, or physical, was subjected to a careful cost–benefit analysis. Just as the cost of introducing a better quality of beer to the canteen would be weighed against the number of men taken ill after ‘wandering’ in search of arrack, so too was the cost of stocking a soldier’s library assessed against measures like the levels of punishment in a regiment.

Regulated entertainments: the reforms of the 1820s In the early 1820s regulated canteens, coffee shops and reading rooms were introduced in some of the larger cantonments where European troops were stationed. While most, if not all, stations supported a thriving canteen, the number of the latter institutions was much smaller. The introduction of such ‘novelties’ depended very much on the whim of a particular commanding officer and many old India hands believed that while alcohol was essential to soldiering in India, reading and education was, at the very least, threatening to good discipline and, at worst, emasculating. Soldiers themselves were keenly aware of the dearth of diversions available to them, with one noting that there were no other places of ‘amusement’ in the cantonment other than the canteen and while it was not ‘compulsory’ to go, very few men had the resolution to avoid it and were certainly never encouraged to do so.22

‘At Ease, Soldier’ 93 Regimental clergymen and missionaries offered a direct, though not particularly forceful, challenge to the centrality of the canteen with the introduction of temperance societies. These groups required members to take a pledge, whereby they would promise to abstain from drink and contribute the money they would have spent on this ‘vice’ to social or religious causes. The societies’ success in curbing intemperance varied. Often, as was the case with the men of the 18th Regiment in Bengal, levels of temperance and ‘virtue’ were inconsistent over time. In this regiment, a number of men signed a temperance pledge while in Fort William but, on learning that they were to be despatched to Burma, begged the clergyman who had administered the pledge to be relieved from it. This plea was made on the grounds that they felt they would not be able to tolerate the climate of Burma without the assistance of liquor.23 In 1839 Henry Piddington, a Captain in the East India Company most famous for his meteorological observations, wrote an impassioned plea in support of coffee as a weapon in the fight against alcohol. Piddington noted that the temperance societies were rarely successful in ‘tempering the men’s passion for spirituous liquors,’ and would do better were they abstinence societies.24 Temperance societies within cantonments were ordered abolished by the government in 1845, on the grounds that clubs and societies were not permitted within the army and their presence violated this rule. The societies remained in towns (and their strength grew markedly again in the latter part of the century) but, from 1845, they could no longer be as close to the soldiery as they might have hoped. No material remains that could outline the reasons behind this decision. However, concurrent debates suggest that the army was not interested in wholly stopping the men from drinking. Again, in the eyes of many commanding officers, temperance societies’ attempts to reform and uplift the soldiery threatened to undermine the men’s brute strength. Regimental clergymen were also early supporters of the reading rooms and libraries that the Company opened across the presidencies from 1819. It is clear that their defenders sought to introduce a higher morality to the men’s daily routine. This is reflected in the books permitted, as well as in the initial orders, which stated that the books could be read only under the supervision of a librarian – initially designated as the regimental chaplain.25 Perhaps unsurprisingly, given the higher rates of literacy among its troops, the Company opened more libraries for its men than did the Crown; it sanctioned three large and four small libraries across Bombay, with similar numbers in Bengal and Madras. While it might appear paradoxical, in Bombay, the introduction of libraries was linked directly to the introduction of the

94  Erica Wald canteen system. As suggested earlier, it was thought that both would lessen the ‘licentious propensities often induced by mere idleness and want of something to occupy [the men’s] attention’.26 In common with approaches to the men’s sexual activities and drinking, the military and government believed that control and regulation was the cure for all that ailed the army.27 Following internal debates within military boards and the Court of Directors in London, the books permitted were carefully chosen. Sir Walter Scott’s Waverly, for example, was initially proposed by the Bombay Military Board, but was struck down as inappropriate by the Court.28 The approved list contained a number of religious works, to which were added ‘classics’ like Paradise Lost, a scattering of works on natural history, poetry and an even smaller number of Hindustani and Persian grammars. Adventure and military fiction, such as Robinson Crusoe and Narrative of a Soldier in the 7th Regiment shared shelf space and were popular choices for both the military boards and the men themselves.29 The rooms were not open to all comers, though. Subscriptions were required and the ‘privilege’ of using them came at the price of 4 annas (16 annas =1 rupee) a month.30 The rooms appear to have been used more as the century progressed, perhaps due to a loosening of regulations which allowed the men to take their one permitted book back to their barracks instead of being forced to read only in the room itself. By the late 1860s, libraries featured a broader assortment of newspapers and popular books. Illustrated papers, like the Graphic and the Illustrated London News, were as popular in India as they were in Britain, providing the men with an additional means of connecting to ‘home’ when their other means of doing so were limited. At some stations, the library also housed a number of other ‘entertainments’ for the men, with carefully selected games, like billiards and bagatelle, on offer. By the 1860s, one private’s diary reveals that during his evenings at the library, he not only read literature such as Shakespeare’s plays and Eton School Days, but also regularly looked at the illustrated papers from London, and played dominoes.31 For Private Wisewould (originally from east London), the library also connected him with another popular soldierly pastime – recollecting the entertainments of ‘home’ – more specifically, the London music halls and theatres. He was able to use his regimental library to read the plays of Shakespeare that he had seen performed earlier at the Britannia.32 Wisewould spent many evenings with a fellow soldier recounting nights spent at the Britannia, a theatre in Hoxton. Private Wisewould’s diary entry also recorded that his commanding officer had permitted the construction of a theatre for the men.

‘At Ease, Soldier’ 95 In December 1870, he bluntly recorded that ‘Private Duckworth shot himself today. . . . The Pantomime of Beauty and the Beast commenced on Tuesday’.33 Wisewould and his friends in the regiment were later able to attend not just the pantomime at Christmas, but music hall performances staged by the men. In addition, they attended a popular minstrel show, put on by Dave Carson, an American blackface minstrel, who toured India in the 1860s.34 Carson’s tour included not only the presidency capitals but also larger military stations. His show in India incorporated a number of Indian stereotypes (as the title of his most famous song, ‘The Bengallee Babu’ suggests). A pamphlet advertising Carson’s appearance at the Delhi Institute during the 1870s revealed a night’s entertainment of the more ‘traditional’ minstrel repertoire of ‘plantation song and dance’ intermixed with Carson’s new ‘Hindustanee-English’ songs as well as extracts from London Punch shows.35 In line with popular viewing habits in England, the men themselves, either in the form of regimental theatre groups, or of the regimental band, performed in pantomimes, variety shows and music hall vignettes. The most popular songs were those that reflected contemporary British patriotic ballads (such as ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’).36 Regimental savings banks were introduced with similar hopes that they would provide another respectable channel for the men’s energies (and surplus pay). However, although sanctioned in 1820, the banks were very limited in number for much of the century. Like the early libraries, banks were restrictive in their policies (and, like libraries, presented as a great dispensation). A soldier was required to give at least seven days’ notice to his Commanding Officer if he sought a withdrawal of any or all of his savings. Further, if that officer believed that the individual intended to make ‘improper’ use of his money, he was authorized to withhold this ‘privilege’ of withdrawal.37 Savers were reminded not just of the rules of the bank, but also printed in every savings book in bold, capital letters was the phrase ‘OBEDIENCE IS THE FIRST DUTY OF A SOLDIER’.38 This was followed by an extract from the Articles of War, complete with a list of the various offences for which a soldier could expect punishment. From this, it is clear that banks and these savings books were seen as a (relatively inexpensive) tool of discipline and control by the army. Soldiers’ account books not only reminded the men of the Articles of War, but also served to refresh the men’s understanding of all the rules of good conduct pay. The criteria for receiving the benefit of good conduct pay were fairly restrictive. In order to be considered, a man needed to serve at least five years, the last two of which he must have remained

96  Erica Wald out of the defaulters’ book. This good behaviour earned him one distinguishing mark and one penny a day added to his pay.39 Thereafter, conduct rewards accrued in five-year increments, up to a maximum of 30 years’ service.

Unofficial pursuits By the 1840s, the reforming zeal that had led to the introduction of the canteen, coffee shop, library and bank had all but evaporated. Men were left to create their own diversions, while still being restricted in the activities that they were allowed to engage in. The activity that appears to have been more encouraged both in the cantonment and on the march was sport. However, even this remained dependent on the whim of the commanding officer. Cricket was often mentioned in the men’s letters and diaries and was used as a measure to judge fair (or fatherly) commanding officers. Brigadier Markham, commanding a brigade in the Second Anglo-Sikh War, found favour with his men for his approach towards regimental sports. Markham was said to be strict, but fair, and encouraged the men to play sport, especially the ‘old but manly game, Cricket’.40Apart from cricket (which not only had the benefit of being perceived as ‘manly,’ but, perhaps more importantly, could be organized quickly and cheaply), the sports favoured by commanding officers attempting to shape the ideal soldier were those with more ‘practical’ purposes: shotput, boxing, stone throwing and running. These sports not only required little or no investment from the Company or Crown but strengthened the men’s physique. Like other social activities, sports followed a seasonal pattern, with the cooler months witnessing a great blossoming of sporting events, both impromptu and well organized. The competitive gardening suggested by the earlier-mentioned ‘King’s Officer’ was more or less shelved until the 1850s, when Lord Dalhousie, the reforming Governor General, again took up the mantle. The success of barrack gardens, like other recreational pursuits, varied enormously. In Punjab in 1856, the introduction of flower and vegetable gardens for the men’s ‘amusement’ was deemed an unqualified success.41 However, in the same year, the situation in Rangoon was very different. Here, the gardens had been proposed and planned with the explicit support of Lord Dalhousie. Dalhousie had deemed the soldiers’ gardens so important that he had ordered a landscape gardener, Mr Scott, to travel to Pegu to draw up plans. Scott’s plan aimed to create a site with, ‘winding walks . . . shady clumps of trees and bright parterres of flowers’.42 Unfortunately, these lofty plans were not

‘At Ease, Soldier’ 97 carried into effect and the men all but abandoned the gardens. This was blamed on the Commissariat, who, it was alleged, had reaped the rewards of the men’s labours, ordering that the vegetables grown be collected (due to a purported shortage in greens). The vegetables were then sold back to the soldiers to supplement their diets.43 The commissariat’s action earned a sharp rebuke from the Military Board at Fort William, but it is not clear if the men returned to their gardens once the situation was rectified. Instead of the ‘English’ garden planned by Scott, the site was deemed to be more of a ‘drill of cabbages drawn up in close columns the same as for a military manoeuvre’.44 This wonderfully descriptive categorization of the disagreement over the soldiers’ gardens is telling and reflects the differing ideas about the soldier himself. For those, like the Duke of Wellington (and, apparently, the Rangoon Commissariat), who resisted all attempts to reform the Golem-like ‘ideal’ of the soldier, garden space should not be wasted on ‘coddling’ the men with such frivolities as flowers or winding walks. However, Dalhousie and the Bengal Board clearly represented the other side of the argument along with those attempting to remould the lump of clay: to make a more ‘moral’ soldier, one who would reflect society more broadly. Even for those like Dalhousie, this was a slightly uncomfortable idea, as paternalistic, moralizing attempts at reforming the men did not allow for their equality. When permitted by their commanding officers, the men used their free time while on the march to go for walks into the towns and countryside. Old forts, Mughal gardens and local menageries were firm favourites. One particular soldier-rambler, Private George Smith, often wrote of his wanderings in his commonplace book. While on the march to Cawnpore in early February 1872, Smith used a halt day in Jaipur to visit the museum built by the Maharaja. Later that month, the men halted in Agra, where Smith visited the Taj Mahal. He observed that it seemed ‘as fresh as when just finished’.45 Two years later, on the march to Chakrata, he took time to wander around the Dehradun Valley, marvelling at its beauty.46 Another man used a halt day in Delhi to travel with a friend to the Qutab Minar. They made the dizzying climb to the summit to look at the views of Delhi and the surrounding countryside.47 The Qutab complex was a popular attraction for the officer class as well. The recollections of one, Major General James Sebastian Rawlins, demonstrate the different kind of visit to the Qutab that officers might expect. On reaching the summit, Rawlins was gratified to find that his khansama (Indian butler)48 had laid out ‘an ample dejeuner’, complete with perfectly iced champagne. The men, he recorded, ‘drank to the memory of the Emperor Acbar [sic],

98  Erica Wald and after smoking our fragrant manillas, enjoyed the scene surrounding ancient Delhi and the modern city of Nadir Shah’.49 The same sharp class divide that marked soldiers’ and officers’ experiences of the Indian countryside was also present in their rambles in search of game. Men of the officer class formed hunting parties on a regular basis, seeking the more ‘traditional’ English quarry of fox (with the less traditional jackal)50 as well as the larger animals to be found across India.51 Soldiers, on the other hand, had to be content to set their sights on smaller prey, like squirrels.52 As Smith’s commonplace book attests, some soldiers expressed a keen (albeit amateur) interest in Indian history and customs. Letters to family and friends laid out the histories (real or otherwise) of the sights and customs they encountered. Soldier’s diaries and letters made frequent mention of Hindu and Muslim festivals, such as the Kumbh Mela and Muharram (referred to as ‘Hobson-Jobson’53). Thomas Dorrington of the 18th Highlanders witnessed the carnivalesque environment of Muharram54 while stationed at Deesa in 1840. He watched, rapt, as the procession, which included men dressed as tigers, and participants practicing self-flagellation, carried the Tabut55 before throwing it into the river.56

Conclusion F. S. Arnott, a surgeon serving in the 1st European Bombay Regiment in 1854, thought an improvement in the health and behaviour of the soldiers in the 1850s was the result of a combination of factors. Arnott’s factors focused on changes to the soldiers themselves. These, in his view, included the recruitment of a better class of men into the service, better treatment of the soldiers, with an expanded range of activities provided for the men, and the on-going reorganization and professionalization of both medical and military services in India.57 The men now recruited into the Company’s service, he asserted, were ‘men of great ability and intelligence, of respectable birth, of superior social position, and of excellent education’; with this, he noted, ‘sobriety is gradually taking the place of drunkenness and sickness and mortality are yearly diminishing.’58 He proudly noted (although his claims seem unlikely and are impossible to verify) that every European regiment of the Company’s service was provided with a bank, school, library, printing press, coffee shop and ‘an excellent theatre’.59 In addition, other ‘amusements’ were provided which included chess and cricket clubs, skittles and draughts-boards. He happily linked the rise in men’s deposits in the savings’ bank with the decrease in the consumption of spirits in the canteen. Arnott and the chaplains were in

‘At Ease, Soldier’ 99 the minority, however, as most observers on the soldiery continued to reinforce the belief in the men’s irredeemably degraded state. Moreover, for every claim that standards (in this respect) were improving, it is easy to find a counterclaim, as we do three years later in an 1857 letter from one British Army soldier, Richard Compton, to his brother, Charles. In this, he repeated the lament that there was no place to go in the evening apart from the canteen and coffee room.60 In the midst of debates about army reform in 1868, Sir Charles Trevelyan insisted that military efficiency depended on the intellectual capabilities of the higher ranks and the brute strength and agility of the lower ranks.61 This is at the heart of why even the smallest of social comforts were denied to the men for so many years. All of the attempts to do so – the banks, libraries and even conduct rewards – were only very unevenly distributed across India in the early nineteenth century. Yet, regimental canteens, daily liquor rations and regulated brothels were standardized across the subcontinent. Trevelyan’s assertion was one still widely held in the late nineteenth century – a stereotyped view of the almost animalistic needs of the European soldier and the kind of masculinity he could provide the army. But perhaps more importantly, the kinds of activities he was encouraged to participate in within the cantonments suggest an army which more actively attempted to shape the rank-and-file deemed to be one of the most crucial elements in maintaining imperial rule. These two views neatly represent the two distinct ways in which the European soldier in India was viewed. The careful cost–benefit analysis, which was ever-present in debates about the army, contributed to the ways in which the men were portrayed. More importantly for the men themselves, these opposing visions dictated the activities that they were allowed, or encouraged, to engage in during their many free hours in the barracks. By the late nineteenth century, the range of activities on offer expanded considerably, reflecting a changing view of the men themselves. These activities were infused with overlapping sets of expectations – not just of the ideal soldier – but also of the appropriate behaviour of Europeans in India. A reading of their carefully managed everyday lives reflects not simply the petty debates over the inclusion of one book over the other in a regimental library, but a broader, evolving debate on the daily structures which would produce the type of men needed to maintain rule in colonial India.

Notes 1 A Grenadier’s Diary, 1842–1856. 131, Asia, Pacific and Africa Collections (APAC) MSS Eur Photo Eur 97, British Library (hereafter BL), London. 2 In 1765, the number of sepoys employed by the British was roughly 9,000; by 1808, following a period of wars and political expansion, this number

100  Erica Wald had grown to over 155,000. By way of comparison, in 1790 the number of British forces serving in India was roughly 18,000. See Edward M. Spiers, The Army and Society 1815–1914 (London: Longman, 1980), p. 121; David Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj: The Indian Army, 1860– 1940 (London: Macmillan Press, 1994), p. 3; C. J. Hawes, Poor Relations: The Making of a Eurasian Community in British India, 1773–1833 (Richmond: Curzon, 1996), p. 9. 3 Letter to the Honourable Warren Hastings, Governor General and Members of the Supreme Council from General Stubbert, Fort William, nos. 12–14, 11 March 1782. National Archives of India (henceforth NAI) Foreign (Secret), New Delhi. 4 For a more in-depth examination of the army’s attempts to manage ‘vice’, see Erica Wald, Vice in the Barracks: Medicine, the Military and the Making of Colonial India, 1780–1868 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). For the interwoven histories of bodily and colonial control, see Mark Harrison, Climates & Constitutions: Health, Race, Environment and British Imperialism in India 1600–1850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999); David Arnold, Colonizing the Body: State Medicine and Epidemic Disease in Nineteenth Century India (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993); Douglas Peers, ‘Soldiers, Surgeons and the Campaigns to Combat Sexually Transmitted Diseases in Colonial India, 1805–1860’, Medical History, vol. 42, no. 2 (1998), pp. 137–60; Kenneth Ballhatchet, Race, Sex and Class Under the Raj: Imperial Attitudes and Policies and Their Critics, 1793–1905 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1980). 5 William Geddes, Clinical Illustrations of the Diseases of India: As Exhibited in the Medical History of a Body of European Soldiers for a Series of Years from Their Arrival in That Country (London: Smith, Elder & Co, 1846). 6 Edward M. Spiers, The Late Victorian Army, 1868–1902 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1992), p. 2. 7 Herman de Watteville, The British Soldier: His Daily Life from Tudor to Modern Times (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1954), p. 78. 8 Hawes, Poor Relations, p. 12. 9 Ibid. 10 Hew Strachan, Wellington’s Legacy: The Reform of the British Army, 1830–54 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1984), p. 55. 11 R. H. Morrison, ‘The Cavalry Soldier in India’, Colburn’s United Service Magazine, vol. XIII (1896), p. 511. 12 James notes that in 1786, nearly all of the 389 men of the 4th Bombay European Battalion gave their previous occupation as labourer, although there was a handful of craftsmen and butchers. Lawrence James, Raj: The Making and Unmaking of British India (London: Little, Brown and Company, 1997), p. 136. For conditions of service in the Company army, see Peter Stanley, White Mutiny: British Military Culture in India, 1825–1875 (London: Hurst, 1998), p. 21. 13 Letter 15, 22 February 1838 from Gunner Fitzhugh O’Reilly to Mr W. P. Mauger. Mauger Fitzhugh Monk, The Book of Mauger; the Life of Mauger Fitzhugh Monk, aka Gunner Fitzhugh O’Reilly. 1838. APAC MSS Eur C575/1, BL.

‘At Ease, Soldier’ 101 14 Mauger Fitzhugh Monk, Letter 16, to Mrs Sarah Magrath from Mauger Monk, 1 July 1839. The Book of Mauger; the Life of Mauger Fitzhugh Monk, aka Gunner Fitzhugh O’Reilly 1838. APAC Mss Eur C575/1. 15 Stanley, White Mutiny, p. 21. 16 This culminated in the Elementary Education Act of 1880, which made school attendance compulsory for children between the ages of 5 and 10. 17 A King’s Officer (anon.), Remarks on the Exclusion of Officers of His Majesty’s Service from the Staff of the Indian Army’ and on the Present State of the European Soldier in India, Whether as Regards His Services, Health, or Moral Character; with a Few of the Most Eligible Means of Modifying the One and Improving the Other, Advocated and Considered (London: T & G Underwood, 1825), p. 87. 18 A Grenadier’s Diary, 1842–1856. APAC MSS Eur Photo Eur 97. 19 Linda Colley argues that in the late eighteenth century, the higher levels of participation and taxation required from the working classes in England resulted in an increased awareness of the ‘nation’. See Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation, 1707–1837 (New Haven, CT; London: Yale University Press, 1992), p. 370. However, soldiers in India continued to be viewed singularly as imperial drudges for some time to come. 20 A Grenadier’s Diary, 1842–1856. APAC MSS Eur Photo Eur 97. 21 Ibid. 22 November 1847, ibid., 38. 23 Norman Chevers, ‘On the Means of Preserving the Health of European Soldiers in India’, Indian Annals of Medical Science, vol. 5 (1858), p. 760. 24 Henry Piddington, A Letter to the European Soldiers in India on the Substitution of Coffee for Spirituous Liquors (Calcutta: The Englishman Press, 1839). 25 This rule was later relaxed and the men were allowed to take books into the barracks with them (a fact which enabled the literate among them to read aloud to their non-literate peers). See Sharon Murphy, ‘Libraries, Schoolrooms, and Mud Gadowns: Formal Scenes of Reading at East India Company Stations in India, c. 1819–1835’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, Series 3, vol. 21, no. 4 (2011), p. 465. Murphy does not state the percentage of literate soldiers, making it difficult to assess the potential success of these reading rooms. 26 Extract Military Letter from Bombay, 29 January 1823. Bombay Military Collection, Reply to the Communication from the Court on the Subject of the Supply of Books for the use of European Soldiers, Military Department Special Collections 1823, APAC L/MIL/5/384, 85a. 27 For more on the regulation of sex and drink, see Wald, Vice in the Barracks: Medicine, the Military and the Making of Colonial India, 1780–1868. 28 Extract Military Letter from Bombay, 29 January 1823. APAC L/ MIL/5/384, 85a. 29 Ibid. 30 Roughly 7 pence, ½ penny. John Box, The Letters of John Box. APAC MSS Eur D/854. 31 17 March 1866, Henry Wisewould, Diary of a Private of the 16th Queens Lancers. APAC MSS Eur F635. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid.

102  Erica Wald 34 11 June 1868, ibid. It should, however, be noted that the cavalry was viewed by many as being composed of more ‘refined’ men. Therefore, the presence of activities such as the theatre comes as less of a surprise. 35 ‘Dave Carson’s Minstrels’ (Benares: Medical Hall Press [n.d. c. 1870]). 36 See, for example, 25 December 1875, George Smith, The Commonplace book of Private George Smith. 1874. APAC MSS EUR C/548; 2 June 1868, Diary of a Private of the 16th Queens Lancers. APAC MSS Eur F635, BL. 37 Rules Establishing Regimental Savings Banks in the Regiments of the British and Indian Armies Serving in Bengal, with the Forms in Use (Calcutta: Military Orphan Press, 1860), p. 4. 38 Office Rules of the Government Savings Bank. Military Account Books, Misc. 1858, APAC L/AG/9/22/5. 39 Regiment of Bengal Fusiliers, Account Book of Jeremiah Gancy, No 2485. Military Account Books, Miscellaneous 1858, APAC L/AG/9/22/5. 40 A Grenadier’s Diary, 1842–1856. APAC MSS Eur Photo Eur 97. 41 India Military Dispatch, 6 February 1856, Number 33, Dispatches to India and Bengal, 2 January to 26 February 1856, APAC E/4/834. 42 Letter to Captain Henry Hopkinson, Commissioner of Pegu, from Lieutenant Colonel A Cunningham, Chief Engineer Pegu and Tenasserim, 16 July 1857, Report on the Result of the Introduction of Soldier’s Gardens in the Province of Pegu, Military Department, Collection 64. Board’s Collections 1857, APAC F/4/2699/191774. 43 Extract Military Letter from Bengal, 5 October 1857, Report of the Result of the Introduction of Soldier’s Gardens in the Province of Pegu, Military Department, Collection 64, Board’s Collections 1857, APAC F/4/191774. 44 Letter to Captain Henry Hopkinson, Commissioner of Pegu, from Lieutenant Colonel A Cunningham, Chief Engineer Pegu and Tenasserim, 16 July 1857, Report on the Result of the Introduction of Soldier’s Gardens in the Province of Pegu, Military Department, Collection 64, APAC F/4/2699/191774. 45 The Commonplace book of Private George Smith, APAC MSS EUR C/548. 46 Ibid. 47 A Grenadier’s Diary, 1842–1856, APAC MSS Eur Photo Eur 97. 48 A khansama, or chief steward, was a household servant in charge of organizing the cooks and cooking. 49 Major General James Sebastian Rawlins, The Autobiography of an Old Soldier, or, Recollections of Fifty Years in India, 1883, APAC MSS Eur F/258/1, BL. 50 This assorted game, hunted with a varied pack of dogs, gave rise to the term ‘Bobbery Pack’, a corruption of the term Baap Re. 51 The Autobiography of an Old Soldier, or, Recollections of Fifty Years in India, APAC MSS Eur F/258/1. 52 A Grenadier’s Diary, 1842–1856, APAC MSS Eur Photo Eur 97. 53 The term ‘Hobson-Jobson’ is a corruption of the cries of Ya Hassan! Ya Hussain! made during the procession. 54 For an analysis of the procession in Bombay, see Prashant Kidambi, The Making of an Indian Metropolis: Colonial Governance and Public Culture in Bombay, 1890–1920 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), p. 124. 55 The tarbut, or ta’ziya, is the model of Hussein’s tomb at Karbala.

‘At Ease, Soldier’ 103 56 Diary of Thomas Dorrington, HM 18th Highlanders. ‘Sketch of a Soldier’s Voyages and Travels’ 1847, APAC Mss Eur F/550, BL. 57 F. S. Arnott, ‘Report on the Health of the 1st Bombay European Regiment (Fusiliers), from 1st April 1846 to 31st March 1854’, Transactions of the Medical and Physical Society of Bombay, vol. 2 (1855), p. 110. 58 Ibid., p. 112. 59 Ibid., pp. 112–13. 60 Letter to Charles Compton from Richard Compton, 12 Royal Lancers, Bangalore, dated 21 February 1857, APAC MSS EUR C243. 61 Sir Charles E. Trevelyan, K.C.B., The British Army in 1868 (London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1868), p. 16.

5 ‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ Archive, memory and W. H. Russell’s (re)making of the Indian Mutiny1 Douglas M. Peers ‘Not one year home from the Crimea and I am once more on my way to the East – another and farther East.’2 So wrote William Howard Russell who had been dispatched to India at the close of 1857 to provide eyewitness coverage of the Indian Mutiny and British responses to it.3 The mutiny of sepoy regiments at the cantonment of Meerut on the morning of 10 May 1857 and the subsequent spread of disaffection to other garrisons in north and central India put British rule in jeopardy. A good deal of northern India, particularly large swathes of Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, and Madhya Pradesh, became in effect no-go zones for the British, and there were fears that the conflagration would soon spread to other parts of India. Much of this fear was driven by rumours of European women and children being sexually assaulted and murdered which in turn provoked brutal acts of retaliation. The sheer scale of the drama unfolding in India gripped the British public, and newspapers scrambled to secure timely and exciting narratives. Russell declared that his decision to go to India was motivated primarily by his wish to establish the veracity of the seemingly endless reports of rape, murder, and desecration which were fuelling demands for retribution. Russell wrote in his diary that ‘I never doubted them [atrocity reports], but I wanted proof, and none was forthcoming’.4 As The Times’ principal source for the Mutiny, his published accounts were very influential with decision-makers as well as key members of Britain’s cultural elite. Charles Dickens, for example, was prompted to write to Russell to tell him that ‘Everybody talks about your letters and everybody praises them’.5 Russell played a major role in memorializing the mutiny through his letters and his published diary: of the latter he noted that ‘three large editions were sold with such rapidity, that I could not make the corrections for the haste wherewith the

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 105 original sheets were passed through the press in order to satisfy the exigencies of my publishers’.6 What Russell found and attempted to convey to his readers was a situation in which race had become the overarching determinant, and where in this ‘farther east’, and despite his efforts to report the ‘truth’, the potent combination of racial antagonisms and colonial anxieties led him to despair that the gulf between colonizer and colonized had become nearly unbridgeable. Some 20 years after the Mutiny, when writing a chapter for a multi-volume history of England, he returned to these events and in particular the massacre at Kanpur [Cawnpore], lamenting that there would be found the ‘well in which . . . was buried for long years, perhaps forever, all sympathy between the Englishman and the Indian’.7 British writings on the Mutiny clearly illustrate that the arrogance and confidence often displayed by writers on India was but a thin veneer. In the century preceding the Mutiny, colonial conquest and consolidation of authority was inextricably linked to military power, yet this power was dangerously dependent upon the co-option of Indian capital and Indian manpower. Consequently, Anglo-Indian militarism was as much a reflection of British anxieties as it was arrogance, occasioned by the realization that colonial authority rested upon rather brittle foundations.8 Paranoia was just as commonplace as pride. In his study of the information order in colonial India, Christopher Bayly has persuasively demonstrated that while the British were certainly eager to acquire, collate, and disseminate information, there were occasions when their supply of information dried up and it was then that imagination and anxiety came to fill in the blanks.9 More recently, Kim Wagner has shown how such intelligence failures were not only a regular feature of colonial rule but that they were predicated upon deeply rooted structural anxieties which had become entrenched by the events of 1857–8. From that perspective, what has become labelled ‘Orientalism’ resulted as much from a lack of information as from a monopoly over such information. These undercurrents of anxiety and of ambivalence, which lay barely submerged beneath the pride and complacency with which Anglo-Indian culture was popularly associated, were captured in many literary and journalistic works of the day including those by William Howard Russell. An imperial crisis of unprecedented proportions, both in terms of its scale and its domestic consequences, the Rebellion was also the first imperial war to be so publicly and closely scrutinized by the media. It was this media focus that persuaded Christopher Herbert to see it ‘not as a geopolitical event but as a literary and in effect a fictive

106  Douglas M. Peers one’.10 Yet the vocabulary, tropes, and meanings through which war and empire were rendered comprehensible to their audience did not originate within a simple bilateral transfer of images and reports from the periphery to the metropole. Instead, they were part of a wider imperial matrix, one in which the boundaries between centre and periphery became blurred as ideas and impressions shuttled back and forth, from the colony to the metropole as well as between points along its expanding frontier, adjusting to ever-shifting and asynchronous political landscapes. Many of these ideas and images put into circulation proved in turn to be both malleable and ephemeral with public and private communications often becoming entangled. Archival selectivity, moreover, has privileged some traces over others, while third parties, like editors, often intervened in the transmission of texts. Russell’s writings on the Indian Mutiny, which comprised his personal diaries and letters, demi-official correspondence, as well as the columns he penned for The Times and the heavily redacted and reworked published diary of his year in India, illustrate well the challenges of attempting to measure authenticity and immediacy when dealing with sources emanating from such a highly charged period. Russell’s observations were never as stable or ‘objective’ as they might appear. For one thing, he was an embedded journalist and hence his perspective was moulded by a unique and constrained vantage point, one wherein his mobility was circumscribed, yet he was given privileged access to the emerging ‘official’ view. Equally importantly, his writings operated on at least three distinctive registers. His private diaries and letters, available in the News International Record Office, differ in interesting and illuminating ways from the diary he published in 1860 and from the letters that he wrote for The Times. Much of the candour has been sacrificed in the public versions, perhaps because of considerations of length, but also due to conscious acts of self-censorship as he sought to reconcile his criticisms of individual acts of brutality with the praise he foisted on the heroic efforts of the army at large. He did admit in his private diary that he had made some additions as well as ‘omissions of conversations and occurrences of a private or confidential character, and of purely domestic and personal references’, but he then reassured his readers that ‘the MS. is printed almost as it was penned’.11 Close comparison of the two works would suggest otherwise, particularly when it came to his reticence in making public his private criticisms and observations of British brutalities. Moreover, because of his powerful connections in India and in Britain, he also wrote letters of a more demi-official nature, ones that were produced with the conscious intention of their being shared with

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 107 decision-makers in Britain. One of the reasons he was pressured to go to India was to help provide some political cover for the beleaguered Governor General who was subject to sweeping condemnations for his alleged leniency towards the rebels, which had earned him the mocking sobriquet ‘Clemency Canning’.12 Prior to his departure for India, Russell dined with Henry Brougham and Edward Frederick Leveson-Gower, Earl Granville. Granville was Canning’s closest friend and confidant in London, and worked with fellow Liberal grandees like Lord Clarendon to muffle criticisms of the Governor General.13 The Governor General’s patrons and friends within the government were acutely conscious of the value of having The Times on their side. The Times for its part was eager to maintain its close links with the government, and hence Russell’s journalistic independence was further constrained. Consequently, rather than seek to establish the ‘authentic Russell’, I will instead focus on how the very plasticity of his writings highlights the contingent and contested nature of archive and memory in Victorian Britain. The latter half of the nineteenth century has been described as the golden age of war correspondents.14 It is equally true that it was also a period of resurgent imperialism and growing nationalist sentiments in Britain. These are not unrelated phenomena. An early commentator on war correspondents noted that ‘Graphic pictures of the life of the camp and incidents of the battle are the stuff that patriotism thrives on’.15 The British public’s sense of empire and their place within it was largely the product of war correspondents and war artists, for colonial wars provided excellent grist for the publisher’s mill. The American correspondent Frederick Palmer wrote that in the days of Britain’s colonial wars, ‘a regular war correspondent was considered as necessary a member of a great British newspaper’s staff as an expert in finance, sports, music or drama’.16 The poet laureate of the British Empire, Rudyard Kipling was equally convinced of the relationship that bound imperialism and militarism together. In his first novel, The Light That Failed (1891), a recently arrived war correspondent is told, ‘You’re sent out when a war begins, to minister to the blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood.’17 It has been suggested that war reporting came of age on 14 November 1854 when readers of The Times were treated to a lengthy account of a rather foolhardy and futile cavalry charge made in a distant theatre of war. ‘They swept proudly past, glittering in the morning sun in all the pride and splendour of war.’18 This much-quoted description of the charge of the Light Brigade helped not only to affirm new standards for war reporting, with authentic (or seemingly authentic)

108  Douglas M. Peers first-hand accounts replacing paraphrased excerpts from official dispatches, it also established the career of the first war correspondent: William Howard Russell. Russell provides an excellent vantage point from which to consider the interconnectedness of war and imperialism. He is commonly viewed as the first professional war correspondent. That is certainly how he became celebrated after his death: the epitaph on his memorial in the crypt of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London declared him to be ‘the first and greatest war correspondent’.19 In a letter to Charles Dilke, Russell referred to himself as the ‘father of the race – the miserable parent of a luckless tribe’, and he did accept the parentage which had been thrust upon him.20 His reputation was initially made on the battlefields of the Crimean War, where his scathing reports for The Times on military inefficiency were juxtaposed against an almost reverential respect for the rank and file of the British Army. War reports had hitherto consisted largely of dry descriptions of military campaigns or brief statements on the outcome of specific battles. Russell provided in their place lengthy and evocative accounts of battles – ones intended to make the reader feel that he/she (though Russell assumed that most of his readers would be male) was actually present during the fighting. In his published diary, Russell disingenuously observed that ‘whilst I was in India I had no authors to consult, no books to read, and I had no guides but my own perceptions; but neither had I any prejudices to overcome nor theories to support’.21 The text which accompanied a gentle caricature of him in Vanity Fair declared him to be ‘An Irishman by birth, and by profession an advocate, Mr. Russell has been devoted from the first years of his manhood to the task of modernizing the English Press’.22 Evelyn Wood, a future Field Marshal in the British Army and recipient of a Victoria Cross during the Mutiny, wrote of him, ‘he combined the accuracy of an Englishman, the shrewdness of a Scotchman, and the humorous wit of an Irishman.’23 It is not easy to measure the significance of his Irish background, though the fact that contemporaries made frequent reference to his Irish background is suggestive. Religious issues are of particular relevance, for not only was his childhood obviously influenced by sectarian question, he chose to marry a Catholic – a course of action that proved difficult as both families registered their displeasure. Perhaps this accounts for his adopting a moderate Anglican religious identity. Politically, he is best described as a moderate: in today’s terms he would best be described as a red Tory. He made one run for public office, an unsuccessful bid as the Conservative candidate for Chelsea in 1869, and he numbered the conservative Carleton Club among his hangouts.

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 109 Russell’s big break had come with the outbreak of the Crimean War. The editor of The Times, John Thadeus Delane, initially asked him to accompany some British troops who were destined for the front. Russell ended up staying for most of the war, providing regular accounts of the military actions in which the British were engaged. He also drew the British public’s attention to the shameful conditions experienced by British soldiers, thereby helping to recast popular impression of the British soldier from drunken scum to Christian hero.24 Russell’s letters were often lengthy affairs, much longer than a newspaper reader today would expect from a columnist. They were upwards of six thousand words each, with perhaps two per week appearing. The effectiveness of Russell’s writings was largely due to his varying the pace of the story; this meant that the reader’s attention was maintained and dramatic moments could be better accentuated. He gained a reputation for accuracy and impartiality, though such characteristics need to be probed more deeply. While a number of those present declared many of his descriptions to be accurate (a letter from the mint master at Constantinople who visited Sebastopol shortly after its capture confirmed the truthfulness of Russell’s description),25 they were not always the result of his own observations. Instead, he was dependent upon a network of informants who in the Crimea consisted largely of junior officers (senior officers were too annoyed at him for his damning indictments of the conditions in which the soldiers lived). Moreover, no matter how determined Russell was to be accurate and fair‑minded, he lacked military experience and therefore did not always have a firm understanding of what was happening. Haste imposed by sailing deadlines for the transmission of reports by ship also meant that he did not always check his facts as thoroughly as he might have otherwise.26 If Russell’s reputation had been established in the Crimea, whoever wrote his obituary in The Times opined that his best writings were those that he produced during the latter stages of the Indian Rebellion of 1857–8.27 I suspect that Delane would likely have concurred for as he had written to Russell on 8 May 1858, ‘we are at last beginning to learn something about India, which was always before a mystery – as far removed from our sight and which it was impossible to comprehend as the fixed stars.’28 Even the Saturday Review, which was not normally inclined to treating The Times favourably proclaimed, ‘Mr. Russell’s Indian letters display the vivid genius of Froissart, without the gossiping credulity which naturally belongs to the fourteenth century.’29 Phillip Knightley concluded that this first generation of war correspondents ‘pandered to the bloodthirsty tastes of the age,

110  Douglas M. Peers chronicling the deaths of thousands of men with little concern beyond whether the event they were witnessing would make a good report’.30 Russell’s vivid and impassioned writings buttressed tendencies already inherent in Victorian society that framed the empire in largely military terms. Key reasons for why the second half of the nineteenth century came to be called the golden age of war correspondents include the fact that there was little or no systemic official censorship, war correspondents were able to roam about relatively unchecked, and wars in far off lands appealed to the growing literate population in the United Kingdom. Warfare in this period could still be glimpsed through a colonial prism, one which yielded a much more romanticized impression than would soon be the case with the advent of industrial warfare. Moreover, battles were still relatively comprehensible. They took place on a sufficiently small scale as to enable the writer to provide readers with both a bird’s eye of the overall action and ground-level impressions of the actual fighting. Colonial campaigns provided opportunities which would not exist in the twentieth century when correspondents had to contend with campaigns covering huge frontages and where human actions were increasingly overshadowed by mechanization. Typical colonial campaigns, at least in so far as they were presented to the public, took place within a carefully bounded arena. Providing a narrative of the Indian rebellion proved much more challenging as military mutinies shaded into civil uprisings and the cast of characters and the field of action remained in constant flux. Much of the fighting that took place in northern India in the fall of 1857 and spring and summer of 1858 was difficult to capture. It is notable that much of what Russell wrote about, and which for many readers in Britain came to define the Indian Mutiny, was the relief of the British Residency at Lucknow – a prolonged operation designed to lift the siege which had imperilled British authority in one of the most symbolically significant cities in northern India, the capital of the recently ousted Nawab of Awadh (or Oudh as it was then known). Russell documented the methodical advance of a British force that took 20 days to fight its way through a densely fortified city which had by then become the last major urban bastion of rebel activity. It is important to note that this was the third attempt to retake Lucknow. A column had been dispatched in the early autumn of 1857 under the command of Henry Havelock to relieve the British Resident at Lucknow, Henry Lawrence, and the garrison under his command. It had just enough force to punch its way through to the Residency wherein was holed up the garrison, arriving there on 25 September,

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 111 but it was not strong enough to subdue the rebels in the area or to keep open the lines of communication between Lucknow and British garrisons elsewhere in Awadh. Havelock decided to use his force to reinforce the defenders in Lucknow, having discovered more food in storage than they had anticipated, and wait for a larger British force to lift the siege. A much larger force under Colin Campbell, the Commander-in-Chief (later ennobled as Lord Clyde), re-established contact with the garrison on 16 November 1857. This force was strong enough to rescue the garrison and make a fighting withdrawal to Kanpur. Lucknow fell into rebel hands and the re-establishment of colonial authority came only in March 1858 when a still larger force, again under Campbell, marched through Awadh. Both rescuers and rescued readily lent themselves to heroic treatments and the story of how it took three relief attempts to save Lucknow from the rebels came to characterize the sacrifices that Britain had to make to restore authority in India. So potent was this symbolism that one of the final actions undertaken by the British in 1947 when they left India was to send a small detachment of troops to Lucknow where they lowered the Union Jack that had flown day and night ever since the Mutiny, the only site in the British Empire to enjoy that privilege. Commercial calculations also help to account for the media’s focus on colonial wars. The rise of a mass reading public hastened the commoditization of news, and editors competed with each other for a slice of the expanding market. Military and imperial narratives had a ready audience at hand. Russell’s history of the Crimean War, while not strictly speaking a colonial war, was by nineteenth-century standards a bestseller, selling at least 200,000 copies.31 As the one-time Indian Army officer, journalist, and essayist J. W. Kaye reminded his readers, ‘the war-maker is sure of popular applause’ because his actions are ‘ever intelligible to the multitude.’32 War made for gripping reading, especially when it was set in an exotic location, for it provided dramatic stories of bravery, villainy, comedy, and tragedy. Even parody was included, for the army included all types of characters in all types of situation. Kaye went on to defend battle narratives on aesthetic grounds as well. He insisted that ‘whilst it has somewhat decayed in the West, the poetry of war seems to have its freshness in the East’ for ‘the nature of the country, the character of the people, their mode of warfare, their dress – are all surrounded with poetical associations’.33 Warfare became an excellent arena within which differences could be drawn, and by casting it in such a poetic setting the message would have greater impact. Newspapers vied with one another to get the scoop on colonial campaigns – their success or failure could be reflected in their

112  Douglas M. Peers circulation figures. Lucy Brown’s study demonstrates that there was an obvious cash incentive to newspapers to print breaking news as quickly and graphically as possible – the newspapers that were most up to date enjoyed considerable gains in circulation at the expense of their rivals.34 Russell’s Crimean correspondence helps account for the jump in The Times’ circulation from around 50,000 in 1853 to 70,000 by 1856.35 But to get the scoop required not only accelerated means of communication, which the advent of the telegraph helped to facilitate, but also writers who could grab and retain the reader’s attention. To do so meant recruiting authors who had both credibility and an ability to write lucidly and entertainingly. Credibility could be achieved in a number of ways but a common technique was to weave the correspondent into the narrative in such a way as to convince the reader of the author’s proximity to the events. One consequence of this was that the reporter became increasingly part of the story. This can be clearly seen in Delane’s request to Russell that he ‘tell us something about yourself in your next letter. You are at least as interesting as India to all of us’.36 A technique Russell used to establish his authority was to share with readers the details of the injuries he had suffered in the course of a campaign: in the case of the Indian Mutiny, Russell refers to his being wounded in an action just outside Bareilly. Several horses stampeded, with one horse kicking Russell twice: once in the stomach and once in the upper thigh.37 The latter proved to be the more serious, causing Russell to have to be carried in a dooly (a covered litter carried by two or four men) as he was unable to ride and could only walk with difficulty. He did, however, reassure his readers that though ‘this is a bitter disappointment to me . . . I have arranged that I may move with the advanced guard, so as just to keep abreast of the guns; therefore I shall not miss anything that is going forward’.38 In the years leading up to the Mutiny, India’s presence in the pages of the British press had grown rather fitfully, peaking during times of war and falling off during years of peace. In the 1790s there was a fascination with Tipu Sultan.39 Later, the Afghan and Sikh Wars grabbed the public’s attention. Knowledge of India consequently took on a decidedly militaristic hue. This process was only further amplified when news of the mutinies and rebellions reached Britain in mid-1857. While the scale of the uprising caught the British unaware, contrary to what some have assumed, there had been warning signs for some time and these had been discussed. Even Delane had written in April 1857 – a month before the outbreak at Meerut – that he was alarmed at reports of growing discontent in the Bengal Army.40 Nevertheless, as

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 113 late as August 1857, three months after the uprising at Meerut and the rebel takeover of Delhi, The Times was still confidently declaring that it was nothing more than a military mutiny and it would be quickly suppressed.41 This failure to appreciate the full extent of the uprising can be attributed in large part to the fractured nature of the communication links then in place. Getting information to and from India was a logistical nightmare for governments and individuals alike. The telegraph had just arrived in India, but it had not spread that far inland, and technical limits to the amount of information that could be dispatched through it resulted in information arriving in Britain fitfully and incompletely. This also posed difficulties for Russell in seeking to ensure that The Times was first with breaking news. Stapled to the front of Russell’s manuscript diary were sailing times, postal times and his own jotted comments as to which permutation and combination of overland routes would work best in sending letters and packets.42 Russell would sometimes turn to the telegraph for breaking news but this was a costly decision, and as there was no single or complete telegraph line to Britain, it could still take several days for chunks of text to reach Britain. While there were more than 4,000 miles of telegraph line in India by 1857, it was not until 1859 that the British government consented to a plan to link Britain and India which by 1865 meant that Karachi and London were in direct contact.43 Mowbray Morris, the manager of The Times¸ would rebuke Russell for running up the expenses, noting that ‘these telegrams of yours have never repaid the trouble and the cost they have occasioned’.44 The Times had not immediately dispatched a correspondent to cover events in India. Partly this was because dedicated correspondents were still relatively novel but also its managers, like so many observers in Britain, assumed that it would be a short campaign, and anyone sent would likely arrive after its suppression. The Times initially relied on its customary news sources from India: officers and civilians who wrote regularly to The Times, sometimes unsolicited, and reproduced articles from Indian newspapers that found their way to London. The quality of such reports varied considerably. As Kaye sardonically noted: Occasionally, in a paroxysm of energy, induced by the perusal of some stirring intelligence from India, one of them may rush to a writing‑table, seize a pen, and endeavour to lay before the world, through the medium of the ubiquitous Times newspaper, his opinions of the manner in which a certain battle ought to have been fought, or certain political negotiations conducted.45

114  Douglas M. Peers Not surprisingly given the scale of the uprisings, The Times was bombarded with letters and unsolicited contributions in 1857. It could also count upon the long-standing practice whereby senior officials would regularly file reports for The Times, anonymously in nearly all cases so as not to offend the East India Company. Philip Meadows Taylor (novelist and officer in the Nizam of Hyderabad’s army), Henry Russell (Bengal Civil Service), and Charles Trevelyan (Bengal Civil Service and eventual Governor of Madras) were just some of the on-site observers upon whom The Times had depended in the past. In 1857, one of their most frequent correspondents was Cecil Beadon, Home Secretary to the Government of India in Calcutta.46 And, as was common in this period, newspapers turned to each other and swapped stories. Anglo-Indian editors supplied material for The Times and other periodicals in exchange for domestic news and intelligence. J. T. Delane had grown disenchanted with this situation, in large part because he had grown weary and wary of the parochialism of the Anglo-Indian community. This was a prejudice which he not only shared with William Howard Russell but one which would be reinforced by further exposure to this community. In October 1857, Delane wrote to his subeditor that ‘it will be a great comfort when we begin to have a Calcutta correspondent of our own instead of having to trust their abominable papers.’47 As the full impact of the rebellion became apparent, and given the increasingly racialized tone of reports from India which had become a subject of considerable concern to the government and which they communicated to Delane, The Times decided to send a correspondent. It is worth noting that during a brief period when Delane was absent on holiday, The Times also adopted a much harsher and less tolerant tone in its coverage of India. It was in October, while Delane was away, that reports of the massacre at Kanpur of British soldiers, civilians and their families reached London. Demands for retribution escalated and cries for revenge appeared in the editorials in The Times. On October 29 one demanded that ‘Every tree and gable end in the place should have its burden in the shape of a mutineer’s carcass’.48 It then attacked the Governor General who was urging restraint, declaring that ‘Between justice and these wretches steps in a prim philanthropist’. The clamour for vengeance grew louder and louder. Charles Dickens, who otherwise was on friendly terms with Russell, ranted in one of his letters that: ‘I wish I were commander in chief in India. The first thing I would do to strike that oriental race with amazement should be to proclaim to them, in their language, that I considered my holding that appointment by the leave of God, to mean that I should

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 115 do my utmost to exterminate the Race upon which the stain of the late cruelties rested.’49 What the public, however, did not fully recognize was that Canning’s strategy was dictated as much by practical concerns as it was by loftier appeals to the rule of law. As Canning confided to Charles Wood, the Secretary of State for India, ‘This is [the] native character. You must knock a native down before you pardon him. He will not accept your pardon till he is at your mercy.’50 Furthermore, Canning also had his eyes on the future and the challenges to reconstruction were the British unwilling or unable to secure Indian cooperation or at least acquiescence. Delane found himself on his return to London caught in a cross-fire with members of the government seeking his help in trying to urge restraint while the public demanded blood. Complicating matters was the fact that Delane’s brother was in the Bengal Army and the private letters he received from him echoed many of the sentiments with which the government was contending. One thing, however, was clear to Delane and that was that The Times was too dependent on the views of the Anglo-Indian community in India. He approached Russell to see if he could be persuaded to go to India. Russell was the obvious choice given his familiarity with the army and popularity with the public. Russell clearly identified with the army: when photographed he often adopted quasi-military garb, and for 41 years he served as the co-proprietor and editor of the Army and Navy Gazette. In the editorial he wrote for the first issue of that magazine, he declared, ‘The time is auspicious for the establishment of a journal that may deserve to become the organ of the Services, and the means of communication between them and the public, for whose interests they exist. In all honour we aspire to be the organ of the Services, so far as they can have an organ at all.’51 Yet according to one contemporary observer, Private Wickins, Russell was far from neutral in his reportage. Wickins accused Russell of favouring only those units or individuals who lavished attention on him.52 Similar accusations surfaced in later campaigns that he covered. It has been suggested that during the Franco-Prussian War Russell had attached himself too closely – physically as well as psychologically – to the headquarters of the Crown Prince of Prussia.53 Moreover, in his tour of the confederate states following the outbreak of the US Civil War, he found himself drawn to the officers of the Confederate Army, favourably comparing their dignity and sense of purpose with the more fractious and less refined northern generals. At first Russell baulked at Delane’s request that he go to India, largely out of concern for his wife’s health, but he eventually relented.

116  Douglas M. Peers His friends in London noted his reluctance, with William Makepeace Thackeray writing to the publisher John Blackwood that he had recently dined with Dickens at a ‘man’s party to poor W. Russell who sails for India on the 26th and is very low about it’.54 Tellingly, Russell in his published diary glosses over these negotiations and does not mention his reluctance or misgivings. Instead, he implies it was his decision and it was driven by his quest for the truth, particularly whether there was any substance to the rumours of sepoys committing atrocities against European women and children.55 Certainly, this concern was an important factor as evidenced by his discussions with Delane and others prior to his departure. But it was not a straightforward or an easy decision for him. Russell eventually reached Calcutta in early 1858, nearly eight months after the outbreak of the rebellion. Soon after arriving he joined the headquarters of Colin Campbell, the Commander-in-Chief, and accompanied it on its march upcountry where he observed the recapture of Lucknow and the campaigns fought to regain control over Awadh and Rohilkhand. An important difference between his coverage of the Indian Mutiny and the Crimea is that he was not able to roam about as unimpeded as he had been in the Crimea. He was much more dependent upon the army and hence his perspective was more restricted. Partly this was owing to the state of the country – rebel forces were everywhere and so for safety he remained close to the army. Once, when he set out to do some fishing, he was attacked by a small party of rebels.56 But, the current climate also worked against ‘objective’ reporting, at least on the level of that he provided from the Crimea. It was one thing in the Crimea to report back on the inefficiencies of the army administration. But in India, where the war quickly and widely became framed as one between good and evil, civilization and barbarism, Christianity and heathenism, it just did not do to dwell too much on British excesses, incompetence, or inefficiencies, at least publicly. Consequently, Russell practiced more self-censorship in India than had been the case in the Crimea. It is therefore not surprising that we find that Russell proved willing in the end to surrender, though never completely, some of his independence. Russell’s willingness to cooperate with the government in trying to dampen public demands for retribution also stemmed from a decision he had made following discussions with Delane. Prior to his departure, Russell dined with a number of government ministers who spoke strongly in favour of the Governor General and urged Russell to establish close contact with him in the hope that his writings would counteract public criticism, especially over allegations that Canning

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 117 had gone ‘soft’ on the rebels. At the same time as the government was coaching Russell, they were also imploring the Governor General to make the most of the opportunity afforded to him by a well-disposed journalist. Canning was bluntly told that he ‘would be a born idiot not to be tolerably open and decently civil to R[ussell]’.57 In light of these expectations from London, Canning helped to arrange for Russell a place in the Commander-in-Chief’s camp and effected other introductions as well. Campbell and Canning also gave Russell access to the telegraph that was being unfurled as the British advanced. The telegraph allowed Russell to get parts of his reports quickly back to Calcutta or Bombay, but from there he was still dependent on slower modes of communication, such as steamers from Bombay to the Red Sea, which meant that most of his reports were printed at least four weeks later in The Times. The time saving was only a matter of days which later caused Mowbray Morris, the manager of The Times, to complain of the costs which he estimated at £5,000.58 This was nearly eight times the salary that Russell was offered for going to India for a year. Russell was by all accounts widely respected as a storyteller. A contemporary assessment of him in the magazine Vanity Fair declared that he ‘is a most admirable teller of good stories’.59 It went on to identify in his work the qualities that best accounted for his success, namely that ‘With a very few facts to work upon, he will sit down and build up a full and impressive account of a battle or a negotiation so vivid and life-like that a reader may fancy he has actually seen the battle or been present at the negotiation itself.’60 A recurring characteristic in most of his writings was the use of tropes associated with chivalry for they helped to mask the more brutal realities of war. The strong nineteenth-century interest in chivalry is often attributed to writers like Sir Walter Scott who turned to chivalry and the Gothic as a reaction against what were viewed as the crass materialism and narrow individualism of the modern age. There is much to this. But there was also an important imperial dimension at work.61 Chivalry helped to legitimate and prop up hierarchies that were threatened by political, social, and economic upheavals. Gender roles, questions of status and racial boundaries – all critical issues in the Victorian empire – could all be more easily defended and policed by invoking chivalric tropes. Moreover, the effectiveness of Russell’s writings was largely due to the pacing of the story – by varying the pace, the reader’s attention was maintained, and dramatic moments were accentuated. He also gained a reputation for accuracy and impartiality, though such conclusions need to be probed more deeply. From rough notes

118  Douglas M. Peers taken in the field, or culled from conversations with those around him, he would draft letters which would be converted into columns in London. Those same rough notes would serve as the basis for a published narrative that was usually presented as a diary. But his published diaries were carefully reworked and there were important differences between his private notes, which consisted of diary entries, self-contained bits of prose and random observations, and the version to which the public had access. Graphic accounts of British atrocities as well as reports of sexual assaults committed by British soldiers were omitted from his published diary on the Indian rebellion.62 The same holds true for some of his later travels: for example his meeting with Abraham Lincoln in 1861 merits only one line in the manuscript diary held in the News International Record Office but three pages in the published version. And even his private diaries contained within them still further levels of privacy for in places he slipped into a form of shorthand. Russell’s most famous and impressive piece of reportage from India was his recounting of Campbell’s capture of Lucknow. It was written up in heroic terms, earning Russell the approval of much of the military establishment in India. Delane was also pleased, writing to Russell on 8 May 1858: ‘your story of Lucknow equals the very best of your Crimea achievements. It has been fully appreciated and you have not as you had in Crimea a large party interested in running you down and contradicting you.’63 Relations between Russell and the military high command remained much more positive than they had been in Crimea, where Garnet Wolseley, among others, had argued that Russell’s dispatches had provided vital intelligence to the Russians. This had prompted Wolseley to describe war correspondents as a ‘race of drones who eat the rations of fighting men’.64 In India, Russell avoided such accusations by identifying much more closely with the army. Colin Campbell, the Commander-in-Chief, even promised that he would share everything with him but with one proviso: he was not to disseminate any of it within India but instead could share it only with his correspondents and audience back in England.65 Campbell’s obituary in Colburn’s United Service Magazine noted that ‘Sir Colin . . . never did a wiser thing than when he admitted the correspondent of The Times to his confidence’.66 For the most part, Canning and Campbell seemed satisfied with Russell’s efforts, though on one occasion, Canning bemoaned Russell’s reliance on ‘camp gossip’.67 Yet, Russell’s writings did not simply echo the military values and conventions of the day. In arguing that war correspondents fuelled xenophobia and ultranationalism, Knightley made an exception in

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 119 the case of Russell, for not only was he deemed to be more cultured than most of those who came after him, he also spoke out against the horrors of war, and in particular the atrocities that were committed, even by those whose cause he championed. More recently, Christopher Herbert has taken this one step further and has provocatively argued that Russell’s Mutiny letters prefigure the writings of Joseph Conrad in that their anti-imperialism was anchored in apprehensions over how empire was corrupting British society.68 His private writings in particular exhibit a preoccupation with the dangers of going ‘native’, though such anxieties also surfaced in print. He dwelled, for example, in his diary over ‘the evils of the low standard which Indian life has forced upon us’.69 In another entry he complained that there is ‘pretty much the same distinction of caste between the English in India as prevails among the natives’.70 Where the two differ however is that while Conrad was sceptical of colonial paternalism, suspecting that it was little more than a convenient disguise, Russell’s writings have echoes of the conservative imperial paternalism associated with Edmund Burke, John Malcolm, Mountstuart Elphinstone, and Thomas Munro, to name but a few. Russell’s letters have been credited with dampening demands for violent retribution in the course of the Indian Rebellion, and in his private correspondence intended for the ears of government as well as for his editor, he strongly condemned the more virulent rumours in circulation. For example, he was outspoken in his criticisms of the extra-judicial punishments meted out to captured Indian rebels as he was conscious of the long-term consequences of what in effect had become a race war. All these kinds of vindictive, unchristian, Indian tortures, such as sewing Mahomedans in pig-skins, smearing them with pork-fat before execution, and burning their bodies, and forcing Hindoos to defile themselves, are disgraceful, and ultimately recoil on ourselves. They are spiritual and mental tortures to which we have no right to resort, and which we dare not perpetrate in the face of Europe.71 Such observations ran the risk of alienating popular opinion and it has been speculated that the ten per cent drop in circulation experienced by The Times in 1858 was partially attributable to his writings not being attuned to the public mood.72 He may have earned the gratitude of the government, but the wider public was largely deaf to his appeals for moderation and the rule of law.

120  Douglas M. Peers The fact that Russell criticized imperial policy is not in and of itself proof that he was anti-imperial, for his criticisms of particular imperial actions or events do not necessarily mean that he disagreed with many of the key assumptions underpinning colonial rule. In many cases such criticisms were contained within prevailing tropes of imperialism. His diary entry for 10 May 1858, the first anniversary of the outbreak of the rebellion at Meerut, makes clear the extent to which he identified with an imperial cause: his insistence that ‘never was the strength and courage of any race tried more severely in any one year since the world began than was the mettle of the British in India in 1857’ proves that he too took pride in the British Empire, at least in abstract terms.73 But if Russell sometimes held back from attacking the military too vigorously, the same could not be said of his treatment of civilians in India. From his first contacts with India, Russell fashioned a very negative image of the non-military members of the British expatriate community in India. He frequently depicts them in quite derogatory ways in his private and published writings. In one instance he complained, ‘It is difficult to find out the springs which move the social feelings of the English settlers in India. There we are not colonists, we are disunited settlers each of whom thinks that his neighbours are depriving him of a share of the plunder.’74 And by residing in India for so long, they seemed to have ‘imbibed their worst feelings, and to have forgotten the sentiments of civilization and religion’.75 On 9 October 1858, the Saturday Review acknowledged Russell’s impact, insisting that ‘Thanks to him we know the truth as to Lord Canning and Lord Clyde and, what is of infinitely greater importance, we are thoroughly on our guard against Anglo-Indian terrorism’.76 The behaviour of the lower classes of British civilians in India cast colonial rule in a negative light, for they were neither constrained by military discipline nor provoked by the kinds of attacks that could justify violence such as that to which British soldiers had to resort. Consequently, Russell’s writings not only subscribed to, but also helped to propagate, the notion that imperial culture out on the frontiers was substantively and positively military. Russell was also convinced that British society as a whole was advancing more quickly than Indian society. He demonstrates these sympathies in a number of places, perhaps most tellingly when reflecting on the changing sexual frontiers of British India. It is said that formerly the corruption of our officials placed them on easy terms with the natives, the habit of living with native women then general now rare also brought them into intimate relations with the inhabitants and it was a recognized part of every

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 121 bungalow in the old times – a zenana or house for women. The fact the English man has improved whilst the native stood still. . . . The poor people scarce know anything but their instincts.77 It is clear from Russell’s writings that while he might have railed at the worst excesses of racism in India, he was never fully immune to it. Describing his voyage from Kurnaul, he noted in his private diary, ‘some of them (the people) looked very insolent as I passed so much so I really felt inclined to try and kick them.’78 It is telling that in the published edition of his diary, he embellished this statement by indicating that the people he had passed were Muslims, suggesting that he had bought into the widespread belief that Muslims were the driving force behind the rebellion. Another contemporary recorded that in one of his last letters from India, Russell ‘tells a delightful story which he heard from the Commander-in-Chief. Alluding to his landlord in Allahabad, Lord Clyde said, “You doubtless heard what he did?” “No.” “Well, he was much in debt to native merchants when the Mutiny broke out. He was appointed special commissioner and the first thing he did was to hang all his creditors”.’79 In this instance, there is a noticeable lack of commentary by Russell – he simply recounts the story. He did, however, judge other instances of violent retribution much more harshly, especially if they threatened to lower the reputation of the British by bringing them down in his eyes to the level of their Indian subjects. Russell tended to distinguish between brutalities attributed to soldiers – however regrettable they might be – and those committed by civilians and men not in the vanguard. Extenuating circumstances were often invoked for the former. On an occasion when two Eurasian women complained that they had been assaulted by European troops, the fact that they were not white clearly informed his response to their situation. After stressing the fact that they were Eurasian, he claimed, ‘they were used to such attentions [and thus] escaped worse than death by ready compliance with the worst.’80 He would not make excuses for civilians who were implicated in vigilante actions. A number of these instances made their way into the published diary; others were confined to his private diary, or were communicated personally to Delane with the intention that they be used in an effort to impress upon the British government the need for due process.81 The problem that Russell had with many of these civilians was that they were not gentlemen. He warned that ‘I am persuaded that a large importation of uneducated English, Irish and Scotch into India as artizans, colonists and clerks or government employs would be just the way to lose the empire of the east forever’.82 He made much the same point

122  Douglas M. Peers in his diary, claiming that ‘I cannot imagine any means of irritating the natives, exciting their aversion towards our rule, and bringing the British name into contempt more effectual, and certain of success, than introducing among them a large proportion of vulgar, violent, or coarse-minded men, of an inferior class’.83 His patrician leanings, with their emphasis on hierarchy, order and duty, are equally evident in his idealization of army life. When soldiers were implicated in violent acts, we are often left with the impression that such acts were the consequence of Indian auxiliaries – loyal sepoys and Sikh and Nepalese levies – rather than the British rank and file. In one instance, Russell reports an episode in which a captured rebel was roasted alive – he expresses dismay that Englishmen observed these acts of brutality, but then goes on to reassure his readers that Sikh soldiers did the actual burning and it would have been unsafe to intervene.84 Interestingly, Russell harboured no misgivings over looting. In fact, following the capture of Lucknow, he tried to purchase an armful of jewellery from a soldier for Rs 100 – the soldier never delivered, and Russell ruefully noted later that he had heard that an officer had sold the same haul for £7,500.85 He did nevertheless acquire a few objects, including a portrait of the King of Awadh. Russell was mindful of the impact that unrestrained criticism would have, and in preparing his letters for The Times or editing his diary for publication he tended to elide some of the more controversial topics. In discussions with officials in India, he took great pains to stress that he did not intend to attack the British sui generis. Instead, as he told J. R. Sherer, the Collector at Kanpur, he was only speaking about ‘a base and brutal minority’.86 Russell also took umbrage at the comments made by one French observer who spoke critically about the behaviour of British troops in India, remarking that the rules of war did not apply in India as this was not a war; it was an uprising and a mutiny and ‘therefore the rules are different’.87 Moreover, his writings betray much of the same vocabulary typically associated with Orientalism. He draws from the familiar reservoir of Orientalist descriptors – Indians are depicted variously as lazy, apathetic, vicious, childlike. At Lucknow, before its recapture, Russell noticed that many of the Indians in the city continued to fly kites – a popular recreation in India. This prompted him to write: ‘They are the true composite of monkey and tiger, those Orientals. Any one of those amicable kite-flyers would probably disembowel you – cut off your head if you fell into his hands and could not defend yourself.’88 He was inclined to view Muslims with particular suspicion. ‘The fact is that the Mohammedan element in India is that which causes us

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 123 most trouble and provokes the largest share of our hostility.’89 And he viewed caste, that Orientalist marker par excellence, as the biggest challenge of all: ‘Of all formidable things to overcome in the interests of civilization and Christianity, caste is the most formidable – it is all but insuperable.’90 Princes and zamindars (large landlholders) are viewed a bit more positively, but their manhood and vigour is called into question by the fact that begums and concubines in India were able to gain so much influence over their men. Russell’s writings on the Indian Mutiny, significant insofar as they proved to be such an important vector through which events in India became knowable within domestic society, are equally important as delineating the complicated interplay between shifting understandings of race, religion, class, and gender at a critical juncture in imperial history. Racial and religious boundaries certainly informed his work, but these were complicated by his own however imperfect appreciations of the social gradations within these communities, and his sense of the perils facing the British were they to treat such distinctions lightly. In the end, his account of the operations to suppress the Mutiny, while celebrating the efforts made by British forces to restore order, exposed the underlying forces which would continue to threaten Britain’s grip on India. Just as his writings on the Crimea lauded the soldiers while exposing British mismanagement of the war, his Mutiny letters and diary could praise the army while calling into question the policies and practices of the colonial regime. It is unquestionable that at first glance much of what Russell had to say was steeped in a traditional Orientalist brew, and that he was ideally positioned to disseminate his message due to his fame, the status of The Times, and the public preoccupation with such unprecedented attacks on British authority. But in terms of the conclusions he drew about Indian society and the role the British could and should play, it was the Orientalism of an earlier generation, one that was increasingly out of step with Victorian constructions of India. However, Russell also recognized that British authority needed to be founded on something more than force or the fear of force. Indians must be won over to the benefits of British rule if for no other reason than the British lacked the resources and manpower to continually put down revolts on the scale of the recent Indian Mutiny. He declared in his final diary entry from India: Let us be just, and fear not – popularize our rule – reform our laws – adapt our saddle to the back which bears it. Let us govern India by superior intelligence, honesty, virtue, morality, not by

124  Douglas M. Peers mere force of heavier metal – proselytize by the force of example – keep our promises loyally in the spirit, nor seek by the exercise of Asiatic subtlety to reach the profundity of Asiatic fraud.91 British rule must be sensitive to local customs and traditions, though it needed to take care not to be seduced by eastern ways. In the aftermath of the Indian Mutiny, he wrote to A. H. Layard that ‘if it were only that Hindustan may find one advocate for its unhappy cause against the excesses of Anglosaxonism which elsewhere is the salt of the earth, but which is an evil element in many respects in the life of the Hindoo and Musulman because there is no public opinion to exert influence over it’.92 His belief that colonial rule must adapt itself to specific situations was a theme to which he would return later when writing on other colonies. He came to admire Bishop Colenso for his ability to effect the kinds of cross-cultural dialogues in Natal that Russell felt were necessary for the survival of the British Empire. Closer to home, he reminded his readers that attention must be paid to the needs and demands of its Irish subjects who, like the peoples of India, should not be taken for granted. Nevertheless and despite efforts to recast Russell as an anti-imperialist or at least an embryonic liberal imperialist, closer scrutiny of the archive that he has left reveals that his statements about imperialism were deeply contingent upon the audiences with whom he was engaged, and consequently his imperialism had a much more fluid quality to it than has hitherto been appreciated. In many ways, however, his views seem to have more in common with old-style Tory imperialism, one which had a pedigree stretching back to Edmund Burke rather than that which could claim descent from a James or John Stuart Mill. One of his earliest biographers noted that Russell ‘always called himself a conservative’.93 Within Anglo-Indian circles, his lineage goes back to Thomas Munro and John Malcolm, not T. B. Macaulay or William Bentinck. It was a position that reflected the dynamic interplay of his myriad experiences at home and abroad, facets of which are captured by the archives in which we find him. It resonated with his readers because it not only came to them in a familiar guise, the tropes and vocabulary were ones to which they had already been introduced, but its settings were those most quintessential events in the Victorian imperial calendar: the many wars fought throughout its expanding territories. Wars provided proof of the best and worst aspects of colonial rule, and by examining them carefully, lessons for the future could be deduced. In a private letter to Delane, Russell declared, ‘I believe that India is the talisman now by which England is the greatest power in

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 125 the world, and that by its loss we lose the magic and prestige of the name which now holds the world in awe.’ But he then injects a note of caution, ‘I believe that we can never preserve India by brute force along except at a cost which will swallow up all the wealth of the home country.’94 This acknowledgement that British rule was dependent upon military force yet vulnerable because of that dependency highlights a number of important ambiguities that underpinned colonial rule and in particular the role that the army played in the ideologies and administration of colonial India. While the army came to symbolize many of the more admirable traits of colonial rule, namely purpose, discipline and sacrifice, in and of itself the military could not in his eyes remain forever the principal foundation for colonial rule. This realization stemmed in part from his readings of colonial society, notably the alien character of the colonial state and its insensitivities to local conditions. It also arose from the increasingly interconnected domestic and imperial worlds – India was no longer exotic and isolated, a territory that lay largely outside British political and cultural life. Improved communications between India and Britain and growing personal and familial links with India, much of which were dependent upon military personnel or framed in terms of military experience, produced a much more dynamic situation than had existed prior to 1857. While the actual political and military consequences of 1857–8 may not have been as fundamental as some have argued – many of the policies and procedures of colonial rule as well as much of its personnel remained unchanged – in indirect yet important ways the place of the military within the colonial world was brought under closer scrutiny.

Notes 1 Rudyard Kipling, as quoted in John O. Springhall, ‘“up Guards and at Them!”: British Imperialism and Popular Art, 1880–1914’, in John M. Mackenzie (ed.), Imperialism and Popular Culture (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1986), p. 50. Recent studies which engage with W. H. Russell and the Indian Rebellion include Rajmohan Gandhi, A Tale of Two Revolts: India’s Mutiny and the American Civil War (London: Haus, 2011); Christopher Herbert, War of No Pity: The Indian Mutiny and Victorian Trauma (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008); and Chandrika Kaul, ‘“You Cannot Govern by Force Alone”: W. H. Russell, the Times and the Great Rebellion’, in C. Bates and A. Major (eds.), Mutiny at the Margins: Britain and the Indian Uprising, vol. 3, Global Perspectives (New Delhi: Sage, 2013), pp. 18–35. 2 William Howard Russell, My Diary in India, in the Year 1858–9, 2 vols., 4th ed. (London: Routledge Warne and Routledge, 1860), vol. 1, p. 1.

126  Douglas M. Peers 3 While I prefer the term Rebellion to Mutiny when labelling these events, on account of Rebellion better capturing the diverse acts of protest then occurring as well as acknowledging more explicit participation by civilians, I have chosen to use Mutiny in this chapter on account of it reflecting more accurately contemporary understandings of the event. 4 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 1, p. 2. 5 Dickens to Russell, 7 July 1858, Graham Storey and Kathleen Tillotson (eds.), The Letters of Charles Dickens, vol. 8, 1856–1858 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1995), p. 600. 6 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 1, p. 1. 7 William Howard Russell, John Goodall, Peter Bayne, and et al. The National History of England, Civil, Military and Domestic, from the Roman Invasion to the Present Time; with an Historical Introduction, by Henry, Lord Brougham, 4 vols. (London; Glasgow: William Collins, Sons, and Company, 1877), vol. 4, p. 570. 8 Douglas M. Peers, Between Mars and Mammon: Colonial Armies and the Garrison State in Early-Nineteenth Century India (London: Tauris, 1995). 9 C.A. Bayly, Empire and Information: Intelligence Gathering and Social Communication in India, 1780–1870 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 10 Herbert, War of No Pity, p. 3. 11 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 1, p. V. 12 A telling example of the animus whipped up around Canning can be seen in this excerpt from a letter from Charles Dickens to Emilie de la Rue, 23 October 1857 (shortly after news of Kanpur had reached England) in which Dickens exclaimed, ‘I suppose a greater mistake was never made in the world, than this wretched Lord Canning’s maudlin proclamation about mercy. It would have been bad enough, if the Hindoos lived in the Strand here, and had the ideas of London vagabonds; but, addressed to the Oriental character, it is hideously absurd and dangerous.’ Storey, Letters of Charles Dickens, p. 473. 13 The Times, The History of the Times: The Tradition Established, 1841– 1884 (London: The Times, 1939), p. 312. See also Clarendon’s comments on the meetings with Russell before his departure. Herbert Maxwell (ed.), The Life and Letters of George William Frederick Villiers, Fourth Earl of Clarendon, 2 vols. (London: Edward Arnold, 1913), vol. 2, p. 158. 14 For example, Howard Good, ‘The Image of War Correspondents in AngloAmerican Fiction’, Journalism Monographs, vol. 97 (1986), pp. 1–25; Alan Hankinson, Man of Wars: William Howard Russell of the Times (London: Heinemann, 1982); Philip Knightley, The First Casualty: From the Crimea to Vietnam: The War Correspondent as Hero, Propagandist, and Myth Maker (New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1975). The roots of this idea can be traced back to the beginning of the twentieth century; as early as 1914 writers were talking nostalgically about a lost golden age. See, for example, F. Lauriston Bullard, Famous War Correspondents (Boston, MA: Little, Brown and Co, 1914), p. 1. 15 Bullard, Famous War Correspondents, p. 28. 16 Good, ‘The Image of War Correspondents in Anglo-American Fiction’, p. 3. 17 Springhall, ‘“Up Guards and at Them!”’, p. 50. 18 The Times, 14 November 1854, p. 7.

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 127 19 Knightley, The First Casualty, p.  4. A new edition of Knightley’s work has recently appeared. Another important work that addresses the development of war reportage in this period is Roger T. Stearn, ‘War Correspondents and Colonial War, c. 1870–1900’, in John M. MacKenzie (ed.), Popular Imperialism and the Military, 1850–1950 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1992), pp. 139–61. There are a number of studies of William Howard Russell, most of which are either biographical in nature or provide examinations of particular episodes in his career, particularly his coverage of the Crimean War and the American Civil War. Imperial tropes are identified but are not systematically analyzed in these works. See, for example, Nicolas Bentley (ed.), Russell’s Despatches from the Crimea, 1854–56 (London: Andre Deutsch, 1966); Caroline Chapman, Russell of the Times: War Despatches and Diaries (London: Bell and Hyman, 1984); Martin Crawford, ‘William Howard Russell and the Confederacy’, Journal of American Studies, vol. 15, no. 2 (1981), pp. 191–210; Martin Crawford (ed.), William Howard Russell’s Civil War Private Diary and Letters, 1861–1862 (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1992); Hankinson, Man of Wars; Ilana D. Miller, A View from Abroad: William Howard Russell and the American Civil War (London: Sutton, 2001). 20 Russell to Charles Dilke, 1880, Add MS 43911 ff.4–6 (British Library) 21 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 1, p. II. 22 Vanity Fair, Men of the Day – No. XCVI, 16 January 1875. 23 Bullard, Famous War Correspondents, p. 67. 24 The reconfiguration of the British soldier into a heroic figure was also due to the upsurge in paintings which took soldiers as their foci. See J. M. Hichberger, Images of the Army: The Military in British Art, 1815–1914 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1988). 25 McK. A. Annand, ‘Sevastapol After Its Capture, 1855’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, vol. 37, no. 150 (1959), pp. 82–5. 26 John Sweetman, ‘Uncorroborated Evidence: One Problem about the Crimean War’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, vol. 49, no. 200 (1971) pp. 194–98. 27 ‘William Howard Russell’, The Times, 11 February 1907, p. 7. 28 The Times, The History of the Times: The Tradition Established, 1841–1884 (London: The Times, 1939), p. 317. 29 Ibid., p. 318. 30 Knightley, The First Casualty, p. 44. 31 Richard Altick, The English Common Reader, 2nd ed. (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1998), p. 388. 32 J.W. Kaye, `The War on the Sutlej’, North British Review, vol.5 (1846), p. 258. 33 J.W. Kaye, ‘The Poetry of Recent Indian Warfare’, Calcutta Review, vol. 11 (1848), p. 222. In the same article, Kaye asserts that ‘Your Orientalist is the prince of story-tellers.’ (p. 224). 34 Lucy Brown, ‘The Treatment of News in Mid-Victorian Newspapers’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, vol. 27 (1977), pp. 23–39. 35 S.N.D. North, History and Present Condition of the Newspaper and Periodical Press of the United States: With a Catalogue of the Publications of the Census Year (Washington, DC: G.P.O., 1884), p. 137.

128  Douglas M. Peers 36 Delane to Russell, 8 July 1858, quoted in John Atkins, The Life of Sir William Howard Russell, 2 vols. (London: John Murray, 1911), vol. 1, p. 342. 37 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 1, pp. 397–401. 38 Ibid., vol. 1, p. 399. 39 P. J. Marshall, ‘“Cornwallis Triumphant”: War in India and the British Public in the Late Eighteenth Century’, in Lawrence Freedman, Paul Hayes and Robert O’Neill (eds.), War, Strategy and International Politics; Essays in Honour of Sir Michael Howard (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), pp. 57–74; Douglas M. Peers, ‘“Those Noble Exemplars of the True Military Tradition”; Constructions of the Indian Army in the MidVictorian Press’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 31, no. 1 (1997), pp. 109–42. 40 The Times, The History of the Times: The Tradition Established, 1841–1884, p. 309. 41 The Times, 3 August 1857, p. 8. 42 Mail from Kanpur to Bombay takes 12 days, Kanpur to Calcutta takes 5 days, ‘therefore if I was to send letters from Cawnpore to England via Bombay I should post them on the 12th clear day before date of making up – thus for March 9, I post letters on the 25th February’. It goes on to list the days when the overland mail from Bombay will go out. Mails for England from Bombay go out on the P&O steamer on the 9th and 24th of most months – the mails which leave Bombay on the 9th reach London via Marseilles on the 3rd following and via Southampton on the 10th – the mails leaving on the 24th reach London on the 21st and 28th respectively. During the monsoon months – June, July and August, the mails go out five days earlier. W. H. Russell, Diary for 1858, News International Record Office, London 43 John Tully, ‘A Victorian Ecological Disaster: Imperialism, the Telegraph, and Gutta-Percha’, Journal of World History, vol. 20, no. 4 (2009), pp. 559–79. The connection went from Karachi to the head of the Persian Gulf, where the line was joined to the telegraph network being laid out by the Ottoman Empire which was linked in with several European networks. Christina Phelps Harris, ‘The Persian Gulf Submarine Telegraph of 1864’, Geographical Journal, vol. 135, no. 2 (1969), pp. 169–90. 44 Hankinson, Man of Wars, p. 133. Interestingly, W. H. Russell also wrote an account of the heroic efforts to string a telegraph line across the Atlantic. William Howard Russell, The Atlantic Telegraph (London: Day & Son, 1865). 45 J.W. Kaye, `Recent Military Memoirs’, Calcutta Review, vol. 14 (1850), p. 266. 46 The Times, The History of the Times: The Tradition Established, 1841– 1884, p. 309. 47 Arthur Irwin Dasent, John Thadeus Delane; Editor of ‘The Times’; His Life and Correspondence (London: John Murray, 1908), p. 268. 48 The Times, 29 October 1857, p. 8. 49 Dickens to Miss Burdett Coutts, 4 October 1857, Storey and Tillotson (eds.), Letters of Charles Dickens, p. 459. 50 Canning to Wood, 27 February 1860, MSS Eur F78/55/3 ff.80‑1. Asia Pacific and Africa Collections, British Library (hereafter APAC). 51 Editor’s Introduction, Army and Navy Gazette, vol. 1 (1860), pp. 1–2.

‘The blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood’ 129 52 Peter Wickins, ‘The Indian Mutiny Journal of Private Charles Wickins of the 90th Light Infantry’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, vol. 36, nos. 146–147 (1958), pp. 80–6, 130–6. 53 Brown, ‘The Treatment of News in Mid-Victorian Newspapers’, pp. 23–39. 54 Thackeray to Blackwood, 21 December 1857, Edgar F. Harden (ed.), Selected Letters of William Makepeace Thackeray (New York: New York University Press, 1996), p. 321. 55 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 1, p. 2. 56 Ibid., vol. 1, pp. 276–7. 57 The Times, The History of the Times: The Tradition Established, 1841–1884, p. 316. 58 Atkins, The Life of Sir William Howard Russell, vol. 1, p. 311. 59 Vanity Fair, Men of the Day – No. XCVI, 16 January 1875. 60 Ibid. 61 Thomas R. Metcalf, Ideologies of the Raj: The New Cambridge History of India, III.4, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 79–80. 62 For example, he was quite disgusted at the rates of syphilis that prevailed among the troops following the retaking of Lucknow. W. H. Russell, diary entry, 6 March 1858, News International Record Office, London. On another occasion, he referred to soldiers of the 79th and 93rd regiments being responsible for a number of rapes, and in an interesting twist on the now familiar rape tropes of the Indian Mutiny, he describes Indian women, feeling the shame of their situation, throwing themselves down wells, some with babies in their arms. This account mirrored the many rumours of dishonoured European women taking their own lives. Diary Entry, 26 March 1858, News International Record Office, London. 63 J. T. Delane to W. H. Russell, 8 May 1858, WHR/1/45, News International Record Office, London. 64 Halik Kochanski, Sir Garnet Wolseley: Victorian Hero (London: Hambledon, 2000), p. 43. 65 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 1, p. 170. 66 ‘The Late Lord Clyde’, Colburn’s United Service Magazine, no. 118 (1863), p. 10. 67 Canning to Stanley, 23 July 1858, #112, Photo Eur 474, APAC, British Library, London. 68 Herbert, War of No Pity, pp. 64–5. 69 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 2, p. 154. 70 Hankinson, Man of Wars, p. 119. 71 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 2, p. 46. 72 Circulation dropped from 55,000 to 50,000. Kaul, ‘“You Cannot Govern by Force Alone”: W. H. Russell, the Times and the Great Rebellion’, in Bates and Major (eds.), Mutiny at the Margins, p. 21. 73 W. H. Russell, Diary Entry, 10 May 1858, News International Record Office, London. 74 Ibid., 15 January 1858. 75 Ibid., 9 October 1858. 76 Saturday Review, 9 October 1858. 77 W. H. Russell, Diary Entry, 17 February 1858, News International Record Office, London. 78 Ibid., 10 June 1858.

130  Douglas M. Peers 79 Dasent, John Thadeus Delane, p. 306. 80 W. H. Russell, Diary Entry, 18 April 1858, News International Record Office, London. 81 One of the most graphic examples was shared with Delane in a letter. A tahsildar (headman) of a village in the Doab was charged and convicted of being a rebel, and in Russell’s eyes, he was correctly sentenced to death. But the day before his execution, he was dragged out by the Magistrate – Mr Willock – who had him flogged and then he ‘took his lighted cigar out of his mouth and thrust the hot end up his anus’. ‘How he howled, that was the joke’. W. H. Russell to J. T. Delane, 29 July 1858, JTD/9/53 News International Record Office, London. 82 W. H. Russell to J. T. Delane, 29 July 1858, JTD/9/53 News International Record Office, London. 83 W. H. Russell, Diary Entry, 19 February 1859, News International Record Office, London. 84 Ibid., 9 March 1858. 85 Atkins, Life of Sir William Howard Russell, vol. 1, p. 305; also Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 2, pp. 331–2. 86 Atkins, Life of Sir William Howard Russell, vol. 1, p. 342. 87 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 1, p. 222. 88 W. H. Russell, Diary Entry, 8 March 1858, News International Record Office, London. 89 Ibid., 8 June 1858. 90 Ibid., 25 January 1858. 91 Russell, My Diary in India, vol. 2, pp. 437–8. 92 W. H. Russell to A.H. Layard, 28 November 1860, Add MS 38986 (British Library). 93 Atkins, Life of Sir William Howard Russell, vol. 1, p. 279. 94 Russell to Delane, 20 January 1859, Atkins, Life of Sir William Howard Russell, vol. 1, p. 357.

6  From the Black Mountain to Waziristan Culture and combat on the North-West Frontier Gavin Rand In civilized warfare force is directed against the armed enemy and his defensible positions but not against his country and subjects who may be morally unconcerned in the hostilities and innocent of offence. But this is not civilized warfare; the enemy does not possess troops that stand to be attacked, nor defensible posts to be penetrated nor innocent subjects to be spared. He has only rough Hills to be penetrated, robber fastnesses to be scaled, and dwellings containing people, all of them to a man concerned in hostilities, there is not a single man of them who is innocent, who is not, or has not been, engaged in offences, or who does not fully support the misconduct of his tribe, who is not a member of the armed banditti. The enemy harasses the troops as they approach, threading the defiles, and leave their village, carrying off everything that can be carried, abandoning only immovable property – walls, roofs, and crops. What are the troops to do? Are they to spare these crops and houses, losing the only opportunity they are ever likely to have of inflicting damages on the enemy, marching back to their quarters without effecting anything, amidst the contempt of the hillmen? . . . To spare these villages would be as unreasonable as to spare the commissariat supplies or arsenals of a civilised enemy. Richard Temple, Secretary to the Chief Commissioner of Punjab, 18561

* * * Between 1849 and 1914, imperial troops undertook more than 60 expeditions against the tribes of the North-West Frontier.2 Partly because of their inability to pacify the region, the specificities of frontier warfare occupied officers, officials and commentators throughout the colonial period. As Temple’s account makes clear, frontier combat was regarded as distinctive: the ecology of the frontier region, and the supposed truculence of the tribal populations who lived there, were

132  Gavin Rand thought to require particular strategic and tactical adaptations. By 1914, a host of publications had emerged offering histories of, and instruction in, frontier conflict: the Governments of Punjab and India issued increasingly sprawling official histories in 1873, 1874 and 1907, while a variety of compendium volumes were published either side of 1900, including Charles Callwell’s oft-cited Small Wars in 1896, and H. C. Wylly’s From the Black Mountain to Waziristan in 1912.3 Following Wylly, this chapter examines colonial engagements on the Black Mountain, and in Waziristan, during the late nineteenth century. The chapter offers a cultural reading of colonial campaigning, arguing that combat on the frontier was shaped, in important ways, by a cultural exchange: strategic, tactical and logistical calculations reflected ideas and assumptions about the frontier, its population and their relationship to colonial power.4 By tracing the development of specific rationalities for frontier conflict through a series of deployments, the chapter reveals the intersection of colonial culture and imperial military power, confirming Nicholas Thomas’s assertion that colonial violence was always ‘mediated and enframed by structures of meaning’.5 The dialogue between colonial culture and operational practice is most clearly signalled in the conspicuously performative logic of frontier campaigning.6 According to Callwell, the ‘great principle’ for fighting small wars was ‘that of overawing the enemy by bold initiative and resolute action, whether on the battlefield or as part of the general plan of campaign’.7 Boldness and vigour were the essential qualities for colonial soldiers facing ‘savages and guerillas’ for, as Callwell explained in his analysis of an expedition against the Chitralis in 1895, ‘moral force is even more potent than physical force in compassing their downfall’.8 Frontier expeditions were thus conceived and executed as performances which sought to instantiate colonial authority through the penetration and occupation of tribal territory. Situating colonial culture and colonial combat in the same analytic field allows us to explore more effectively how military praxis was shaped by overlapping and mutually reinforcing ideas about tribal opponents and colonial authority.9 In short, it helps us to see how culture shaped not only the attitudes of colonial soldiers but also how it informed their strategic and tactical decision-making. Reading colonial expeditions as cultural projects also allows us to better understand the limits of colonial military power on the frontier. While most frontier operations provided few direct engagements with enemy forces, emphasizing the ‘moral’ effects of colonial interventions obscured the inability of colonial troops to force decisive engagements with tribal opponents. As Temple made clear in 1856, the penetration of ‘rough hills’

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 133 and destruction of crops and houses were typically the only means of punishing ‘savage’ enemies. The cultural rationale for these actions helped to empower colonial officers to do something and so to disguise their inability to effect decisive encounters with tribal opponents. The rhetorical emphasis on the supposed ‘truculence’ of the frontier tribes, which was codified in a corpus of colonial ethnography, reflected the same limits on colonial authority; essentialising discourses of Pathan fanaticism served to obscure the failure of colonial schemes to settle the frontier.10 Situating the history of frontier conflict in these contexts helps us to better understand the role of the military in representing empire in the metropolis, not least because this approach illustrates how the instrumentalist concerns of the imperial military are sedimented in the colonial archive.11 Colonial accounts of frontier warfare – such as those offered by Temple, Callwell and Wylly – were deeply implicated in attempts to secure imperial authority. H. C. Wylly conceived From the Black Mountain to Waziristan to address a specific weakness of colonial (military) knowledge: to provide a single volume to impart to British officers knowledge of both the ‘wild men’ they could expect to encounter on the frontier and the ‘equally wild country in which operations were to be conducted’.12 The instrumentalist genealogy of colonial counter-insurgency is overlooked in much of the historiography: though there is a considerable literature on the North-West Frontier, there are few detailed, scholarly analyses of nineteenth-century frontier conflicts.13 Much of the extant work traces the emergence of a doctrine of frontier warfare to the turn of the twentieth century, a periodization which reflects the slew of publications which emerged in the aftermath of the protracted, and expensive, operations of 1897–8.14 This framing overlooks the way in which twentieth-century texts drew on existing ideas and practices: Wylly’s text, like Callwell’s, articulated the specificity of frontier warfare in ways that built directly on the cultural readings provided by Temple and others in the previous century. Thus, while a doctrine of frontier warfare was codified only around the turn of the century, the genealogy of ‘savage warfare’ can be traced through various forms, from at least the 1850s.15 To explore this genealogy, and its relationship with colonial military praxis, let us follow Wylly, first to the Black Mountain, and then to Waziristan. * * * Lying in the Hazara district, on the very edge of imperial territory, the ‘Black Mountain’ comprised a series of peaks rising from a ridge punctuated by deep intervening glens. The inhabitants of the

134  Gavin Rand region – mostly Hassanzai, Akazai and Chagharzai Pathans – were regarded as impoverished and largely insignificant, if occasionally troublesome.16 Between 1852 and 1892, five ‘punitive’ expeditions were dispatched against the Black Mountain tribes. On each occasion, imperial troops confronted the ecology of the frontier as well as the tribesmen who resided there: as Wylly’s preface makes clear, colonial understandings of ‘wild men’ and ‘equally wild country’ were mutually reinforcing. As we will see, military commanders frequently equated subduing the country with subduing the population. The first punitive expedition against the Black Mountain tribes was prompted by an incident in 1851 in which Hassanzai tribesmen killed two customs officials undertaking (unauthorized) survey work near the border. The principal objective of the campaign, which began in 1852, was to drive tribal forces from the crest of the Black Mountain, a region which was, in effect, a shared (or contested) dominion.17To seize the ridge, the expeditionary force was disaggregated, and three columns advanced independently with the objective of clearing and occupying the mountain’s heights. This show of force was duly completed, while other regular troops were left in reserve ‘to make demonstrations’ on surrounding positions.18 Operations continued until early January, by which point a host of Hassanzai villages had been destroyed and up to 20 tribesmen killed.19 The campaign was deemed a success, and colonial troops were withdrawn. In his report on the operations, Lieutenant Colonel F. Mackeson, the Commanding Officer, remarked: ‘the fact of the highest summits of the Black Mountain having, when clad with snow, been climbed by British and Kashmir troops in the face of all the opposition that its mountain defenders, prepared and resolute to oppose them, could bring them against them, needed no amplification.’20 While there few direct encounters with tribal forces, Mackeson’s summary suggests there was a significant performative element in the operations: occupying the crest, demonstrating on surrounding peaks and destroying ‘hostile’ villages were calculated attempts to project colonial force against the tribes and the ecology of the mountain itself. The colonial sources suggest that tribal responses frequently worked in a similar register: the tribesmen made a conspicuous show of confronting the expeditionary troops, ‘waving flags and flourishing sabres’ and following up colonial forces as they withdrew. Though colonial accounts of the expedition emphasized the range and effect of the operations, the transient nature of the occupation and the inevitability of a very public retreat clearly afforded those who opposed the expedition space for alternative readings of the engagement. Indeed, the ability of

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 135 tribesmen to challenge performances of colonial power – by ‘following up’ withdrawals and publicly contesting imperial dominion – was a frequent cause of concern for commanders and commentators.21 The 1852 expedition did little to ‘pacify’ the Hazara frontier; the Black Mountain tribes were implicated in disturbances throughout the 1850s and the 1860s. In 1868, a large body of tribesmen attacked a police post in the Agror Valley, prompting the dispatch of a second, and more substantial, expedition. As in 1852, the operations reflected an explicitly performative logic: the force disaggregated, and columns were dispatched to assert dominion over the Black Mountain.22 Wilde, commanding, believed that the ascent of the mountain – ‘where no roads existed . . . through dense forest, and over slopes broken up by huge masses of rock’ – had surprised the tribes. Having secured the ridge, pioneering and reconnaissance operations were pushed forward and troops then destroyed a number of Pariari Syed villages. According to Wilde, colonial mobility, allied to the use of mountain artillery, apparently for the first time, had contributed to the ‘overawing’ of the tribesmen.23 When tribal representatives submitted to colonial terms, F. R. Pollock, the Commissioner, compelled senior tribesmen to accompany colonial troops on a march through tribal territory – ‘in a token of submission, and as hostages for their good behaviour during our march’.24 The penetration and occupation of tribal territory was invested with specific cultural significance: Pollock reported that this was ‘called, in oriental phraseology, “lifting up their purdahs”’, explaining that ‘the aims and objects of Government were fully attained when our troops, at a slight sacrifice of human life, established themselves on the most commanding position in the enemy’s country’.25 As Pollock made clear, particular understandings of tribal culture shaped both the nature of the operations and the measures by which their success was weighed. Following a similar rationale, the Government of India was optimistic about the operations and their likely effects, concluding they would ‘doubtless convince the border tribes that they cannot inflict annoyance on our frontiers without rendering themselves liable to punishment, despite the almost inaccessible situation of their villages’.26 While the material effects of the expedition may have been ‘limited’, the Governor General reported that ‘the exhibition of our ability to penetrate into the heart of their country and to inflict chastisement, if rendered necessary, has produced considerable effect and tends to a subsequent respect of our power and of our territories’.27 In fact, the Hazara frontier was ‘disturbed’ through the 1870s and 1880s and a third expedition was dispatched following an attack

136  Gavin Rand on a colonial survey party in 1888 that left two British officers and four sepoys dead.28 Though it transpired that the party was conducting unauthorized reconnaissance in contravention of standing orders, the attack confirmed the sense that the Hazara frontier was beyond control. Colonial outrage was compounded by the stripping of the bodies, and further by a series of ‘threatening demonstrations’ adjacent to the colonial frontier. Confirming the performative and dialogic nature of the frontier encounter, one officer concluded: ‘no doubt the tribes have flattered themselves that we were frightened off by these demonstrations, and in consequence are more than usually pugnacious and contemptuous.’29 The disturbances forced a re-evaluation of the once-lauded 1868 expedition: the Government of India reported that the effects of the 1868 campaign had proved ‘very transitory’, while the Government of Punjab concluded that ‘the expedition [of 1868] failed to convince the tribes of the strength of the British government and encouraged them in their belief in the accessibility of their villages to a punitive force’.30 James Lyall, the Lieutenant-Governor of Punjab, concluded that there was no prospect of settlement ‘until military action had proved to the Khan Khel Hassanzais and the Akazais that their country was not beyond our reach, and that we had the power to punish them’.31 The Punjab Government reported that ‘the prestige of the British government on the Hazara border had sunk to a dangerously low ebb’.32 These rereadings make clear, once again, how frontier conflicts were framed in cultural terms. The 1888 expedition was one of the largest punitive expeditions of the nineteenth century, involving nearly 10,000 troops. Operating in four columns, the force began a coordinated advance into tribal territory on 4 October. The expedition lasted for a little over one month, in which time there was only one significant engagement – at the village of Kotkai on 4 October, where Hassanzai tribesmen and a group of the so-called Hindustani fanatics opposed the initial advance of the fourth column.33 Colonial troops deployed Gatling machine guns to good effect, halting advancing swordsmen before they could reach British positions.34 Mountain artillery cleared tribesmen from fortified positions before the village, while a further assault, supported by artillery and machine guns, captured the village itself.35 Enemy dead were estimated at more than 200, while just five colonial troops were killed. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the engagement on 4 October was the only occasion on which tribesmen and their allies sought to engage colonial troops at close quarters. Thereafter, the Black Mountain lashkars (tribal war bands) offered very little direct resistance: there were some

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 137 reports of sporadic guerrilla activity, but the despatches record only one other hostile action by the tribesmen. Unable to force further engagements with the tribes, the expeditionary forces manifested the colonial presence in other ways. Road building operations were pushed forward to create a material infrastructure which would, according to the Adjutant-General, ‘impress the tribes . . . with a sense of their insecurity against a hostile visit, should they offend again’.36 Requisitioning of crops and fodder, and the signal destruction of settlements, compounded the disciplinary penetration of tribal territory. Villages were selected for signal destruction for a variety of reasons: sometimes because their inhabitants were suspected of being involved in specific acts of hostility (recent or long passed), sometimes simply because of their putatively ‘inaccessible location.’ Thus, mountain artillery was increasingly used to attack villages at greater distances: General W. Galbraith, commanding the Second Brigade, wrote to the Quartermaster General, to report that the bombardment of the hitherto-unvisited Kand villages had immediate ‘good effect, inhabitants clearing out with goods and cattle’.37 In lieu of direct engagements with tribal forces, these kinds of spectacular operations were conducted with the intention of ‘proving’ the ability of colonial troops to penetrate tribal territory. Thus, Garhi, a Parari stronghold at which tribal forces had gathered in strength and with standards, and Kopra, thought to be the ‘most inaccessible of the Parari villages’, were ‘selected for destruction in order to show the tribe that we had the power of moving anywhere in their country’.38 To underscore this point, the Government of India then approved a march on Thakot – the most northerly of the Parari villages – and a location hitherto unvisited by colonial troops. In fact, a column of troops had been dispatched to Thakot in 1868, but the advance had been abandoned, giving ‘the inhabitants an exaggerated idea of the security of their position, which it was now necessary to correct’.39 The Governor of the Punjab wrote that the advance on Thakot was intended ‘as a demonstration and to exact satisfaction’.40 Despite precipitous terrain on the approach to the village, a mixed force of imperial troops reached Thakot, unopposed, on 28 October. The village was spared, save for a promenade through the village by imperial troops, accompanied by the pipes of the Seaforth Highlanders playing ‘You’re o’er lang in coming, lads’. The symbolic and performative registers of frontier conflict could hardly be clearer.41 After their conclusion, the Punjab Government reported to the Government of India that the 1888 expedition had been successful:

138  Gavin Rand ‘it has been demonstrated to these tribes once and for all that their country can be traversed by British forces . . . the whole of the Hazara border has been thoroughly cowed’. In summing up the effects of the operations, the Secretary to the Government of Punjab reported that ‘the effects of the Expedition have been far reaching and are likely to last in the same way as the effects of the Expedition of 1868 have lasted, but with exactly the contrary tendency, the LieutenantGovernor feels no doubt. All along the Peshawar border the effect has been great . . . and there is no doubt that the effect will extend to Kohat’.42 Anticipating ‘the fear inspired along the border by our operations’, the Deputy Commissioner at Peshawar speculated that ‘no doubt the account of the ease with which we worked over this rugged country, our improved weapons, telegraphic and heliographic appliances and other arrangements has spread far and wide’.43 The optimism was, once again, misplaced: when colonial troops set out to ‘prove’ their authority by marching along the crest of the Black Mountain in autumn 1890, large numbers of tribesmen gathered in the now-familiar ‘threatening demonstrations’. After snipers fired on imperial troops, the promenade was abandoned. Even the abandoning of the march, however, was weighed in performative terms: McQueen, commanding, was reluctant to retreat under fire and thus commenced his retreat having first ascended a spur in the mountain’s foothills, a strategic sleight of hand he hoped would disabuse the tribesmen of any notion that imperial troops had been forced into retreat.44 Thus, yet another expedition was sanctioned and in March 1891 a colonial force once again marched against the tribes of the Black Mountain. The pattern of operations was repeated: despite many ‘threatening demonstrations’ tribesmen refused opportunities to engage colonial troops leaving the ‘Hindustani fanatics’ to provide the only close-quarters resistance.45 While the expedition was declared successful, troops were in action on the Black Mountain again the following year and the region remained disturbed throughout the rest of the decade. While operations were intended to ‘make a show’ of colonial authority – confirming, once again, the spectacular and performative nature of colonial frontier warfare – the pattern of engagement on the Black Mountain highlights the limits of colonial military power. While Callwell praised the ‘great moral effect’ of operations in the region, the fact that none of the five expeditions dispatched to the region seem to have delivered the much-anticipated ‘pacification’ suggests there was significant scope for alternative ‘readings’ of these encounters.46 * * *

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 139 At the other end of the North-West Frontier, a similar pattern of engagement unfolded in Waziristan, where five punitive expeditions were undertaken between 1849 and 1902. The Waziristan frontier extended for more than 100 miles, from the Gomal Pass in the south to the fertile valleys and peaks of Tochi in the north. The official and semi-official histories of Waziristan present a familiar narrative of raiding and tribal truculence.47According to Wylly, the Waziris were ‘an especially democratic, and independent people . . . even their own mullahs have little real control over them’.48 The Mahsuds, who occupied the centre of Waziristan, were said to boast that ‘the armies of kings had never penetrated their strongholds’.49 The Mahsuds confirmed their reputation as notorious robbers by launching a series of substantial raids on colonial territory in the decades after annexation, most notably in 1860 when a 3,000-strong Mahsud force raided the town of Tank in the Derajat. According to colonial commentators, the raid on Tank demonstrated that the Mahsuds were ‘emboldened by years of immunity, and [by a belief] that they could successfully oppose any attempt to penetrate their mountains’.50 As a corrective to tribal assumptions about territorial inviolability, and in punishment for the raid on Tank, the Government of India ordered a punitive expedition against the Mahsuds in 1861. As on the Black Mountain, the cultural frameworks that mediated colonial relationships with the frontier and its population informed tactical assessments and operational planning. It was anticipated, for example, that the tribesmen would make a stand and oppose a colonial advance in order to ‘avoid the shame’ which, it was thought, a colonial ingression into tribal territory would imply. In the event, no such resistance was offered, and tribal forces chose to engage the expedition only sporadically, at times of their own choosing and in locations better suited to their own capabilities. So, having offered little resistance against the advance of colonial forces, on the night of 22 April tribesmen made a determined attack on the expedition’s principal camp at Palosi, killing 63 and wounding 166 colonial troops. Though Wylly conceded that the assault was carried out with great gallantry and determination, he elided the logic of Mahsud strategy by explaining that the raid was carried out ‘in the true Afghan style – dashing, but ill-judged and ultimately failing for want of support and assistance’.51 Similar, Orientalist ideas informed colonial engagements with the tribe throughout: in a calculated show of colonial paternalism, tribesmen were invited to collect the bodies of their dead following an early skirmish.52 The offer aimed ‘to mitigate, as far as possible, the bitterness of hostilities’ and though the Mahsuds did not send for the bodies, it suggests the

140  Gavin Rand way in which forms of cultural knowledge – real or imagined – were mobilized in attempts to signify the nature of colonial authority (and its putative benevolence). Culture appears to have mediated the military encounter for belligerents on both sides of the frontier: when a group of Mahsud maliks arrived to negotiate terms with a view to settlement, they were solicited to pay a large fine and provide hostages for good behaviour or to submit to the unopposed march of colonial troops through their territory, a condition which, as we have seen, was also imposed on the Black Mountain.53 According to the Intelligence Branch’s history, the maliks pleaded that ‘we should allow them some pardah (or screen for their honour), meaning that we should spare them the disgrace of submission, or of having an army march into the country’. In answer to this, ‘it was fairly objected that we also required some pardah; an army had marched into the country to demand reparation for years of unprovoked injury and trustworthy security for the time to come.’54 Whether authentic or not, cultural knowledge provided an idiom through which the colonial encounter on the frontier was negotiated. While the penetration and occupation of tribal territory may have been invested with symbolic significance, this was often part of a consciously negotiated strategy pursued by both colonial officers and tribal representatives. When the maliks refused to submit to the terms proposed, colonial troops struck out for the outlying settlement at Kaniguram, a site specifically selected to demonstrate the range of the imperial military. After reaching Kaniguram on 5 May, the troops performed ‘an orderly march’ through the town. According to the official history, one of the town’s inhabitants called out ‘Well done! British justice!’ Though Kaniguram was spared the bagpipes, the promenade reflects the same performative logics demonstrated in the march on Thakot in 1888. In attempting to make colonial authority intelligible, and then to render tribal subordination in visible and public forms, colonial officers sought to weaponize understandings of tribal culture to constitute their authority in specific and meaningful ways. As the previous example suggests, the tribesmen too negotiated resistance to colonial authority in cultural, as well as in military, forms. That frontier campaigns operated in a cultural register should not detract from the very significant material destruction effected by colonial troops; rather, material and cultural effects overlapped and reinforced each other. Hunger was an important weapon in fighting uncivilised enemies, as Temple’s early account of ‘savage warfare’ made clear.55 While Kaniguram was spared on payment of a fine, Makin, a neighbouring town, was destroyed, as were other

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 141 surrounding settlements. In accounting for these measures, Chamberlain, the commanding officer, cited the peculiar imperatives of ‘savage warfare’, quoting extensively from Temple’s 1856 report.56 Overlooking the fact that the expedition had failed to extract submission from the Mahsuds, colonial accounts emphasized the ‘remarkable fact’ that: ‘a comparatively small British force did successfully enter a most difficult mountain country, and there, though cut off from all supplies, all communications, did successfully punish the enemy, drive them from their strongest passes, and return, with comparatively little loss, to its own territory.’57 In positioning territorial and material performance as the measure of the expedition’s success, these accounts obscured colonial inability to establish military superiority over the tribesmen. The supposed peculiarities of tribal culture thus provided a convenient means of effacing the obvious limits on colonial military power. Notwithstanding Chamberlain’s optimism, it is perhaps unsurprising that the 1860 expedition appears to have had limited impact on the Waziristan frontier. In 1879, another large raid on Tank compelled the Government of India to revisit their assessment of the 1860 expedition. The earlier optimism gave way to a more pessimistic conclusion: that ‘the Mahsuds’ stubborn and haughty refusal to make formal submission’ in 1860 reflected the tribe’s view that colonial troops were unable to penetrate ‘their fastnesses’ or ‘force the rugged defiles leading to their homes’.58 Another expedition was ordered and when colonial troops returned to Waziristan in 1881, they set out to prove their ability to penetrate and occupy trans-frontier territory: the commanding officer was instructed to ‘traverse and explore as much of the Mahsud hills as possible . . . your operations should be deliberate and free from all appearance of haste’.59 As we have already seen, this framing anticipated the inability of colonial troops to force decisive engagements against the tribes. As in 1860, there were few direct encounters between the expeditionary forces and the Mahsuds again chose to avoid prolonged engagements. In lieu of such engagements, colonial troops set about the symbolic and epistemological opening of the frontier, occupying outlying villages and undertaking extensive surveying operations. In fact, in the absence of direct encounters with the enemy, one of the measures by which the expedition’s success was calculated was the scale of survey work undertaken: according to the Punjab Government’s Military Secretary, ‘much new country has been unveiled.’60 Military surveying served overlapping purposes, at once practical and symbolic: cartography inscribed the penetration of tribal territory in the colonial archive and aided the planning and preparation

142  Gavin Rand of future operations.61 As on the Black Mountain, the epistemological opening of the frontier was directly equated with the symbolic ‘lifting of the purdah’ which the operations aimed to effect. In summarizing the lessons of the operations, The Pioneer opined that: There is no measure which tends to the ultimate pacification of our frontier more thoroughly than the occupation by our troops of the remoter portions of the country inhabited by tribes who defy our authority. For it is only by such means that the conviction can be forced upon them that no strongholds which they possess are inaccessible to our arms. The course, which they themselves rather graphically describe as ‘lifting the purdah’ of the tribe or section concerned, is essential to the permanent success of our military expeditions.62 While surveying was a mechanism for ‘opening out’ the frontier – often with significant practical consequences – such operations were typically pursued only in the absence of opportunities to engage tribal lashkars. Thus, if frontier operations were often about ‘unveiling’ tribal territory, this was principally because colonial forces had no effective mechanism for forcing a decisive engagement. While cartography was often marshalled to evidence the range of colonial power – particularly by commanders and officers anxious to represent and quantify the fruits of their labour – it is worth noting that, before the 1881 expedition commenced, the Government of India explicitly reminded Kennedy, the commander of the 1881 expedition, that surveying was not one of the objectives of the operations, an instruction they subsequently repeated to Brigadier General Gordon during the expedition.63 Whatever symbolic and practical effects military surveying bestowed, cartographic conquests assumed prominence only when decisive military engagements proved elusive. The 1881 operations lasted a little under a month. When colonial troops withdrew, no submission had been received from the tribes and none of the principal conditions for settlement had been met. Despite this, the colonial archive records significant optimism about the effects of the expedition. The official report was laudatory and the Lieutenant-Governor anticipated that the punishment inflicted would ‘secure for a long time to come the peace and quiet on this part of our northwestern border’: ‘To the whole Waziri nation from Kuram to the limits of Baluchistan, has been held up the spectacle of a tribe, numbered among the proudest and most powerful, compelled to permit a British army to traverse unopposed the length and breadth of its country,

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 143 while from the summit of Prighal and the heights of the Shuedar surveyors mapped and explored valleys and mountains hitherto regarded as asylums inaccessible to invasion.’64 Reprocessing the official narrative, H. L. Nevill underlined the same point, diverting attention from the palpable failure of the operations – at least in terms of the narrow military criterion established at their outset – by emphasizing the cartographic and symbolic successes of the operations: ‘Much valuable survey work was accomplished during these operations, the purdah had been effectually lifted and the tribesmen overawed’, though he acknowledged, that ‘the absence of any decisive military success somewhat discounted the value of these results.’65 The results were indeed discounted: despite the optimism recorded at the conclusion of the expedition, hostilities with the Waziris resumed in 1894, when a colonial force working to delimit the ‘Durand Line’ was attacked at Wana. The attack, which killed 45 colonial troops, prompted yet another expedition to be dispatched into Mahsud territory.66 Like most of its predecessors, the Waziristan Field Force of 1895 encountered little direct resistance.67 Evelyn Howell, British Resident in Waziristan in the 1920s, reported that ‘as in 1881 there was little or no fighting’.68 In the absence of other engagements, the Field Force targeted valleys which ‘had never been visited by our troops, and were looked on as the strongholds of the Mahsud tribe’.69 While the ‘visit’ of colonial troops meant significant material losses in property and crops, the strategic significance of these operations was explained in cultural terms: ‘the fact of our having lifted their “pardah” in these remote glens will doubtless itself have a good effect on the tribe.’70 When operations were brought to a close in March, the expedition was said to have been ‘absolutely successful’. According to the official history: ‘All sections of the Mahsud tribe concerned in the attack on the British camp at Wana were severely punished. . . . From the map, which accompanies this history, it will be seen that Waziristan was traversed from one end to the other, and that our troops penetrated into the remotest glens of the Mahsud country, and lifted the “purdah”, from the enemy’s most inaccessible strongholds.’71 If the spectacular nature of these operations is clear, it should be noted that, as in previous campaigns, the performance of imperial dominion in these terms – through signal destruction, promenading and survey operations – was a response to the Mahsuds’ calculated decision not to oppose the advance of colonial troops. While the absence of tribal resistance was sometimes taken as evidence of submission or deference, other readings are possible. The casualty lists

144  Gavin Rand from the 1894–5 operations indicate that while only four colonial soldiers were killed by enemy action, fully 171 died of pneumonia before the operations were wound down. If these data help us to understand why ecology was so central to colonial visions of frontier conflict, they may also help us to better understand the strategic calculations which guided tribal responses to colonial incursions. Retreat, obfuscation and delay served tribal ends by exploiting the epistemological and logistical weaknesses of the imperial military: exposing their relative lack of mobility, straining parlous supply lines and confounding the temporal discipline of colonial interventions. These actions were not the product of inalienable tribal culture or of cowardice; they reflected calculated and rationale choices which can be understood as such. From this perspective, we may also better understand the pattern of colonial engagements on the frontier. Despite the confidence recorded as the 1894–5 expedition was wound up – and in spite of a body of troops remaining in the Tochi Valley – the Waziristan frontier remained disturbed.72 A further punitive expedition was undertaken in the Tochi in 1897–8, and Mahsuds continued to confound colonial authority through 1898 and 1899. A further round of operations was commenced in 1900 and yet another expedition was undertaken in 1901– 2. In spite of all the operations and despite the optimism recorded in the colonial archive, the pacification of the Waziristan frontier seemed as distant in 1900 as it had in the 1850s. In 1912, Wylly concluded, glumly, that despite the efforts of the previous half century, the Mahsuds remained ‘almost as turbulent as ever’.73 * * * Colonial engagements on the Black Mountain and in Waziristan share a number of common features. Indeed, it was precisely to elucidate these features that officers, officials and subsequently historians began to assemble the first synthetic analyses of frontier campaigns. As we have seen, the imperial military played a central role in constituting colonial power on the North-West Frontier, though this process was always contested, as the patterns of military engagement surveyed here suggest. Contrary to claims made in many of the colonial sources, resistance to colonial expansion prompted expeditions more often than wanton raiding did: attacks on police posts and survey parties suggest calculated resistance, not unthinking fanaticism. Moreover, despite the confident assertions of finality offered by commanders, military interventions were seldom decisive: the operations in 1860 and 1881 failed to secure submission from the Mahsuds, and the settlements reached on the Black Mountain in 1888 and 1891 were

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 145 broken months after they were agreed. The iterative nature of frontier campaigning suggests the importance of the military to the process of colonial consolidation but also the limits on imperial military power. The ability of commanding officers to effect decisive encounters with tribal opponents was seriously prescribed, most importantly by the ability of tribal antagonists to deflect, evade and contest colonial violence. The tactical and strategic calculations of tribal opponents – in playing for time, in attacking camps and baggage operations in the rear, in retreating before colonial advances – imposed significant limits on colonial military power on the frontier.74 Faced with these limits, and with other resistance, colonial campaigns on the frontier developed wider and alternative means for ‘punishing’ tribal enemies. These included the destruction of crops and property, as well as the penetration and occupation of tribal territory. These acts were increasingly understood as a form of punitive cultural transgression equated with the symbolic ‘lifting of the purdah’. Considered more ‘modern, and certainly more effectual’ than the ‘burn and scuttle’ approach favoured earlier in the century, these methods were equally contingent on specific understandings of tribal culture: while Chamberlain asserted in 1860 that ‘savages cannot be met and checked by the rule of civilized warfare’ so subsequent attempts to ‘lift the purdah’ appropriated a notion of tribal honour as a means of constituting tribal punishment. Of course, as we have seen, these rationales also disguised the inability of the imperial military to compel their opponents to engage. The cultural framing of frontier conflict reflects this reality as much as it does the weaponizing of tribal culture. In this sense, the history of colonial frontier campaigns tells us more about colonial visions of self than it does about the tribes against whom operations were directed. The opening up of frontier territory, and the gendering of colonial dominion suggested by the purdah metaphor, drew on a series of wider oppositions which were fundamental to colonial rule. The performative logic of frontier campaigning – distilled by Callwell into a chapter on ‘boldness and vigour’ – reflects the instrumentalism of these oppositions.75 In ‘lifting the veil’ from the tribes, and the frontier itself, military technologies acquired specific cultural resonances which directly shaped the ways in which operations were organized and evaluated. Culture was central not only to the representation of combat on the frontier but also to the ways in which military engagements were planned and executed. By facilitating the performance of colonial military power, survey and pioneering operations helped to inscribe the colonial presence on the frontier, and also to render the frontier

146  Gavin Rand as a presence in the colonial archive. Military technologies thus intersected with, and gave material form to, the cultural frames through which engagements were mediated. As we have seen, pioneering, mapping and communications were conceived as explicitly political technologies because their operational significance was accentuated and understood in terms of the particular cultural effects associated with the penetration of tribal territory. If military technologies helped commanders to ‘over-run’ and ‘open up’ the frontier’s contested spaces, this was in large part because the pacification of the frontier was conceived in cultural terms.76 Though the relationship between military technology and colonial expansion has been much studied, less attention has been paid to the cultural frameworks which informed attitudes towards, as well as deployments of, military technologies.77 While military technologies could provide potent means for expressing the range and effect of colonial power, colonial culture shaped the ways in which military power was imagined and projected.78 One consequence of the cultural rendering of frontier campaigns was to obscure the limited effects of military interventions and so disguise the obvious limits of colonial power on the frontier. Historians have found it difficult to conceptualize the relationship between culture and combat on the frontier partly, perhaps, because the instrumentalism of the colonial sources is widely overlooked. If much military historiography evinces a ‘preference for the empirical’, empiricist readings of the colonial archive inevitably recycle colonial framings, offering what Gyan Pandey called, in another context, ‘a view of the observable’.79 Thus, even detailed and careful reconstructions of the colonial conflicts reproduce much of the essentialism found in colonial sources.80 As the sources surveyed here make clear, colonial accounts of the frontier, and of the military engagements which occurred there, were invariably implicated in and thus shaped by colonial power. Empiricist readings of colonial sources reproduce this complicity. More importantly, perhaps, they disguise the reciprocal and dynamic cultural exchange which is inherent to combat, and is perhaps especially significant in colonial conflict.81 A more critical approach to the colonial archive, and its absences, helps to reveal the central role of culture in shaping colonial military policy on the frontier. The absence of a formal, codified doctrine for ‘hill warfare’ does not mean that the specificities of frontier conflict were marginal or insignificant during the late nineteenth century. Narrowly empiricist readings of frontier doctrine – which begin with the formalization and codification of instruction around the turn of the century – overlook the wider histories on which these doctrines drew,

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 147 and the deeply rooted assumptions which helped to sustain them. As the previous examples attest, and as Callwell himself admitted, Small Wars gave concrete and didactic form to practice which had existed – and indeed had been written about – for many years.82 Though the doctrine of savage warfare was of relatively late development, warfare on the frontier always reflected the cultural frameworks through which the colonial encounter was rendered, mediated and understood. This was not simply about justifying violence through an assertion of the otherness of the colonized; it was also about manifesting violence in forms which reflected the alterity of tribal belligerents. Viewed from this perspective, we can better understand the dialogic role that culture played in framing and delimiting colonial military operations on the frontier. Frontier operations both reflected and helped to give particular form to a cultural idiom which mediated engagements between colonial forces and their tribal opponents. The highly symbolic and performative aspects of these operations were expressed in strategic and tactical planning, as well as in the discourses used to narrate and rationalize campaigns. Framing frontier warfare in this manner helps us to see how culture and military praxis intersected, and to appreciate how frequently the latter was made legible in terms of the former. Here again, cultural and military analyses need to be engaged on the same analytic field: we need to recognize the cultural referents that mediate conflict in order to reveal the centrality of the military in the production of complex imperial subjectivities. Specific notions of ‘tribal culture’ were vital in shaping how colonial campaigns were conducted, and in determining how such interventions were evaluated and historicized. Tribal culture was invoked to explain the circumstances which precipitated military intervention, the forms of intervention most appropriate to secure colonial ends as well as to account for the effects, and more rarely the failures, of colonial operations. Military engagements on the colonial frontier reflect the negotiated and contested process of imperial expansion. Violence was central to this process and so too was culture, for culture shaped both the institutions and apparatus of colonial conflict, as much as it endowed moments of violence with specific, though contested, meanings. * * * Understanding the connections between culture and combat on the frontier seem all the more urgent in light of renewed interest in the region since 2001.83 Indicatively, the return of Western troops has prompted a resurgence of interest in colonial ‘counter-insurgency’,

148  Gavin Rand including a number of attempts to recuperate the ‘strategic insights’ of colonial doctrine, notably Callwell’s prescriptions for fighting ‘small wars’. Somewhat paradoxically, rereadings of Callwell have emphasized the importance of winning ‘hearts and minds’ by the ‘judicious’ application of ‘butcher and bolt’ operations.84 The cultural knowledge which helped Callwell to explain the history of colonial violence, and to offer prescriptions on how such violence might be organized in the future, were themselves products of colonialism.85 Attempts to recuperate Callwell reflect a double, and circular, failure of analysis: ignoring the specific historical conditions in which Small Wars was authored obscures the contingency of Callwell’s strategic thinking and the structural racism of his text.86 This reading reproduces colonial binaries, locating reason in the colonial military archive, while fixing and ventriloquizing culture as the marker of tribal difference. Little wonder then that so much work on colonial conflict continues to reproduce the tropes and explanations offered by colonial authors. These accounts fundamentally misunderstand the role of culture in mediating – and shaping – the worldviews of both colonial and tribal belligerents. As this chapter has tried to show, culture shaped the ideas and practices of colonial soldiers at least as much as it did their tribal opponents. Colonial ethnography bestowed culture on the frontier tribes as a way of depoliticizing their resistance, and recent attempts to harness colonial expertise recirculate precisely the same oppositions. The persistence of these oppositions and the ways of thinking they sustain confirm Gayatri Spivak’s suggestion that the texts of ‘soldiers and administrators’ did much to construct the reality of India.87 As we continue to live with this construction, and the violence which it begets, this truth behoves us to do more to understand it.

Notes 1 Government of India, Foreign Department, Report Showing the Relations of the British Government with the Tribes, Independent and Dependent, on the North-West Frontier of the Punjab, from Annexation in 1849 to the Close of 1855 (Calcutta: T. Jones, Calcutta Gazette Office, 1856), p. 60. 2 Colonial understandings of tribal society were shaped by attempts to know and control those societies. Though I follow the colonial sources in describing engagements with ‘Pathans’ and ‘frontier tribes’, I am conscious that colonial ethnography flattened and essentialised understandings of tribal societies and tribal customs. For more, see Magnus Marsden and Benjamin Hopkins, Fragments of the Afghan Frontier (London: C Hurst & Co Publishers Ltd., 2012), pp. 3–10, esp. p. 217.

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 149 3 William Henry Paget and A. H. Mason, A Record of the Expeditions Against the North-West Frontier Tribes, Since the Annexation of the Punjab (London: Whiting & Co., 1884); India, Army, Intelligence Branch, Frontier and Overseas Expeditions from India, vol. I: Tribes North of the Kabul River (Simla: Govt. Monotype Press, 1907); C. E. Callwell, Small Wars: Their Principles and Practice (1896, reprint, London: Printed for H. M. Stationery Office, by Harrison and Sons, 1906); G. J. Younghusband, Indian Frontier Warfare (London: Kegan Paul, Trench Trubner & Co., 1898); Harold Carmichael Wylly, From the Black Mountain to Waziristan: Being an Account of the Border Countries and the More Turbulent of the Tribes Controlled by the North-West Frontier Province, and of Our Military Relations with Them in the Past (London: Macmillan and Co., 1912); Army Headquarters, Frontier Warfare: 1901 (Simla: Superintendent Government Printing, 1901). 4 I take culture to refer to shared and dynamic modes of understanding. There is a wealth of literature on the cultural turn in the humanities. For a useful summary of cultural readings of empire, see Catherine Hall (ed.), Cultures of Empire: Colonizers in Britain and the Empire in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, a Reader (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000). On culture, orientalism and military analysis, see Patrick Porter, Military Orientalism: Eastern War Through Western Eyes (London: Hurst, 2009), pp. 55–82. 5 Nicholas Thomas, Colonialism’s Culture: Anthropology, Travel and Government (Oxford: Polity Press, 1994), p. 2. 6 On performativity, see Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 2006); Judith Butler, Frames of War: When Is Life Grievable? (London; New York: Verso, 2009). 7 Callwell, Small Wars: Their Principles and Practice, p. 24. 8 ‘After driving the hillmen from their formidable position at Chokalwat . . . he pushed on and completed his day’s march as if nothing had happened. This sort of thing bewildered the Chitralis. They did not understand it.’ See ibid., 80. 9 Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler (eds.), Tensions of Empire: Colonial Cultures in a Bourgeois World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), p. 4. 10 See, for example, R. T. I. Ridgway, Handbooks for the Indian Army: Pathans (Calcutta: Office of the Superintendent Government Printing, 1910); Sir Olaf Kirkpatrick Caroe, The Pathans, 550 B.C.-A.D. 1957 (London: Macmillan and Co., 1958). 11 On the colonial archive and its relationship to imperial rule, see Nicholas B. Dirks, Castes of Mind: Colonialism and the Making of Modern India (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), pp. 107–23. 12 Wylly, From the Black Mountain to Waziristan, Preface, p. VII. Indicatively, Wylly’s text followed earlier works, including the official histories, in describing the geographic and ethnographic peculiarities of the frontier region before detailing specific engagements. This common format suggests the close relationship between military histories and instrumentalist forms of colonial knowledge. 13 Kaushik Roy, The Army in British India: From Colonial Warfare to Total War 1857–1947 (London; New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2012), p. 39.

150  Gavin Rand 14 T. R. Moreman, ‘The British and Indian Armies and North West Frontier Warfare, 1849–1914’, The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 20, no. 1 (January 1992), pp. 35–64; T. R. Moreman, ‘“Small Wars” and “Imperial Policing”: The British Army and the Theory and Practice of Colonial Warfare in the British Empire, 1919–1939’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 19, no. 4 (1996), pp. 105–31; T. R. Moreman, The Army in India and the Development of Frontier Warfare, 1849–1947 (New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 1998); Brandon Marsh, Ramparts of Empire: British Imperialism and India’s Afghan Frontier, 1918–1948 (Houndmills, Basingstoke: AIAA, 2014); Daniel Whittingham, ‘“Savage Warfare”: C. E. Callwell, the Roots of Counter-Insurgency, and the Nineteenth Century Context’, Small Wars & Insurgencies, vol. 23, nos. 4–5 (October 2012), pp. 591–607; Ian F. W. Beckett, ‘British CounterInsurgency: A Historiographical Reflection’, Small Wars & Insurgencies, vol. 23, nos. 4–5 (2012), pp. 781–98. After the protracted ‘frontier uprising’ of 1897–98, the specificities of frontier warfare received considerable attention in the military periodicals. See, for example, J. A. H. Pollock, ‘Notes on Hill Warfare’, Journal of the United Services Institution of India, no. 131 (April 1898), pp. 137–47. The Journal of the United Services Institution of India carried multiple articles on the subject in each of the following eight issues. The subject remained a staple of the Journal until the 1940s. 15 Government of India, Foreign Department, Report Showing the Relations of the British Government with the Tribes, Independent and Dependent, on the North-West Frontier of the Punjab, from Annexation in 1849 to the Close of 1855. The idea of savage warfare had pan-imperial inputs, and also reflected imperial engagements in Africa. See, for example, Samuel White Baker, ‘Experience in Savage Warfare’, The Royal United Services Institution Journal, vol. 17, no. 75 (1873), pp. 904–21; J. C. Gawler, ‘British Troops and Savage Warfare, with Special Reference to the Kafir Wars’, The Royal United Services Institution Journal, vol. 17, no. 75 (1873), pp. 922–39. 16 Paget and Mason, A Record of the Expeditions Against the North-West Frontier Tribes, Since the Annexation of the Punjab, p. 34. 17 Even in the late 1880s, it was acknowledged that the border region was, in effect, out of bounds to British officials and troops. 18 For a breakdown of the troops, see Paget and Mason, A Record of the Expeditions Against the North-West Frontier Tribes, Since the Annexation of the Punjab, p. 35. 19 Ibid., pp. 39–40. 20 Ibid. 21 Callwell, Small Wars: Their Principles and Practice, pp. 211–25. 22 Paget and Mason, A Record of the Expeditions Against the North-West Frontier Tribes, Since the Annexation of the Punjab, pp. 50–2. 23 Major General A. T. Wilde, to Quartermaster General, dated 5 October 1868, No. 450. National Archives of India (NAI), New Delhi: Foreign Department Proceedings, Political A, October 1868, 404–496. 24 Paget and Mason, A Record of the Expeditions Against the North-West Frontier Tribes, Since the Annexation of the Punjab, p. 54.

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 151 25 Paget and Mason, A Record of the Expeditions Against the North-West Frontier Tribes, Since the Annexation of the Punjab, pp. 54–5. 26 Paget and Mason, A Record of the Expeditions Against the North-West Frontier Tribes, Since the Annexation of the Punjab, p. 59. 27 Colonel A. Broome, Offg. Secy. to Govt. of India, Military Dept., with G.G. to Lieutenant-Colonel P.S. Lumsden, Quartermaster General, No. 206, dated 10th October 1868, No. 460, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Political A, October 1868, 404–496. 28 India, Army, Intelligence Branch, Frontier and Overseas Expeditions from India, vol. I: Tribes North of the Kabul River, pp. 144–5. 29 See Enclosure No. 24, From Officiating Secretary to the Government of Punjab, to the Secretary to Government of India, dated Simla, 30th July 1888 in Papers Relating to the Expedition against Certain Tribes Inhabiting the Black Mountain, Parliamentary Papers, 1888 [C.5561], 139. 30 See No. 163, Letter from Government of India to Secretary of State, dated 24 September 1888 in Papers Relating to the Expedition against Certain Tribes Inhabiting the Black Mountain, Parliamentary Papers, 1888 [C.5561], 3. 31 India, Army, Intelligence Branch, Frontier and Overseas Expeditions from India, vol. I: Tribes North of the Kabul River, p. 145. 32 C. L. Tupper, Secretary to Government Punjab to H.M. Durand, Secretary to Government of India, Foreign Department, dated Lahore, 16 November 1888, No. 96, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Frontier A, December 1888, No. 27–101. 33 The ‘Hindustani Fanatics’ were a group of émigré Muslims – most of whom originated from British India – who established a colony on the frontier in the 1820s. Having initially contested Sikh rule, the group were subsequently implicated in a largely implausible anti-colonial ‘Wahabi conspiracy’. The Indian Army engaged members of the colony on several occasions but, by the 1880s, the group was viewed as an irritant rather than as a serious threat to the colonial order. For a contemporary military account, see Report on the Hindustani Fanatics, Compiled in the Intelligence Branch, Quartermaster General’s Department, by Lieutenant Colonel A.H. Mason, (Simla, 1895). IOR: L/MIL/17/13/18. For an excellent critical history, see Marsden and Hopkins, Fragments of the Afghan Frontier, pp. 75–100. The ‘Hindustani fanatics’ had opposed the British in many of their previous operations on the Hazara border, and it is significant that during both the 1888 and 1891 expeditions, the only opponent forces to attempt a decisive engagement were the so-called fanatics. It is possible, as David Edwards has argued, that the ‘deeper, cultural threat that the colonial vision of progress and civilization represented’ to such groups produced a particularly virulent opposition. David B. Edwards, Heroes of the Age Moral Fault Lines on the Afghan Frontier (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), pp. 2, 30. Alternatively, it may be that military support for the tribesmen was negotiated in return for the tribe’s residence at Sitanna. See Marsden and Hopkins, Fragments of the Afghan Frontier, p. 241. fn. 48. See also Note No. 576, From the Officiating Secretary to the Government of Punjab, to the Commissioner and

152  Gavin Rand Superintendent, Peshawar Division, dated 25th September, 1888, K.W. No. 3, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Frontier A, December 1888, 27–101. India, Army, Intelligence Branch, Frontier and Overseas Expeditions from India, vol. I: Tribes North of the Kabul River, p. 150. 34 No. 101, Field Operations, 4th Column, Hazara Field Force, Major-General W. Galbraith, Comdg. 2nd Brigade, Hazara Field Force to The MajorGeneral Commanding Hazara Field Force. No. 389, p. 206, India Office Records (IOR), British Library, London: L/MIL/17/13/75. 35 No. 101, Field Operations, 4th Column, Hazara Field Force, Major-General W. Galbraith, Comdg. 2nd Brigade, Hazara Field Force to The MajorGeneral Commanding Hazara Field Force. No. 389, pp. 207–8, IOR: L/ MIL/17/13/75. 36 ‘Report of the Operations of the Hazara Field Force’, No. 191-F-C, dated Headquarters, Lala Musa, 27 November 1888 to The Secretary to the Government of India, Military Department. No. 384, p. 2, IOR: L/ MIL/17/13/75. 37 Telegram No 22-B, dated 8 October 1888. From the General Officer Commanding 2nd Brigade, Hazara Field Force to The Adjutant-General in India, No. 222, p. 84, IOR: L/MIL/17/13/75. 38 ‘Report of the Operations of the Hazara Field Force’, Maj-Genl. J. W. McQueen, C.B., A.D.C., Comdg. Hazara to the Adjutant General in India, Dated Abbottabad, 19 November 1888, No. 384, p. 7. IOR: L/ MIL/17/13/75. 39 Hugh Lewis Nevill, Campaigns on the North-West Frontier (London: John Murray, 1912), p. 100. 40 ‘Preliminary report by the Punjab Government of the progress of the Military operations against the tribes of the Black Mountain and their political results’. No. 706, dated Lahore, 16 November 1888. From C. L. Tupper, Esq., Secretary to Government of Punjab and its Dependencies, to The Secretary to the Government of India, Foreign Department, No. 391, p. 215, IOR: L/MIL/17/13/75. 41 Expedition Against the Black Mountain Tribes by a Force Under Major-General J.W. McQueen, C.B., A.D.C., in 1888, p. 30. IOR: L/ MIL/17/13/52. Nevill, Campaigns on the North-West Frontier, p. 102. 42 See C. L. Tupper, Secretary to Government Punjab to H.M. Durand, Secretary to Government of India, Foreign Department’, dated Lahore, 16 November 1888’, No. 96, pp. 5–6, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Frontier A, December 1888, No. 27–101. 43 ‘Report of the Operations of the Hazara Field Force’, Appendix E: No. 5330-P, dated Abbottabad, 17 November 1888, From: Colonel E. L. Ommaney, Chief Political Officer, Hazara Field Force, to Maj-Genl, J. W. McQueen, C.B., A-D-C, Comdg. Hazara Field Force, No. 384, p. 45. IOR: L/MIL/17/13/75. 44 The Commander-in-Chief had issued strict instructions to McQueen, who led the operation, that the exercise was ‘merely intended to prove our right under the treaty to march along the crest, and [was] not intended to develop under any circumstances into a large expedition’. Expedition Against the Hassanzai and Akazai Tribes of the Black Mountain, by a Force Under the Command of Major-General W.K. Elles, C.B., in 1891 (Simla: Government Central Printing Office, 1894) p. 4, IOR: L/MIL/17/13/53.

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 153 45 Major-General W. K. Elles, C.B., late commanding the Hazara Field Force, to the Adjutant-General in India, No. 305-H, dated Murree, 22 June 1891, p. 3. NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Frontier B, July 1892, No. 6. 46 Callwell, Small Wars: Their Principles and Practice, p. 110. 47 See, for example, Paget and Mason, A Record of the Expeditions Against the North-West Frontier Tribes, Since the Annexation of the Punjab, p. 506. 48 Wylly, From the Black Mountain to Waziristan, p. 425. 49 Ibid, p. 426. 50 Brigadier General N. Chamberlain, C.B., to Major G. Hutchinson, Military Secretary to the Punjab Government No. 852, dated Sheikh Bodeen, Dera Ismail Khan District, the 7th July 1860, No. 100, p. 6, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Political A, November 1862, 99–101; see also India, Army, Intelligence Branch, Frontier and Overseas Expeditions from India, vol. I: Tribes North of the Kabul River, p. 366. 51 Wylly, From the Black Mountain to Waziristan, p. 449. Wylly’s account is largely reproduced from Report on the Mahsud Waziri Tribe, Compiled in the Intelligence Branch, Quarter Master General’s Department by Captain A.H. Mason, D.S.O., Deputy Assistant Quarter Master General (Simla: Government Central Printing Office, 1893), p. 39, IOR: L/PS/20/B104. 52 Brigadier General N. Chamberlain, C.B., to Major G. Hutchinson, Military Secretary to the Punjab Government, No. 852, dated Sheikh Bodeen, Dera Ismail Khan District, the 7th July 1860, No. 100, p. 9, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Political A, November 1862, 99–101. 53 Wylly, From the Black Mountain to Waziristan, p. 452. 54 Mason, Report on the Mahsud Waziri Tribe: By Cpt A H Mason, Deputy Assistant Quarter Master General Simla: Intelligence Branch, Quarter Master General’s Dept, 1893, p. 40. 55 Ironically, perhaps, Temple is best known for his parsimonious administration of relief during the Madras famine. See Mike Davis, Late Victorian Holocausts: El Niño Famines and the Making of the Third World (London; New York: Verso, 2002), pp. 36–43. 56 Brigadier General N. Chamberlain, C.B., to Major G. Hutchinson, Military Secretary to the Punjab Government, No. 852, dated Sheikh Bodeen, Dera Ismail Khan District, the 7th July 1860, No. 100, p. 22, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Political A, November 1862, 99–101. Similar readings were processed into early colonial historiography: see, for example, Charles Rathbone Low, Soldiers of the Victorian Age, vol. II (London: Chapman, 1880), pp. 402–3. 57 Lieutenant Colonel H. B. Lumsden C.B., Commanding Detachment to Captain Graydon, Staff Officer. Punjab Irregular Force, Camp Puloseen, 25 April 1860, No. 100, p. 22, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Political A, November 1862, 99–101. 58 Military Department, No. 43, February 1881, No. 2, dated Lahore, 3rd January 1881. W. M. Young, Esq., Secretary to the Government of the Punjab to the Secretary to the Government of India, Foreign Department pp. 8–9, IOR: L/MIL/17/13/107. 59 The punishment was ‘held over’ because much of the Indian Army was already deployed in Afghanistan, a fact which may further evidence the strategic context for, and logic of, tribal calculations. Letter No. 1575,

154  Gavin Rand dated Lahore, 13 April 1881. From Colonel S. Black, Secretary to Government of the Punjab, Military Department to The Brigadier Commanding Mahsud-Waziri Expeditionary Force’, p. 47, IOR, L/MIL/17/13/107. 60 The Mahsud-Waziri Expedition of 1881, Diaries of Officers of the Quartermaster General’s Department in India attached to the Mahsud-Waziri Expeditionary Force, p. 83, (Simla: Government Central Press, 1884), IOR: L/MIL/17/13/107. 61 For a wider discussion of the relationship between cartography and imperial expansion in South Asia, see Matthew H. Edney, Mapping an Empire: The Geographical Construction of British India, 1765–1843 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997). 62 ‘The Lessons of the Waziri Expedition’, Pioneer, 20 June 1881. Reprinted in: The Mahsud-Waziri Expedition of 1881, Diaries of Officers of the Quartermaster General’s Department in India attached to the MahsudWaziri Expeditionary Force (Simla: Government Central Press, 1884) p. 94, IOR: L/MIL/17/13/107. 63 No. 1526a. Memorandum, Submitted for the information of the Government of India, with reference to Military Department, No. 10300K dated 7th May 1881, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Political B, August 1881, Nos. 138–9. 64 Letter from the Punjab Government, No 61 dated Lahore 23rd February 1882, From W. M. Young Secretary to the Government of Punjab to C. Grant, CSI, Secretary to the Government of India, Foreign Department, No. 8, NAI: Foreign Department Proceedings, Political A, July 1882, 8–40. 65 Nevill, Campaigns on the North-West Frontier, p. 92. 66 For a detailed breakdown of the attackers and casualties (which shows that they were from a variety of sections), see Operations Against the Mahsud-Wazirs by a Force Under the Command of Lieutenant-General Sir W.S.A. Lockhart, K.C.B., C.S.I. in 1894–95, p. 24 IOR: L/MIL/17/ 13/108. 67 Wylly, From the Black Mountain to Waziristan, p. 465. 68 See Sir Evelyn Berkeley Howell, Mizh: A Monograph on Government’s Relations with the Mahsud Tribe (Simla: Government of India Press, 1931), p. 9, IOR: V/27/273/3. 69 Operations Against the Mahsud-Wazirs by a force under the command of Lieutenant-General Sir W.S.A. Lockhart, K.C.B., C.S.I. in 1894–95, p. 36, IOR: L/MIL/17/13/108. 70 Ibid, p. 46. 71 Ibid, p. 62. 72 See Sameetah Agha’s illuminating reading of the ‘Maizar’ incident in this volume. 73 Wylly, From the Black Mountain to Waziristan, p. 474. 74 As Randolf Cooper has noted, the strategic logic of those who opposed colonial forces has often obscured by the ‘historiographic control’ exerted by those who constructed the first histories. See Randolf G. S. Cooper, ‘Culture, Combat, and Colonialism in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century India’, The International History Review, vol. 27, no. 3 (September 2005), p. 546. 75 Callwell, Small Wars: Their Principles and Practice, pp. 71–83.

From the Black Mountain to Waziristan 155 76 See, for example, the emphasis given to the ‘natural difficulties of the country’ in the Intelligence Branch history of the operations: Expedition Against the Black Mountain Tribes by a Force Under Major-General J.W. McQueen, C.B., A.D.C., in 1888, IOR: L/MIL/17/13/52. 77 Older accounts include Daniel R. Headrick, ‘The Tools of Imperialism: Technology and the Expansion of European Colonial Empires in the Nineteenth Century’, The Journal of Modern History, vol. 51, no. 2 (1979), pp. 231–63; on the frontier specifically, see T. R. Moreman, ‘The Arms Trade and the North West Frontier Pathan Tribes, 1890–1914’, The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 22, no. 2 (May 1994), pp. 187–216; elsewhere, see Chris Vaughan, ‘“Demonstrating the Machine Guns”: Rebellion, Violence and State Formation in Early Colonial Darfur’, The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 42, no. 2 (15 March 2014), pp. 286–307; also Kim. A Wagner, ‘A Scattering of Death: Violence and the rule of colonial difference in early British counter-insurgency’, History Workshop Journal, forthcoming, 2018. 78 See, for example, Timothy Mitchell, Colonising Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), pp. 128–31. 79 G. Pandey, ‘A View of the Observable: A Positivist understanding of Agrarian Society and Political Protest in Colonial India’, Journal of Peasant Studies, vol. 7, no. 3 (1980), pp. 375–83. 80 See, for example, Rob Johnson’s thoroughly researched The Afghan Way of War, which claims, inter alia, that Pashtuns and Britons thought about warfare and honour in similar ways, and that negotiation was an integral part of Pashtun culture. While textual support for these claims can be found in the colonial sources, they reflect the ‘counter-insurgent code’ described by Ranajit Guha. Robert Johnson, The Afghan Way of War: Culture and Pragmatism (London: Hurst, 2011), pp. 7–8, 36; Ranajit Guha, ‘The Prose of Counter-Insurgency’, in Ranajit Guha and Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (eds.), Selected Subaltern Studies (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), pp. 45–84. 81 As Patrick Porter has suggested, military praxis – at strategic and tactical levels – is shaped by a reciprocal and dynamic exchange which is inherent to combat. See Porter, Military Orientalism, p. 65. 82 Where Callwell proposed revisions to extant practices, his recommendations often invoked the specificities of ‘savage’ culture. Callwell objected to ‘burn and scuttle’ operations because he believed that the inevitable retreat of colonial forces encouraged ‘truculent highlanders . . . [to] think that they have got the best of the transaction’. Callwell, Small Wars: Their Principles and Practice, p. 301. 83 See, for example, Andrew M. Roe, Waging War in Waziristan: The British Struggle in the Land of Bin Laden, 1849–1947 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2010); Matt Matthews, An Ever Present Danger: A Concise History of British Military Operations on the North-West Frontier, 1849– 1947 (Fort Leavenworth, KS: Combat Studies Institute Press, US Army Combined Arms Center, 2010). See, also, the ‘Tribal Analysis Center’, [accessed May 2016]. 84 Whittingham, ‘“Savage Warfare”’, p. 604. 85 For more, see Wagner, ‘A Scattering of Death’.

156  Gavin Rand 86 Though he defined ‘small wars’ to include all campaigns in which adversaries possessed ‘palpably inferior’ armament, organization or discipline, Callwell’s framing reproduces colonial assessments of self/other and thus replays the hierarchies encoded in such analyses (i.e. it assumes that technologies, institutions and training are the mark of the modern/advanced and, by contrast, those lacking these are therefore primitive or, in Callwell’s own terms, ‘barbaric’). Put simply, it assumes that the reader is a colonial soldier fighting anti-colonial enemies. Callwell, Small Wars: Their Principles and Practice, p. 22. 87 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ‘The Rani of Sirmur: An Essay in Reading the Archives’, History and Theory, vol. 24, no. 3 (1985), pp. 247–72.

7 Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 Civil–military tensions and Pukhtun resistance on the North-West Frontier of British India Sameetah Agha The North-West Frontier has been presented as a unique site in the history of British colonialism. Despite over a hundred bloody confrontations fought between 1849 and 1947 – including at least one of the biggest ‘small wars’ in their military history – the British were unable to pacify the region or subdue its inhabitants, the Pukhtuns. As has been considered in recent work by Benjamin Hopkins and Shah Mahmoud Hanifi, the geography and terrain of nineteenth-century Afghanistan was known, represented and imagined through the interests and experiences of British imperial expansion.1 In a similar vein, the region known as the North-West Frontier can be considered a nineteenthcentury imperial creation given form through British expansion in the region. Today, the North-West Frontier lies in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) of Pakistan and shares a 1,500-mile border with Afghanistan which has never been fully demarcated.2 The British came into direct contact with the Pukhtuns after the conquest of Punjab in 1849 and the subsequent annexation of the trans-frontier districts of Hazara, Peshawar, Kohat, Bannu, Dera Ismail Khan and Dera Ghazi Khan. However, British spies had been active in the region for a few decades before, and the Government of India’s (hereafter GOI) meddling in the affairs of Afghanistan had already led to the First Anglo-Afghan War of 1839–42.3 The histories of Afghanistan and the Frontier region are inextricably linked. Pukhtun tribes inhabiting the adjacent Frontier region acknowledged the suzerainty of the Amir of Afghanistan and received allowances from him while retaining varying degrees of autonomy. British policy in the North-West Frontier in the nineteenth century has been interpreted as one of non-interference or close-border policy

158  Sameetah Agha until 1878 and a more active forward policy from 1880 onwards. The official axiom underlying both policies was non-annexation.4 However there was a huge disjuncture between stated policy and actions on the ground. While the close-border (also known as ‘masterly inactivity’ by its critics) policy claimed non-interference and a desire for peace, numerous military punitive expeditions were sanctioned against the tribes and heavy fines imposed on them in this period. In the 1880s the colonial government became more aggressive while still claiming non-interference and non-annexation. The Durand Line delineating spheres of influence between Afghanistan and British India was established as the new boundary in 1893. Through the 1890s roads were opened and military outposts and garrisons established from Zhob to Chitral. Although the GOI officially maintained that it had no desire to annex the Frontier and only wanted to foster close and friendly relations with the tribes, by 1896 George White, Commander-in-Chief, summed up the forward policy of the last decade candidly, ‘the Gomal has been traversed by our troops from Domandi to its eastern gate, and has since been rendered safe by the conquest and occupation of Waziristan: the Tochi has been annexed and direct communication opened between it and Bannu.’5 All this time the colonial authorities continued to represent to Whitehall that they in no way desired annexation. In 1897, the British were faced with a formidable tribal uprising on the North-West Frontier. From Waziristan to Malakand, garrisons were besieged and military outposts attacked. The loss of the Khyber Pass, seen as the gateway to India, was interpreted as the blackest day of British history on the Frontier.6 The Undersecretary of State informed Parliament that preserving control of the area was ‘undoubtedly of the very greatest importance to what is known as the prestige of the Government of India’.7 H. W. Mills, a contemporary author, declared: ‘The fall of such impregnable fortresses as Ali Musjid and Landi Kotal, and the securing of the Pass was universally held to be the worst blow our prestige would suffer on the north-west frontier.’8 It took some 75,000 troops two years to repress the revolt, at a cost of millions of pounds sterling and over 1,000 casualties.

An incident of ‘treachery’? The first attack of the revolt occurred on 10 June 1897 in Maizar, a group of villages in Tochi, North Waziristan.9 The main tribes in Waziristan are the Wazirs, who are divided into several clans. The principal clan is Darwesh Khel, its most important subdivision being

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 159 the Utmanzai or Tochi Wazirs, who are further divided into a number of subsections, the most important being the Madda Khel, the Kabul Khel and the Tori Khel. According to contemporary accounts, on 10 June 1897, Mr Herbert W. Gee, the British Political Officer stationed in the Tochi Valley, went to Maizar with a large military escort – 300 men from the 1st Sikhs and 1st Punjab Infantry, two guns of No. 6 Bombay Mountain Battery, and 12 sabres of the 1st Punjab Cavalry. The maliks (tribal headmen or representatives), through whom the British dealt with the tribes, showed every sign of friendship, and food was provided for the officers and soldiers. After the meal, the troops were resting under some trees and the pipers of the 1st Sikh Regiment started playing music when suddenly the tribes attacked them. The British had to retreat and suffered heavy casualties. Three British officers, 22 men of the native ranks and two followers were killed; and three British officers and 24 men were wounded.10 Gee, who survived the attack, sent a telegram to the British authorities describing the incident as cowardly and treacherous. The troops were at rest, after lunch, when they were ‘suddenly rushed by a large body of tribesmen.’11 Another report sent by authorities in Tochi stated that the cause of such treachery was not clear: ‘The fact that they attacked a party who had just eaten food with them – contrary to all Pathan codes of honour – renders the matter additionally hard to explain.’12 Though puzzled by the incident, Gee was certain in his conclusion that the attack was both premeditated and carefully planned. Laying out Gee’s communications, the Pioneer correspondent summed up the attack as follows: The Madda Khel had deliberately planned the attack on Colonel Bunny’s detachment and had carried it out in the most treacherous way. Their offence was clearly defined and their punishment needed to be exemplary. A tribal rising of the ordinary kind, or a raid upon an outpost, is not of material consequence in the borderland. Such disturbances are more or less to be expected whenever our troops occupy positions beyond the old frontier line. But the Maizar affair was of an entirely different complexion, for it involved a breach of hospitality and could only have been successful by cunningly contrived treachery.13 This version of events became public and widely circulated at the time. Notwithstanding the ‘treachery’, criticism followed from the press, as one of the main duties of a Frontier political officer was to gauge the attitude of the tribesmen. Questions raised by the apparent

160  Sameetah Agha unpreparedness of Gee and his escort could be explained by characterizing the attack as so sudden and conniving in nature that they had been deliberately lulled into a false sense of security. Contemporary British writers, such as H. W. Mills, emphasized the exceptional nature of the event: Correspondents wrote as if the Political Officer and the military officers with him at Maizar were imbeciles to have trusted the Madda Khel at all. Yet Colonel Bunny was an officer intimately acquainted with the Pathan character, thoroughly experienced in the manners and customs of frontier tribesmen, and generally cautious in his dealing with the tribesmen: but he must have been deceived by Sadda Khan’s hospitality. . . . It remained for a comparatively small section of the Darwesh Khel to break the peace at Maizar and to signalise its defiance of British authority by a piece of treachery unequalled on the frontier, and perfidy in setting at nought the laws of hospitality of a sort revolting even to Afghan sentiment.14 Implicit within this question lie key features of how the Frontier encounter was understood and explained. One of the ways in which contemporaries tried to explain the incident was through evoking ‘fanaticism’, a broad and convenient trope in colonial literature on the Frontier. By the late nineteenth century ‘fanaticism’ was a widely deployed Orientalist tool, especially in explaining armed colonial resistance in predominantly Muslim societies.15 In contemporary colonial accounts the Pukhtuns emerge as savages (bloodthirsty, warlike, treacherous, fanatical) and/or as a static tribe with fixed codes of honour, shame and revenge. Pukhtunwali is emphasized in colonial and even in recent anthropological accounts as a fixed and fundamental code of honour governing Pukhtun society which requires tribes to show hospitality to all visitors in the form of food, lodging and protection. In an insightful recent essay, Nancy Lindisfarne has stated that anthropologists of the Middle East (including Afghanistan) have ignored issues of class and empire and focused disproportionately on explorations of difference ‘as construed in exotic, tribal, ethnic, sectarian, cultural and gendered terms’.16 In this case we see contemporary accounts, drawn from Mr Gee’s initial telegrams, describing the attack as fanaticism, treachery and the violation of Pukhtunwali. Such Orientalist constructs are devoid of historical context and reinforce established colonial biases rather than deepening our historical understanding of the circumstances and context of the attack.

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 161 Almost all later accounts have fashioned their explanation of the attack at Maizar from similar elements. For example, C. C. Davies wrote in 1932: ‘So treacherous was this attack, and so utterly at variance with the Pathan code of honour, that frontier officers found the greatest difficulty in ascertaining the exact cause.’17 In conclusion he states: ‘The relative importance of fanaticism, Afghan and other intrigues, and the feeling of unrest engendered by discontent at tribal allowances, as causes of the Maizar outrage, will perhaps never be definitely determined, but it seems certain that the exaggerated reports of this affair, disseminated by anti-British mullahs, did tend to affect the rest of the border – to some extent Maizar heralded the approaching storm.’18 This view of the ‘Maizar outrage’ as a sudden and treacherous attack has held till today.19 However, the known circumstances surrounding the attack raise further questions: if the object of the visit of Mr Gee and the military party was to ‘realize’ a fine, then why were the troops dining in the village and playing music for the benefit of the tribesmen? If the object was a friendly one, then why did the Political Officer take a big military escort with him? Given the presence of such an escort, why were the officers and troops not better able to defend themselves? Despite the broad and uncritical acceptance of a premeditated, ‘treacherous’ attack, the circumstances of the incident and the poor British military performance raised unanswered questions for some commentators.20 A British military historian, H. L. Nevill, was astute enough to note the apparent contradiction in 1912: The position taken up by the escort was, tactically speaking, unsound; the attractions of shady trees for breakfast seem to have overridden more important considerations. The troops had arrived in Maizar nominally as an escort to the Political Officer, but practically to compel the payment of a fine which the tribesmen had resisted for a long time as, in their opinion, unjust; consequently, the most hospitable of welcomes was hardly to be expected, and there must be a reason or motive for a phenomenon or action of an unnatural kind.21 The military unpreparedness and the motive for taking a large military escort was also brought out by tactical failure, which was exacerbated by the fact that the gunners continued to fire blank: Artillery fire may be ineffective from a variety of causes, but when the cause is the use of blank, as in the example in question, it is

162  Sameetah Agha almost certain that, so far from frightening the enemy, the only result will be to advertise the otherwise possibly unrecognized fact that the supply of shell is exhausted, or nearly so, and all the moral effect of the guns – their most valuable asset – will be lost.22 Ironically, and despite the critical commentary of Nevill, the military failure at Maizar was turned into a heroic feat:23 With bullets raining upon them and with their British commanders all hors de combat, the retirement was carried out in the most orderly and admirable fashion.24 The GOI officially endorsed this view. The Commander-in-Chief of the British Indian Army recorded his appreciation of the heroic conduct of officers and men and declared that ‘the action was a deed of arms second to none in the annals of the British army’.25 The failure of existing accounts to satisfactorily explain the incident, and particularly the emphasis on the violation of Pukhtun hospitality codes, ultimately reflects a complacent disengagement, even from the full extant contemporary evidence. Usually when tribes on the North-West Frontier challenged imperial authority, they were sanctioned by the imposition of fines or blockades or via punitive military expeditions known as ‘butcher and bolt’ or ‘burn and scuttle’ raids. Immediately after the Maizar attack a military expedition was sanctioned against the tribes. However, a remarkable military tribunal was also established to try the maliks, who had been accused by Mr Gee of having arranged the attack. The military tribunal, held in the aftermath of the incident, provides a more detailed account of the events, allowing us a nuanced reconstruction of the encounter, one that encompasses evidence of Pukhtun agency and perspectives. Though the existence and operations of this military tribunal stand out as completely unique in the history of the North-West Frontier, neither the tribunal nor its findings appear in contemporary or postcolonial writings. This chapter examines the previously unexamined circumstances that led to the establishment of the Maizar tribunal. It reveals a cover-up on the part of the local political officers and ensuing tensions in civil–military relations that led to the facts surrounding the attack surfacing. The chapter reveals that the Maizar tribunal emerged from a context of civil–military tensions, and in this case the maliks recognized this fissure within empire and used it to seek recourse to some element of legality.

Civil–military relations and the establishment of the Maizar tribunal Several important studies have furthered our understanding of Victorian civil–military relations, most notably those by Edward Spiers,

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 163 W. S. Hamer, Hew Strachan and Ian Beckett.26 This work examines tensions within the transforming military establishment, including civil–military relations in the wake of army reform in Britain, rivalries among eminent soldiers of empire (e.g. Wolseley and Roberts, Wolseley and Mortimer Durand and Curzon and Kitchener) and the competition for key posts arising from and within the politics of command. Detailed enquiry into civil–military relations on the NorthWest Frontier, pioneered by W. Murray Hogben, has more recently been developed by Christian Tripodi and Andrew Roe.27 These latter writers point to two notable sources of strain upon the civil–political relationship. Apart from a difference in outlook and rivalry for recognition and rewards, since the First Afghan War the tendency of the military establishment in India was to blame the ‘politicals’ for military disasters. Also important was the problem of divided control during military expeditions. Political officers being attached to expeditions in order to carry on negotiations with tribes led to resentment of politicals’ sympathy towards the tribes, perceived as hampering military expeditions and standing between the soldier and his medal.28 In general, the politicals have been viewed as restrained and empathetic while soldiers have been seen as the impatient and aggressive expansionists. Our present case departs from this paradigm. Following the attack, based on Gee’s urgings, the GOI sanctioned a military expedition to punish the tribes. Major-General G. Corrie Bird was appointed to command the Tochi Field Force, numbering 4,660 troops.29 On the 13th of July Bird issued a proclamation to the headmen of all sections of the Darwesh Khel living in Northern Waziristan. Referring to the ‘treacherous and cowardly’ attack of the Madda Khels, he proclaimed to all concerned that: I am ordered by the Sarkar to proceed to Maizar with a force sufficiently strong to hold its own against all comers and to compel obedience to the orders of the Sarkar. And I inform you that it is my intention to destroy all the fortified kots in Maizar and Sheranni, whether resistance be shown or otherwise, and that I shall remain at Maizar or some convenient spot near to it, for so long as seems to me and the Government of India desirable. And I further inform you that I shall in due course announce the terms of punishment which the Sarkar may decide to inflict on all those who were in any way responsible for, or who took part in, the treacherous attack on the British troops; with whom alone it is my business to deal. And I warn all others who wish to live in peace with the Sarkar to refrain from obstructing my force, for, depend upon it, any further unfriendly acts will be severely dealt with.30

164  Sameetah Agha On 20 July British troops under Brigadier-General Egerton arrived in Sheranni and a squadron went on to Maizar. Both places were found deserted, though a collection of several hundred tribesmen were present in the low hills some distance away. With no opponents to fight, the next several weeks were spent destroying the houses in the villages of Maizar and Sheranni. The destruction of the tribes’ homes was completed on 5 August. The same day General Bird issued notices to all sections of the Madda Khel to come in on 12 August and hear the further terms of punishment ordered by the Government. The tribes refused to come in. On 17 August, in the absence of the Madda Khel, Bird announced the terms of punishment to other sections of the Darwesh Khel. The terms of the punishment were that the Madda Khel tribe must come in and make submission, agreeing to surrender 17 maliks, including Sadda Khan, to the Government of India (GOI). Further, all stolen property was to be returned or in default a fine determined by the GOI had to be paid by the errant tribesmen. Finally, fines, totalling some Rs 11,200, were levied on the tribe on account of their ‘recent misconduct’ – the Maizar attack.31 Sustained Wazir resistance to British occupation is crucial to understanding the circumstances and actual history behind the attack. Several figures of central significance in our particular context are missing from the relevant historiography. Before proceeding further some clarification of their roles is necessary. Malik Sadda Khan was a key figure in the events surrounding the Maizar attack. Since the British first entered Tochi two years prior to the attack, he was a close ally of the British and considered by them to be the leading representative of the Madda Khel – the head malik. Collaboration was an essential feature of the British Empire.32 The colonial system in the North-West Frontier also functioned through a network of translators, informants, workers, cleaners and levies.33 However, as F. Cooper and A. L. Stoler have pointed out, it is not clear ‘how those we have assumed were reliable ‘agents of empire’ – planters, low-level bureaucrats and subordinate members of colonial armies – participated in those ventures’.34 This is especially true in the North-West Frontier, which was the scene of perpetual resistance and armed conflict. It is also necessary to point out that prior to the British arrival there were no headmen or tribal chiefs in Waziristan. In the 1890s, R.I. Bruce, a disciple of Sir Robert Groves Sandeman’s, wanted to pursue a forward policy in Waziristan. To pursue this policy Bruce selected maliks who were given allowances in return for their influence and control of the rest of the tribe. By 1897, especially in the aftermath of the Maizar attack, the failure of the maliki system in Waziristan was

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 165 acknowledged pretty universally by the GOI. Since the maliks were not selected by the full body of the tribe, they failed to represent the tribe as a whole and turned out to be little more than middlemen or intermediaries. Our present case illustrates the limits and failure of this system. In this case a tension is evident in Sadda Khan’s relationship to both the British and his fellow tribesmen. There was an ambiguity and tenuousness to Sadda Khan’s position as an ‘ally’. The colonial authorities attempt to create ‘headship’ and use maliks mainly to manage resistance to expansion in Waziristan. Reward (bribes or allowances to maliks) and punishment (levying fines) through the maliks can be viewed as part of an attempt to create colonial authority. However, there is a sustained challenge to this formation of imperial authority being developed and normalized. Sadda Khan’s ambitions as a malik, including his relationships with the British and with rival maliks, were fundamentally shaped by the ongoing generalized opposition to the expanding British presence in the area. Despite the colonial interest in developing maliks as imperial agents, Sadda Khan was largely limited to mediating between the forces of opposition and empire. Further, Sadda Khan found himself jostling among competing internal interests such as those of rival maliks and sub-imperialism. Backed by colonial interests, Sadda Khan’s claim to ‘headship’ was contested by several sections of the Madda Khels (Kazhawals, Khojal Khels, Drepilaris, and Machas) and disputed by rival maliks (Alambe, Shekh Nur and Pyall were the most prominent of these). Despite tribal opposition to his claim, the British continued their recognition of Sadda Khan and conducted their dealings with the Madda Khel through him. Ghulam Muhammad Khan was the Assistant Political Officer working for Mr Gee and acted as a further middleman between Gee and Sadda Khan. From the documents and the findings of the tribunal he emerges as a bullying figure who used his position within the colonial hierarchy to coerce and harass the tribesmen. Sadda Khan and other maliks in their testimonies described Ghulam Muhammad Khan’s coercive methods during the expanding occupation of Waziristan. For instance one of the testimonies described Ghulam Muhammad Khan using troops to break down the doors of the Madda Khels’ granaries and forcibly taking grain as a way of collecting revenue. It appears that one of his principal roles is to translate and represent the communications of the tribes to Mr Gee and vice versa. When questioned on some of these points Ghulam Muhammad Khan could not provide any evidence to refute the accusations of the tribesmen against him. After the trial he was transferred out of Tochi.

166  Sameetah Agha Honda Ram was a Hindu munshi (scribe, clerk) who had been appointed to the Sheranni post in 1896. His murder and its relationship to the Maizar attack can be understood only within the context of British expansion and ongoing resistance from the tribes. From 1895 onwards military posts started to be built in Tochi and from then there was tribal opposition to their establishment. In February and March 1896 there were ‘riotous demonstrations’ in which the tribes threatened to turn the munshis out of the posts. According to Sadda Khan’s testimony before the tribunal, the agitation was mainly because of discontent around the distribution of allowances and the imposition on Wazir villages of revenue demands contrary to agreements reached with the tribes. On 9 June 1896 Honda Ram was murdered by an individual named Waris Khan. Immediately after the murder, Waris Khan fled to the Amir’s territory. Mr Gee inflicted a fine of Rs 2,000 on the whole tribe and accused seven tribesmen belonging to the Ali Khan Khel section of having incited him to commit the murder. The accused men were produced and tried before a jirga (tribal council) by Mr Gee and acquitted. However, Gee and Ghulam Muhammad Khan still insisted that the fine be paid, a demand which, in turn, led to a continuous resistance on the part of the tribes, who viewed the imposition of fine as lacking any justifiable legal basis. In his testimony before the tribunal Sadda Khan said he was not sure why Honda Ram was murdered but ‘everybody was glad of the murder, because I had sent for Honda Ram and I was responsible for him’.35 Sadda Khan explained that he had arranged for Honda Ram’s appointment to the Sheranni post, despite Ghulam Muhammad Khan wanting another appointed. Sadda Khan further explained that, while it had been rumoured that ‘Honda Ram had an intrigue with Waris Khan’s sister’, he himself did not credit this. Sadda Khan thought that the more credible reason for the murder was because he was responsible for Honda Ram and the tribes and other maliks had expressed an objection to having government officials in their posts. So, it was understood that the British and specifically Sadda Khan were responsible for placing Honda Ram in a position of authority. Ram’s murder may thus be seen as an attack on the authority of both the colonial state and Malik Sadda Khan. Madda Khel oral tradition viewed Honda Ram as a spy of the British.36 It was recounted that he ‘pretended to teach children’, but the actual reason for his presence in Tochi was to facilitate further occupation. This oral tradition corresponds with the aforementioned statement of Sadda Khan. Soon after the arrival of the military expedition headed by General Bird in Tochi, the GOI decided that political control of the valley be taken over from the local officers H. A. Anderson (Commissioner

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 167 and Superintendent of Derajat) and Mr Gee (Political Officer, Tochi, North Waziristan), and be handed over to the General Officer Commanding the Tochi Field Force, Major-General Bird. On 9 July Anderson handed over the political charge of the Tochi Valley to General Bird. While in Tochi, General Bird began to receive information about the attack, some of which contradicted statements made by Gee and Anderson. Gee had described the attack as cowardly and treacherous. Far from mitigating on behalf of the tribesmen, as has been expected of politicals, Gee concluded with certainty that the attack had been carefully planned beforehand and merited the severest of punishments. In his opinion, the cause of the attack ‘was partly fanatical, but arranged by Maliks’.37 Of interest, Gee somewhat grudgingly admitted that the maliks present had saved his assistant Ghulam Muhammad Khan’s life by taking him down to a tower during the attack. Rather than escalating the fighting, Sadda Khan and other maliks offered to come in. Nevertheless, Gee implicated the maliks by maintaining their foreknowledge and reported to the Government, ‘it is impossible to explain how such a well-directed fire broke out on all sides, if we suppose that the affair began accidentally.’38 Anderson supported this view and reported that the outbreak was inspired by fanaticism. The Mullahs (Islamic holy men), he claimed, ‘took advantage of Muharram to rouse fanatical feelings, and the unpalatable demand of the fine in Honda Ram’s case gave them desired opportunity of stirring up resistance and bringing about fanatical outbreak’.39 However information from other sources emphasized a different explanation of the Tochi attack and directly contradicted Gee’s report. For example A. J. Grant, Political Officer stationed in Wana in Southern Waziristan, sent a report to the Government in which he concluded: From all sources of information on this side (Mahsud and Darwesh Khel) the same report is received as to the cause of the Maizar outbreak. It is ascribed to irritation at Government putting a post in their country with an armed force to enforce payment of the fine for the murder of Honda Ram. All idea of fanaticism is eschewed. The Mahsuds and Wana Ahmadzais attach no importance whatever to Muharram and hardly know what the name means.40 In fact, as Grant explained, the religious festival of Muharram is celebrated by Shi’a Muslims and the Wazirs and Mahsuds are Sunni, not Shi’a, Muslims. Numerous accounts provided by other informants, tribesmen and levies pointed to additional reasons for the outbreak, further challenging the narrative of fanaticism provided by Gee and

168  Sameetah Agha Anderson. For example, Alam Shah, Havildar (Sergeant) of Sheranna levies, gave the following account: On the 8th June I and Sadda Khan and Alambe Khan left Datta Khel for Maizar to make arrangements for the Political Officer’s visit. We stayed the night at Maizar with Sherin, Khoji Khel. Sadda Khan with us. The same night Sadda Khan sent for Pyall, but he pleaded illness and did not come. Sadda Khan killed some sheep, and I with some other levies prepared food for the sepoys. On the 9th June I went to Drepilare Kot of Modoi to collect charpoys, but the villagers refused to give them. Modoi is the headman. He did not himself go to see Sadda Khan. After this Pyall came to see Sadda Khan and asked why the fauj was coming. Sadda Khan said, ‘To realise the fine in Honda Ram’s case.’ Pyall said, ‘It should be decided by Shariyat. If there is any one in my tribe or in the whole of Maizar who is guilty, we will pay our share of the fine, but not otherwise. The Muharrir was killed in Sheranna, and he was made over to you to protect. The relations of the murderer live in Sheranna and they should pay.’ Sadda Khan said, ‘This is a baradari matter. A large fine like this ought to be put on the whole baradari.’ He said, ‘I will kill you or be arrested by the Sarkar and transported, but I will not pay a fine without due cause.’41 Meanwhile, Malik Sadda Khan wrote letters and petitions to Gee and Anderson protesting his innocence and asking that he be allowed to see them and argue his case. A notable feature of Sadda Khan’s correspondence is his mention of self-imposed exile, underscoring the highly precarious positions maliks attempted to occupy and negotiate among forces of empire and indigenous resistance. Here Sadda Khan is willing to stake everything for an opportunity to prove his innocence. It is likely that his mention of exile was an effort to demonstrate his sincere willingness to work with the GOI, while also trying to save his homeland from further destruction. Pukhtun oral accounts refer to the Maizar attack as ‘the Maizar War’. Following Bird’s announcement of terms of punishment several messages were sent to the maliks to come in, but they refused to appear. On 2 September the messengers brought back the following letter from Sadda Khan. Translation of the letter is worth quoting at some length as it provides a rare form of evidence: Maliks Din Muhammad, Imangul, Mani Khan, Nakkar Khan, and Rezan Shah sent by you, reached here, and I was informed of the message that the Government wishes my presence. The reason

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 169 for my non-attendance and distrust is that during the demarcation of the boundary between the Government of India and the King of Khorasan, the Amir, I applied for certain terms from Mr Anderson, the Commissioner, for the satisfaction of my tribe; the tribe as well demanded the terms from the said officer. But the officers in charge of the Tochi Valley did not allow me to make those demands, and discredited me before my tribe. When the British troops came to Maizar for the realization of the fine in Honda Ram’s case, I gave a notice to Mr Gee and Gholam Muhammad Khan that they should not go to Maizar as the Madda Khels would not pay the fine, because the Ali Khan Khel section only was charged with the offence; the murderer of the Hindu was also an Ali Khan Khel. The rest of the Madda Khel tribe would not in any case pay the fine, and a fight would surely ensue between the Government and the Madda Khels. Mr Gee and Ghulam Muhammad Khan replied that they will see; and if the Madda Khels are true sons of their mothers, they will fight against Government for a moment. I took Ghulam Muhammad Khan’s beard and begged him to grant six days’ grace so that I may present the tribe at Datta Khel. Gholam Muhammad Khan said that he intended to try the Madda Khels, and that, if they wished to fight against Government, he would give them a chance, and therefore a fine is to be realized from them without any proof. Hearing this I became silent. When the fight between the British troops and the Madda Khels commenced, I with my three brothers . . . accompanied Gholam Muhammad Khan and several other Government servants to a hamlet of Sheranni and remained with them till the fight ceased. Gholam Muhammad Khan forbade me from going towards the troops, saying that the troops will injure me. I therefore did not go towards the troops. My two horses were killed in the fight. The Government officers have charged me with a treacherous invitation of the Government, and discredited and distrusted me. . . . When the General intended to come to our country I sent him my petitions at Bannu praying that the General may not cause me injury without proof of my guilt, but the General did not consider my case, and treated me like the offenders and the enemies of Government. Therefore I have lost my hope and trust upon the Government officers as they trust each other’s words and do not believe the words of a foreigner.42 By now multiple sources including British officers such as Grant and local informants such as Havildar Alam Shah and maliks including Sadda Khan described a situation that was more complex than,

170  Sameetah Agha and in places directly contradicted, the initial reports and explanations furnished by Gee and Anderson. Here again, as in other testimonies, Sadda Khan is directly claiming that he communicated the tribes’ grievance and mounting anger at the injustice of being forced to pay the fine. He also communicated to Gee and Ghulam Muhammad Khan not to go to Maizar as a fight was likely. We can see in the discussion preceding the fighting at Maizar that if what Sadda Khan alleges is true Mr Gee and Ghulam Muhammad Khan were directly taunting and coercing Sadda Khan. Further, it is worth noting that the maliks were well aware that this information was being communicated to Major General Bird. For three months Bird and his troops waited in Maizar to announce terms of punishment to the tribes but the Madda Khel maliks and tribes refused to appear. In October, Bird was asked by the GOI to send his report on the origin of the outbreak at Maizar. At question was the extent to which Assistant Political Officer Ghulam Muhammad Khan and Malik Sadda Khan were aware of the attitude of the Maizarwals and the probability of their revolt. Bird reported that Sadda Khan was the most influential malik in Upper Tochi, a British ally and the main person with whom they had worked since moving into the Tochi in 1895. Considering past record, he concluded, ‘Sadda Khan was really sincere in his professions of loyalty to Government. He was, of course, actuated by self-interest; but he was wise enough to see that it was to his interest to support us, and he did so.’43 Further, he ruled out ‘deliberate treachery’ on the part of the maliks in the Maizar attack. If there had been deliberate intention to commit a treacherous attack on our troops, it is impossible to believe Sadda Khan and all his own immediate relations (to say nothing of the Khidder Khel Maliks and intelligent men like the Levy Havildar Alam Shah) would not have had some warning of it, and in that case would have conveyed a warning to the Political Officer; again if they had meant treachery, they could have easily shot down Mr Gee and his escort of six cavalry sowars on the way to or from Dotoi; thirdly, the inhabitants of remote villages, instead of being ready on the spot to join in the fight, did not come up till they heard the sound of firing; fourthly, the women and children do not appear to have been sent away, as is the custom with Pathan tribes when a fight is coming off; Mr Gee speaks of the women joining in the fight and throwing stones, and four women are said to have been killed at Maizar, and nine women and children at Sheranni.44

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 171 Though Major-General Bird vouched for Malik Sadda Khan, and Political Officer Gee’s account was not deemed credible, Bird did not (and perhaps could not) challenge Gee directly. By contrast, inconsistencies discovered between the prevalent tribal sentiment and Ghulam Muhammad Khan’s statements caused Bird to question Khan’s capacities as an Assistant Political Officer. Further, Sadda Khan’s petitions had accused the Assistant Political Officer of not listening to his warnings that there would be trouble if the few days’ grace in the payment of the fine were not granted. Bird advocated further inquiry into the matter. By now relations between Major-General Bird and officers in the Punjab Government had notably deteriorated. For example, Anderson criticized Bird’s handling of the affairs and stated that the maliks had not come in till now because of the want of confidence in the officers in the valley. He recommended to the Government that political control should be restored to the civil authorities and he be given a free hand to do whatever he can. Again, the maliks duly recognized and sought advantage from this fissure by communicating with Bird and not Gee and Anderson. In a letter dated 23 August Sadda Khan and several other maliks wrote to Bird requesting that they be allowed to prove their case against the political officers to their face and in front of Bird: We beg to state that we had expressed our desire and asked you in several letters to send for the old officers who had laid down terms with us in the beginning of the delimitation operations, and who were present in the fight – in which I (Sadda Khan) am charged with treacherous invitation. It is necessary to send for those officers, so that we may lay and prove our case against them before you.45 On 31 October, Sadda Khan came in and surrendered to General Bird on assurance of his life and a fair trial. In August, Bird had recommended for the Government’s consideration the appointment of a special tribunal that would conduct the trial of the maliks who had been accused of complicity in the Maizar attack. The GOI approved the formation of the tribunal. Over the next few days Sadda Khan gave his testimony to Bird and the other officers, with the formal trial scheduled for December. Anderson wrote to the Government of Punjab that he was opposed to a trial because then: it will not be possible, as I brought to the notice of His Honour in a demi-official in July last, to establish against him (Sadda Khan) a

172  Sameetah Agha charge of having organized the outbreak or taken an active part in the attack. This being so the result of Sadda Khan’s trial conducted by a tribunal, such as is contemplated, will be that Sadda Khan will be pronounced not guilty of any serious criminal offence, and in view of the result of his formal trial will claim to be reinstated in his former position.46 Anderson again disagreed with the recommendations General Bird proposed to the GOI. In contrast to Bird, Anderson remained intent on Sadda Khan’s disposal and opposed to a trial being held to establish the causes of the outbreak and who was responsible. The GOI turned down Anderson’s recommendation that political control be restored to the political officers and maintained that the trial go ahead as planned. In a detailed response, General Bird communicated his relief to the GOI that he was not going to be disturbed in his political charge as long as he and his troops remained in Tochi. The prospect had caused him anxiety, he explained, because he felt he was on the verge of success in getting the maliks to come in and if Anderson or Ghulam Muhammad Khan appeared, or it was rumoured that they were coming, he felt that he would fail. Rather pointedly he continued: Without wishing to doubt Mr Anderson’s power of coercing the Madda Khels, I do not think from what I gather that either he or Ghulam Muhammad could do more than I was confident in time I could do myself. . . . I was first rather taken aback at the unwillingness of Sadda Khan to give even a half-way reply to the friendly deputations I sent him, and at the inability of these deputations to get out of him what he was really driving at. However, I understood it at last when I ascertained that it was not the object of the members of these deputations, nor yet of Ghulam Muhammad & Co., to get him in, but rather to frighten him and keep him out.47 Bird’s letter made clear that it was because of a lack of trust in and fear of the political officers that the maliks had held out so long. In November, Sadda Khan and several other Madda Khel maliks gave two petitions to General Bird asking that they be forwarded to the Viceroy/Governor-General of India. In these they stated that they had come to trust General Bird and wished him not only to settle the Maizar case, but that future control of Tochi should be taken away from the political officers and placed under General Bird: ‘We most humbly and respectfully pray that General Bird may be invested with full power to finally settle the Maizar case. The reason for this petition

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 173 is that we, Malik Sadda Khan and all the Madda Khel tribe, have come in to submit in reliance on, and trust in, General Bird.’48 Another petition signed by 39 members of different clans from Tochi addressed to General Bird requesting that it be forwarded to the Viceroy and the Lieutenant-Governor of the Punjab stated: ‘We are willing that the Tochi Valley may remain for the future under the General. In case a Civil Officer is appointed, still the supreme control should be held by the General so that we may not be destroyed. We are much pleased with the dealings of the General.’49 Being aware of the friction between General Bird and the political officers, the Government interpreted in these petitions an attempt by the maliks to pit the military against the civil authorities. E. H. S. Clarke, the assistant secretary, noted: ‘All the petitions are so manifestly an attempt to play off the General against the civil political authorities that they require careful dealing with.’50 On 1 December 1897, a tribunal composed of three military officers and one political officer – General Bird, C. C. Egerton, J. A. H. Pollock and R. E. Younghusband – tried Sadda Khan and four others who had been accused of complicity in the Maizar attack – Sheikh Nur, Ware Khan, Khanijan and Dande.51 The tribunal recorded their testimony, cross-examined them and also brought in various witnesses. Ghulam Muhammad Khan was brought in for further questioning. Mr Gee did not appear but sent in his replies in writing. Accounts from Sadda Khan, the other maliks and witnesses including British informants shed an important light on the Maizar affair. Testimonies from the tribunal provide insights into the complex workings of British imperialism on the North-West Frontier, including first-hand Pukhtun accounts of the realities of, and resistance to, imperialism in Waziristan.52 This evidence helps contextualize an otherwise disjointed encounter between ongoing forms of resistance and received historical narratives of isolated events and attacks viewed as ‘outrages’. Attention to these detailed contrasts offers an alternative to contemporary perceptions conveyed by local officers to the GOI. The view that the Wazirs wanted to come into the fold of the British Government, especially as fostered by R. I. Bruce and Anderson, who had urged the forward policy upon the GOI and the pacification of Waziristan in 1894, was challenged by the maliks’ testimonies that there had never been an agreement to occupation. Rather, it was explained that an agreement had been made to allow the British to have a road through Tochi on the strict condition that the tribes would not be asked to pay revenue. Sadda Khan noted that the tribes sought written sanads (deeds) embodying these conditions, which were never granted. Against the terms of the understood agreement, villages in the

174  Sameetah Agha Dawar were assessed for revenue. People became disgruntled and the inhabitants of the Spulga village ran away to escape from the revenue collection. It was pointed out that ‘Ghulam Muhammad then had the doors of their houses broken open and the grain taken out to pay the revenue’.53 Not only was the fact of British occupation called into question in the abstract, but the coherence of the form, logic and rules that this occupation presented was being contested. One resonant example described troops forcibly taking grass and fruit from trees without compensating the villagers. This was during the occupation prior to the expedition. The following scenario emerged from Sadda Khan’s and the other prisoners’ testimonies. First, the Madda Khels had been continuously pressed to pay a fine which they in turn regarded as unlawful and unjust. Honda Ram’s murderer had escaped into the Amir’s territory. The men accused of being his accomplices were tried and acquitted by a jirga. However, Mr Gee and his assistant continued to demand the fine without an explanation. Second, on the eve of the attack, Mr Gee and Ghulam Muhammad Khan ordered Sadda Khan to go prepare food for the following day as they were coming with several hundred troops to collect the fine from the tribe. Sadda Khan pleaded for them not to come and as a last resort asked them to wait. They ignored his pleas. So, neither Sadda Khan nor the tribe in question had offered them an invitation, hospitality or protection. Thus the violation of the code of honour subsequently played up in the press and uncritically absorbed by the historiography was not accurate. Finally, as to how the attack commenced? After the troops had eaten and the pipers were playing music, which is odd given that they were doing so while their presence was a display of force intended to coerce payment of a contested fine, the situation suddenly turned for worse.54 Mr Gee told Sadda Khan and two other maliks to go collect the fine. The maliks pleaded with Gee for six days’ grace which was not granted, and in response to which Ghulam Muhammad Khan made some bullying remarks. Thereupon the villagers started moving away for fear of being arrested. A shot was fired at Sadda Khan since he was seen as an ally of the British and the villagers were angry with him about the fine. Then cross-firing started and Sadda Khan along with Ghulam Muhammad Khan and other maliks took cover and helped to save Ghulam Muhammad Khan’s life. According to the tribunal Ghulam Muhammad Khan’s evidence was given in ‘a most unsatisfactory manner, and he pleaded ignorance of facts and of having forgotten material points which should have been indelibly stamped in his memory’.55 Mr Gee failed to appear before the tribunal, claiming that he was unwell. His rather sullen replies

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 175 were sent in writing, and he did not, or could not, answer the questions posed to him. Neither Gee nor Ghulam Muhammad Khan could effectively refute the other testimonies.

Conclusion The tribunal established clearly that the Maizar attack was not a premeditated act of treachery. Sadda Khan was exonerated of ‘any guilty complicity or knowledge of the intentions of the tribe to attack our troops’.56 Following the tribunal, the Government of Punjab and the GOI acknowledged that there was nothing in the attack that could be characterised as treachery. Though fanaticism had long since been dismissed as an explanation within the imperial government, it has continued to resonate in much of the contemporary and secondary literature. The establishment of the Maizar tribunal led to facts around the Maizar attack emerging, which ran counter to the narrative provided by Mr Gee and his assistant. It also led to a scrutiny of their role in Tochi and subsequently an awkward and unsuccessful attempt on their part to conceal the discontent of the maliks and the resistance of the tribes, not only to an unjust fine lacking legal basis but to the nature of British occupation of Waziristan. This fairly anomalous tribunal took place mainly because of the recommendation from General Bird, whose sustained enquiry into the attack led to strained relations with the political officers. One is led to question Bird’s motive in recommending a trial to the GOI. Is it because of his commitment to justice, because he was aware that the tribes had been wronged and there had been a misrepresentation of what had actually occurred by the political officers? The trial did lead to revealing these details. Or was it that General Bird acquiesced to Sadda Khan and the maliks’ demand for a fair trial, without the assurance of which they would not have surrendered? The latter would have implied a failure of General Bird’s expedition. The archival records do not hold papers that shed direct light on this, but it is clear that Bird’s actions did lead to uncovering the facts that implicated Gee and his assistant. General Bird did not advocate punishment for the maliks who were tried and recommended that Sadda Khan be reinstituted to his old position along with restored allowances. Again in contrast to the idea of the ‘sympathetic political officer’, Anderson pushed for harsh punishment and despite Sadda Khan and others being exonerated they were sentenced to indefinite detention at the pleasure of Government. If it is the case that the lasting British military presence on the NorthWest Frontier brought endemic struggles over forms of accountability and authority, this historical reality remains difficult to reconstruct

176  Sameetah Agha satisfactorily. The findings of this unusual military tribunal reveal a conjuncture of imperial tensions, civil–military relations and Pukhtun resistance that often remains inaccessible, but has too seldom been sought out. In the case of the outbreak at Maizar, reports from the ground were critically evaluated at length, discovered to be disingenuous and substituted with a fuller record. These realities of British occupation in Waziristan clearly show us the limitations of a neat dichotomy of the liberal, sympathetic political officer and the conservative, aggressive, expansionist soldier. They also raise piercing questions about the roles and actions of local political officers within the actual character of imperial expansion and annexation experienced on the North-West Frontier. Going beyond Orientalist stereotypes and still prevailing images, such as ‘fanaticism’ and ‘treachery’, reveals a more complex reality of imperial warfare on the North-West Frontier. In a recent book Richard Gott has brought together a comprehensive account of resistance to colonialism in different parts of the British Empire from 1772 to 1858. He points out that the expansion of the British Empire was invariably conducted as a military operation which in turn was met with opposition, off and on, in varying forms until independence. Of relevance here is his statement: ‘Underneath the veneer of the official record exists another, rather different, story. Year in, year out, there was resistance to conquest, and rebellion against occupation, often followed by mutiny and revolt – by individuals, groups, armies and entire peoples.’57 To understand the circumstances behind the Maizar attack we have to go back to the beginning of British occupation of Waziristan, which encountered a continual resistance from the Wazirs. The Maizar attack represents a culmination of this resistance.58 The murky and contested nature of the occupation and the history of sub-imperialism on the Frontier were revealed by the tribunal. One of the central features in this case was the misrepresentation of the attitude of the Pukhtuns by the men on the spot – the political officers – to the GOI, which then in turn got communicated to London. It was these political officers that had pushed the government towards annexation of Waziristan saying that the tribes welcomed the British presence. The resentment of the tribes to the occupation which led to ‘incidents’ was brushed off each time as the work of a few troublemakers, such as was seen with the murder of Honda Ram. In turn incessant fines were placed on the tribes for making trouble, which further alienated the tribes and led to mounting opposition manifested over time in violent protest.

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 177 If the expansion of the British Empire was ‘invariably conducted as a military operation’, then colonial military history, such as the New Military History, opens up a space to help us understand the wider histories of empire. This case demonstrates the sub-imperialism of colonial expansion in the Frontier which has at its heart a story of resistance that is largely missing from historiography. However, as Cooper and Stoler state in Tensions of Empire: The idea of an indigenous ‘response’ or ‘resistance’ to an imperialist initiative . . . does not capture the dynamics of either side of the encounter or how those sides were drawn. The ambiguous lines that divided engagement from appropriation, deflection from denial, and desire from discipline not only confounded that colonial encounter, it positioned contestation over the very categories of ruler and ruled at the heart of colonial politics.59 The colonial military archive can be a valuable source as can be evidenced by the proceedings of the military tribunal. Approaching and reading the archive in order to prise out some of these ambiguities and contestations lead us to uncover sub-imperialism (in this case civil–military tensions) and resistance as brought out in Pukhtun testimonies, and towards reconstructing the actual complex range of dynamics that lie at the heart of the colonial encounter in the North-West Frontier.

Notes 1 Benjamin Hopkins, The Making of Modern Afghanistan (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Shah Mahmoud Hanifi, Connecting Histories in Afghanistan: Market Relations and State Formation on a Colonial Frontier (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2011). 2 FATA, viewed as a semi-autonomous area (especially the political agencies), is comprised of seven political agencies and six Frontier regions. The political agencies include Bajaur, Mohmand, Khyber, Orakzai, Kurram, North Waziristan, and South Waziristan and the Frontier regions Peshawar, Kohat, Bannu, Tank, Dera Ismail Khan, and Lakki Marwat. 3 Most notable among these spies were Mountstuart Elphinstone and Alexander Burnes. 4 The GOI persuaded London to accept the policy shift in Waziristan, emphatically refusing its annexation: ‘We wish it to be clearly understood that nothing is further from our intentions than the annexation of tribal country on our frontier.’ Nevertheless, the policy was aimed at bringing the Wazirs under British influence ‘without annexation and without interference in the internal affairs of the tribes.’ From GOI to the Secretary of State, 3 January 1894, Proceedings of the Government of India (hereafter

178  Sameetah Agha PGOI), Secret Foreign (hereafter Sec F), K. W., April 1894, National Archives of India (hereafter NAI), New Delhi, India. 5 G. S. White, Administration of the Frontier Districts of the Punjab and the Management of the Trans-Frontier Tribes, 15 June 1896, PGOI, Sec F, August 1896, NAI, Delhi, India. 6 See Sameetah Agha, ‘Sub-imperialism and the Loss of the Khyber: The Politics of Imperial Defence on British India’s North-West Frontier’, Indian Historical Review, vol. 40, no. 2 (2013), pp. 307–30. 7 The Under Secretary of State for India, 7 March 1898, Parliamentary Debates, House of Lords, 1898. 8 H. W. Mills, The Pathan Revolt in North-West India (Lahore: Civil and Military Gazette, 1897), p. 108. 9 Official accounts and contemporary historiography were uncertain about the relationship between the Maizar attack and the revolt that soon broke out in the rest of the Frontier – whether it was a ‘bastard preliminary’ or whether it ‘heralded the coming storm’. See C. C. Davies cited below. 10 Most accounts are drawn from Mr Gee’s initial telegrams describing the attack. From Political Officer to Simla and Punjab, 10 June 1897, PGOI, Foreign Frontier (hereafter FF), June 1897, NAI, Delhi, India. 11 The Risings on the North-West Frontier (Compiled from the Special War Correspondence of the Pioneer) (Allahabad: Pioneer, 1898), p. 3. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid., p. 23. 14 Mills, Pathan Revolt, p. 23. 15 Orientalist is used here in the Saidian sense. Of particular relevance is Edward Said’s forceful examination of how recurring, derogatory images of the ‘other’ perform crucial work in shaping colonial history and historiography. In military encounters on the frontier ‘fanaticism’ was widely repeated, though remaining mysterious, ‘closed, self-evident, self-confirming’ (Mutman, cited here), without an apparent need to be explained. Military history has yet to fully engage with the postcolonial historiographical challenges outlined in Orientalism. While Patrick Porter’s book on Military Orientalism is a foray in this direction, the full implications of Orientalism’s challenge to dominant and lingering colonial narratives of military history have yet to be explored. Notably, though J. Belich does not directly employ Orientalism, his work forms an outstanding example of a history of colonial warfare written from a postcolonial perspective, very compatible with the aims of Said’s critique. See Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books, 1978); Edward Said, Covering Islam (New York: Pantheon Books, 1981); Mahmut Mutman, ‘Under the Sign of Orientalism: The West vs. Islam’, Cultural Critique, no. 23 (Winter 1992–3), pp. 165–97; Patrick Porter, Military Orientalism: Eastern War Through Western Eyes (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009); James Belich, The Victorian Interpretation of Racial Conflict: The Maori, the British and the New Zealand Wars (Montreal; London: McGillQueen’s University Press, 1989). See also Julia Terrau’s review of Patrick Porter at: [accessed 22 October 2014].

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 179 16 Nancy Lindisfarne, ‘Exceptional Pashtuns? Class Politics, Imperialism and Historiography’, in B. D. Hopkins and M. Marsden (eds.), Beyond Swat: History, Society and Economy Along the Afghanistan-Pakistan Frontier (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), pp. 119–33. 17 C. C. Davies, The Problem of the North-West Frontier, 1890–1908, with a Survey of Policy Since 1849 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932), p. 93. 18 Ibid., p. 94. 19 This view resonates throughout the secondary literature across the spectrum, ranging from popular histories to the more scholarly. For examples of a caricaturised version see Jules Stewart, The Savage Border: The History of the North-West Frontier (Phoenix Mill: Sutton Publishing Limited, 2007) and D.S. Richards, The Savage Frontier: A History of the Anglo-Afghan Wars (London: Pan Books, 2003). Accounts such as these are also full of historical inaccuracies. For example, Stewart claims that the attack occurred in South Waziristan. His embellishment builds upon crude representations, as when he states, ‘the heat acted as a catalyst for the tribes-men’s natural proclivity for violent action’, p. 110. Alan Warren in Waziristan, the Faqir of Ipi, and the Indian Army (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) uncritically repeats the entrenched colonial-era narrative of the Tochi attack as: ‘Tribal Maliks invited Gee and the officers of his escort to sit down to a meal, and then sprang a premeditated ambush’, p. 28. 20 ‘At first there was much murmuring in some quarters, and in Calcutta it was suggested that the escort had been utterly demoralised and that something like a sauve qui peut had followed.’ See Mills, Pathan Revolt, p. 16. 21 H. L. Nevill, Campaigns on the North-West Frontier (London: John Murray, 1912), p. 221. 22 Ibid., p. 222. 23 For a groundbreaking exploration of the representations of ‘victory’ and ‘defeat’ in Victorian colonial warfare, see Belich, Victorian Interpretation. 24 Mills, Pathan Revolt, p. 16. 25 Quoted in Risings on the North-West Frontier, p. 19. 26 See Hew Strachan, The Politics of the British Army (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997); Edward Spiers, The Army and Society, 1815–1914 (London: Longman, 1980); W. S. Hamer, The British Army: Civil-Military Relations, 1885–1905 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970); Byron Farwell, Eminent Victorian Soldiers: Seekers of Glory (Ontario: Penguin Books Canada Ltd., 1985); and Ian Beckett, ‘Soldiers, the Frontier and the Politics of Command in British India’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, vol. 16, no. 3 (2005), pp. 280–92. 27 W. Murray Hogben, ‘British Civil-Military Relations on the North-West Frontier of India’, in Adrian Preston and Peter Dennis (eds.), Swords and Covenants (Totowa, NJ: Rowman & Littlefield, 1976), pp. 123–46 and Christian Tripodi, Edge of Empire: The British Political Officer and Tribal Administration on the North-West Frontier, 1877–1947 (Surrey, VT: Ashgate, 2011), pp. 123–46. See also Andrew M. Roe, Waging War in Waziristan: The British Struggle in the Land of Bin Laden, 1849–1947 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2010).

180  Sameetah Agha 28 In the Frontier during the period under question, an officer referred to as a ‘political’ did not necessarily mean a civil servant in the strict sense. Many political officers had military backgrounds, and the rest came from the Indian Civil Service. The politicals held the forward posts of the empire. It was their job in the Frontier to maintain relations with the tribes and keep the government informed of the temper and attitude of the tribes. 29 Major G. V. Kemball, R.A., Operations of the Tochi Field Force in 1897– 98 (Simla: Intelligence Branch, Quartermaster General’s Department [hereafter Q.M.G.’s Dept.], 1900). 30 Ibid., p. 12. 31 Ibid., pp. 16–17. 32 For the role of princes, informants, secretaries, spies, and translators, including the institution of the Indian Civil Service, in the establishment and maintenance of the British Indian Empire, see Samiksha Sehrawat, ‘“Hostages in Our Camp”: Military Collaboration Between Princely India and the British Raj, c.1880–1920’, in B. Pati and W. Ernst (eds.), India’s Princely States: People, Princes and Colonialism (London; New York: Routledge, 2007), pp. 118–38; Mohinder Singh Pannu, Partners of British Rule: Liberators or Collaborators? (New Delhi: Allied Publishers Private Limited, 2006); Christopher A. Bayly, Empire and Information: Intelligence Gathering and Social Communication in India, 1780–1870 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 33 While such agents appear in general histories, the dynamics of how collaboration functioned on the North-West Frontier has yet to be explored. Intelligence and spying on the Frontier have received some attention. For example see Robert Johnson, Spying for Empire: The Great Game in Central and South Asia, 1757–1947 (London: Greenhill Books, 2006). 34 Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler (eds.), Tensions of Empire: Colonial Cultures in a Bourgeois World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), p. 6. 35 Memorandum by Major-General G. C. Bird, President, Trial on Madda Khel Prisoners, 27 December 1897, PGOI, Sec F, 1898, NAI. 36 In 1995 during a field research trip in Tochi, North Waziristan, I conducted interviews with several Wazir elders including Sadda Khan’s greatgrandson, Malik Abdul Wadud. Oral traditional accounts of the Maizar attack were still widely known, including recollections of Honda Ram, Mr Gee and Ghulam Muhammad Khan. 37 From Gee to the Commissioner & Superintendent, Derajat Division, 19 June 1897, PGOI, FF, July 1897. 38 Ibid. 39 From Commissioner, Derajat to Simla & Punjab, 16 June 1897, PGOI, FF, June 1897, NAI. 40 Extract from Wana Diary for 21 to 24 June 1897, PGOI, FF, July 1897, Directorate of Archives (hereafter DOA), Peshawar, Pakistan. 41 Enquiry into the Causes of the Maizar Outbreak & Conduct of Maliks, &c., PGOI, FF, July 1897, DOA, Peshawar, Pakistan. 42 Translation of a letter from Malik Sadda Khan, Madda Khel, dated 4th Rabi-us-Sani 1315 H. Corresponding to the 2 September 1897, PGOI, Sec F, October 1897, DOA, Peshawar, Pakistan.

Deciphering the Maizar military tribunal, 1897 181 43 From Major-General G. Corrie Bird, C. B., Commanding Tochi Field Force to the Secretary to GOI, Foreign Department, 25 September 1897, PGOI, FF, October 1897, NAI. 44 From Major-General Corrie Bird to Secretary, GOI, 13 October 1897, PGOI, FF, October 1897, NAI. 45 Translation of a letter from the Madda Khel Maliks, to Major-General G. C. Bird, C. B., General Officer Commanding, Tochi Field Force, dated the 23rd Rabi al-awwal 1315 H., NAI. 46 From the Commissioner and Superintendent, Derajat Division to the Officiating Chief Secretary to the Government of Punjab, PGOI, Sec F, September 1898, NAI. 47 From Major-General G. Corrie Bird, C.B., to Sir W. J. Cuningham, K.C.S.I. Dated Camp Kasha Valley, 4 November 1897, NAI. 48 Translation of a petition from Malik Sadda Khan and Madda Khel tribe to His Excellency the Governor-General of India, dated 18th Jamadi-ul-Sani 1315 Hijri, corresponding to 14 November 1897, NAI. 49 Translation of a petition from the Darwesh Khel Maliks to the MajorGeneral G. Corrie Bird, C.B., Commanding Tochi Field Force, for submission to the Viceroy of India and Lieutenant-Governor of the Punjab, dated 17 November 1897, NAI. 50 E. H. S. Clarke, 20 December 1897, PGOI, Sec F, September 1898, NAI. 51 The Government had demanded the surrender of 17 people, but only these five surrendered. When the trial commenced, one more came in – Alambe. He was not tried, but his opinion was recorded by the tribunal. 52 Rather than Sadda Khan speaking on behalf of the tribe, his situation and his testimony reveal contestations within the operations of empire. Combining his testimony with that of other maliks and informants, we are able to establish the main contours of the circumstances leading to and surrounding the attack. 53 Statement of Sadda Khan to General Bird on 2 November 1897, PGOI, Sec F, September 1898, NAI, Delhi, India. 54 While analysis of this curious, cultural colonial encounter is beyond the scope of this article, it brings into play questions about the role of cultural tools within imperialism. The Pukhtun tribes and British troops do not inhabit the same cultural space. It is not a mutual appreciation of a shared cultural form that is at play here. There is a power relation being performed within the framework of imperialism and there exists a clear divide between the two sides. The fact that the music was played in an atmosphere of bullying and coercion when the Madda Khels were being forced to pay up a fine that they had long resisted as unjust, and that too in the presence of 350 armed troops, again opens up questions about the purpose and nature of Gee and his military escort’s visit to Maizar. For a related study see Jeffrey Richards, Imperialism and Music: Britain 1876–1953 (Manchester; New York: Manchester University Press, 2001). 55 From Major-General G. Corrie Bird, Commanding Tochi Field Force to the Secretary to the GOI, Foreign Department, 28 December 1897, PGOI, Sec F, September 1898, NAI. 56 Memorandum by Major-General G. C. Bird, President, Trial on Madda Khel Prisoners, 27 December 1897, PGOI, Sec F, September 1898, NAI.

182  Sameetah Agha 57 Richard Gott, Britain’s Empire: Resistance, Repression and Revolt (London; New York: Verso, 2011), p. 2. 58 A more detailed history of this resistance is explored in my book manuscript, The Limits of Empire: Imperial Defence, Sub-imperialism and Pukhtun Resistance. 59 Cooper and Stoler, Tensions of Empire, p. 6.

8 The Indian Army in defeat Malaya, 1941–2 Kaushik Roy

During the Second World War, the biggest defeat of the Indian Army occurred in Malaya-Singapore during early 1942 at the hands of the Imperial Japanese Army (IJA). There have been some studies dealing with the collapse of the Indian Army in Malaya-Singapore Campaign: Alan Warren focuses on the faults in the internal organization of the Indian Army,1 while T. R. Moreman and Alan Jeffreys emphasize doctrinal failure on part of the British and Indian forces.2 However, there is scope for further analysis. This chapter compares the disastrous defeat of the Indian troops in mainland Malaya with that of the British and Australian Imperial Forces’ (AIF) soldiers, exploring the reasons behind the speedy Commonwealth/Allied collapse. This chapter is divided into three sections. The first compares and contrasts the strengths and limitations of the Allied/Commonwealth forces with its Japanese opponent. The second section discusses the actual conduct of operations, while the third, and final, section analyzes the structural and contingent reasons for the failure of Commonwealth defence. Before we begin, a brief account of the topographical features of the theatre is necessary in order to understand how geography interacted with the techniques of combat. The Malayan Peninsula lies between the Strait of Malacca on the west and the South China Sea in the east. It is roughly 400 miles long from north to south and varies in width from 200 miles at its widest part to about 60 miles at its narrowest. On the north, it joins the Isthmus of Kra. Singapore Island lies at its southern extremity and is separated from the mainland by the narrow Strait of Johore. A jungle-covered mountain range runs down the centre of the peninsula, rising to about 7,000 feet in the north and dropping to some 3,000 feet at its southern end. It is flanked on either side by the coastal plain and is fringed on the West Coast by mud flats and mangrove forest. On the east, there are broad curving sandy beaches, except at the mouth of the rivers, which were mangrove swamps. The

184  Kaushik Roy plains are intersected by several streams that rise in the central range. Some of the streams combine to form swift rivers which flow into the sea. Such streams and rivers are an obstruction to quick north to south movements. Heavy rainfall occurs throughout the year as Malaya experiences annually two monsoons: from June to September in the south-west and from November to March in the north-east. The former affects the West Coast and the Strait of Malacca; the latter sweeps across the South China Sea and sets up gales and swells along the East Coast of Malaya. Violent tropical thunderstorms occur especially in the late afternoon. The climate is hot, humid and enervating. The heavy rainfall and dense tropical vegetation cause bad drainage. So, near the rivers, large jungle swamps are created. Jungle creepers in the swamps make passage through them almost impossible.3 Large areas were under rubber plantation and the tightly packed rubber trees rendered visual communications difficult.4 The West Coast Road was the main trunk road. It ran from the border of Thailand to Singapore. The principal network of road on the East Coast was located at Kelantan which was connected southwards to Kuala Terengganu. There was no continuous road from Kota Bahru/Bharu to Singapore.5

Commonwealth and Japanese forces in Malaya In late 1941 Lieutenant-General A. E. Percival (General Officer Commanding/GOC Malaya) had 31 Australian, British, Indian and Malay battalions. These battalions were organized into three divisions: the 9th and 11th Indian, and 8th Australian (AIF), each of two brigades. In addition, there were two reserve brigade groups, two fortress brigades for the Singapore Island and a battalion garrisoning Penang.6 The 9th and 11th Indian divisions came under the 3rd Indian Corps, which was commanded by Lieutenant General Lewis ‘Piggy’ Heath. The 9th Indian Infantry Division located in Kuala Lumpur had the 8th and 22nd infantry brigades. The 11th Indian Infantry Division had 6th and 15th infantry brigades. The 3rd Indian Corps Head Quarters was also in Kuala Lumpur. The two reserve brigades were 28th Infantry Brigade (Corps Reserve) and the 12th Indian Infantry Brigade (Malaya Command Reserve).7 On 18 February 1941, the 22nd AIF Brigade reached Singapore. The 8th AIF Division while completing preliminary training in Australia like the Indian formations focused on preparing for combat operations in the Middle East. Thus, after deploying to Malaya, entirely new training had to be undertaken due to the different conditions. Moreover, given the dense vegetation and few roads, the role of long

The Indian Army in defeat 185 range weapons and mechanical transport was limited.8 Incoming officers accepted Malaya Command’s assumption that the jungles were impassable, and as a result, the troops did not focus on jungle training but on beach defence. This was a mistake and a major contribution of the problems to come. What was required of the men was jungle patrolling by small teams in order to familiarize the troops with the jungle environment. Field craft and its specialist variant-jungle craft, which comprised an essential element for training in jungle warfare required according to one British officer, six months of hard and realistic training. But, time was one thing which was not available to the Malaya Command. The Indian brigades faced further problems. The motivation of at least some of the Indian units had deteriorated markedly in consequence of political developments in India. The Raj was becoming increasingly unpopular especially among the politically conscious, university-educated urban middle class, from which most of the Indian commissioned officers, especially in the Indianizing units, were drawn. Even among the illiterate sepoys and the partially literate Viceroy’s Commissioned Officers (VCOs), there was a ‘trickle down’ effect. They believed that if Britain was fighting to protect democracy and freedom against the Fascist powers, then India must also have freedom which in turn would enable the people of the subcontinent to ameliorate their poverty. Captain Mohan Singh, of the 1st/14th Punjab Regiment, left Bombay on 9 March 1941 for Penang, and recalls in his memoirs, ‘Not a single soldier was keen for service overseas. India, at that time, did not appear to be threatened with an invasion. There was not the slightest doubt that we were being exploited by the British for their own ends. This war was not our war.’9 ‘Milking’ also negatively affected the Indian units in Malaya as in Hong Kong. Since new units were raised quickly in India, many experienced troops were repatriated to bolster new levies. This in turn seriously reduced the battle worthiness of the regiment. As a consequence, the 4th/19th Hyderabad Regiment spent most of its time giving basic training to the raw recruits. Worse, these recruits were woefully underequipped, coming from India without rifles, steel helmets and other basic equipment. More than half of the rifles used by the Regiment were of pre-1918 vintage.10 Other formations were also poorly supplied. The 5th/11th Sikh Regiment left Quetta on 1 April 1939 for Singapore. While the Vickers Berthier Gun, a replacement for the Lewis Gun and the Sten (Browning) Gun, along with wireless set Number 31, 2-inch and 3-inch mortars were issued for the first time no anti-tank mines were supplied.11

186  Kaushik Roy The British officers had concluded that tanks could not be used in the Malayan terrain. Hence, no tanks were included in the Commonwealth forces’ order of battle (ORBAT). The infantry divisions were given few anti-tank mines, but they were kept in reserve and only a few were ever issued to the units. Some of the infantry battalions were given a few carriers which were lightly armoured tracked vehicles with an open top.12 These carriers were easily pierced by Japanese armourpenetrating bullets. And due to their open tops, these tracked vehicles were vulnerable to grenades and Japanese snipers. Besides inadequate equipment, the 5th Battalion of the Sikh Regiment had been milked thoroughly, with the result that 450 recruits and six British Emergency Commissioned Officers (ECOs), who were unable to speak Urdu essential to communicate with the troops, had joined just a few days prior to embarkation. However, the necessary training could not be carried out as, following the arrival of the unit at Kuantan, emphasis was laid on the immediate preparation of defences. In October 1941, the battalion lost even more handpicked officers, non-commissioned officers (NCOs) and jawans (privates) who returned to India to raise another machine-gun (MG) battalion.13 Thus the battalion lacked veteran commissioned British officers and Indian NCOs and had few opportunities for effective training to induct new recruits. The 28th Indian Infantry Brigade comprised of 2nd/1st Gurkha Regiment (GR), 2nd/2nd GR and 2nd/9th GR. Like the Australians, this formation had trained for the Middle East. By early August, the units had completed platoon, company and battalion training and the brigade group had conducted three days continuous motor transport (MT) exercise. However, in roadless terrain of Malaya, its emphasis on MT was useless. The brigade was mobilized and equipped with 3-inch mortars and Tommy Guns before leaving Secunderabad. But, there were only 18 Bren Guns and one 2-inch mortar per battalion. Further, there were no anti-tank rifles. The jawans (Indian privates) had no opportunity to train extensively with the new weapons. The 3-inch mortar detachments fired 12 rounds as demonstration before leaving, and each section command to whom the Tommy Guns were issued fired only 24 rounds.14 Some of the commanding officers recognized the shortcomings of the force: Brigadier W. Carpendale, of the 28th Indian Infantry Brigade notes: ‘I asked if unit representatives could be sent to a Jungle Warfare School. Was informed that such a School did not exist, and that it was not proposed to start one.’15 There was a conceptual failure on part of Malaya Command to realize that combat could occur

The Indian Army in defeat 187 in the jungle terrain. Next Carpendale requested issue of practice ammunition to continue training of the Bren Gunners, 3 and 2-inch mortar detachments, tracer ammunition for anti-aircraft (AA) guns and ammunition for Tommy Guns. However, due to the ammunition shortage in Malaya, the requested items came only in October 1941. Even then, tracer ammunition was never received and so no AA gun training could be carried out.16 However, Carpendale attempted to initiate some training on his own by carrying out a detailed reconnaissance of the surrounding region with the commanding officers of the three battalions in order to modify the training regimen to suit the physical environment of Malaya. These revealed that there was only one road and it was impossible to get the vehicles or the carriers out of the road into the rubber plantation Overall, vehicular movement off the road was extremely limited if not impossible.17 Carpendale realized that the thick jungle country could be traversed by the infantry only by cutting its way through the forest whenever necessary, though infantry could move through the rubber plantations and the paddy fields on both sides of the road. So, while the MT would move along the road, the countryside on either side of the road could be dominated by the infantry. This method was emphasized during the platoon training period during September 1941.18 However, while Carpendale had hit upon an effective method there was insufficient time for the troops to absorb it. Other troops in the Malaya Command had even less opportunity for such training, and this must be considered one of the primary reasons for their poor performance. Though the Indian formations had no specific jungle training doctrine at their disposal, resourceful commanders were ready to improvise. Additionally, the general training regulations issued by General Headquarters (GHQ) India addressed the so-called Small Wars and the war which unfolded in Malaya from 7 December 1941 had several similarities with the Small Wars which the Indian Army had conducted for more than a century along the North-West Frontier. The problem with the Indian units in Malaya in late 1941 was that they were not adequately trained even in the basic principles of Small War because of rapid expansion of the Indian Army, the presence of raw recruits in the ranks and outflow of experienced personnel and VCOs due to milking for the new units demanded by Total War. The British commanders also expended valuable energy preparing for the wrong war: considerable attention was paid, for example, countering potential Japanese chemical warfare techniques. The 9th Indian Infantry Division’s command assumed that both the Japanese

188  Kaushik Roy Air Force (the Japanese had no separate air force but used the air units attached with the Imperial Japanese Navy and the IJA) and the IJA would conduct chemical warfare. It was feared that the Japanese Air Force in addition to bombing by high explosive bombs could carry out an aerial spray of poisonous chemicals (maybe mustard gas). In case of chemical bombing, the training orders noted that the soldiers should attempt to avoid it by concealment and dispersing. Further, gas detectors should be provided to the AA defensive posts. For air defence, it was noted that provisions should be made for light machine-guns (LMGs). It was calculated that fire from LMGs and rifles on Japanese aircraft flying below 1,500 feet for ground strafing would be effective. It was noted that special care should be taken to protect the British officers’ mess and the barracks of the British soldiers.19 Such a racial bias obviously did not bode well for the motivation of the division’s personnel, bulk of whom were Indians. In early September 1941, Lieutenant General Percival paid the 28th Indian Infantry Brigade a visit. He gave the officers a lecture on the defence of Malaya. He claimed that a seaborne invasion of Malaya was impossible and that the Japanese would be unable to bring their troop transports down to the South China Sea due to the presence of Allied air units. Further, said Percival, due to the onset of the monsoon, landings between December and March would be almost impossible.20 Percival could hardly have been more wrong. Contrary to expectations, the Japanese were well trained and well equipped for conducting ground war in a tropical environment. Most of the Japanese troops had battle experience in China, and they were able to grasp the techniques and principles of conducting war in the tropics quite easily and efficiently. Colonel Masanobu Tsuji writes in his account: ‘Prior to the outbreak of war in the Pacific, I was a staff officer of the Imperial General Headquarters, and at the end of 1940 was assigned to prepare plans for operations in Malaya. Just before the actual commencement of hostilities there, we carried out maneuvers in tropical warfare in southern Indochina.’21 The Japanese rifle companies were experts in infiltration and flanking movement off the roads. They wore light uniform: cotton shorts and rubber soled shoes – and their cross-country mobility was remarkable.22 The Japanese infantry also wore rubber belts which could be inflated for crossing the rivers.23 They were well equipped and well trained for tropical warfare.24 In general, Japanese infantry compared to the Allied (Commonwealth) troops carried more grenade dischargers and sub-machine guns. Most of the rifleman had grenade dischargers (also known as

The Indian Army in defeat 189 knee mortars) which provided organic fire support to the small units.25 The Japanese used four types of mortars.26 These weapons were effective for conducting close-quarter battle in the closed jungle country and amidst rubber plantations. The ammunition boxes were carried on shoulder packs which left the arms free for negotiating difficult terrain and allowed greater freedom of action under fire. Thus, the advance elements even when they were held in check by hostile soldiers had recourse to ammunition supply. It also held true for water supply to the advance elements as the soldiers had large canteens full of water strapped at their backs. Again, most of the Japanese soldiers landed in North Malaya without adequate rations but got aid from the local supporters. The Japanese were able to live off the rich land of Malaya.27 The Japanese invasion force (25th Japanese Army) was led by Lieutenant General ‘Tiger’ Tomoyuki Yamashita. The IJA’s 5th Division was a specialist formation. It had concentrated on amphibious operation and had conducted war in China since 1937. And the 18th Japanese Division was a veteran unit strengthened with extra allotments of light artillery and combat engineers for bridging which in turn allowed the formation to move quickly through difficult terrain.28 Japanese topographical knowledge regarding Malaya, as with Hong Kong, was excellent and up to date, largely as a result of the sophisticated intelligence gathering operation undertaken before the war.29 The British Official History alludes that there were few civilian Japanese in pre-war Malaya. Some were businessmen, and others were barbers and photographers. The businessmen owned rubber estates and mines. They were allowed to operate a direct service of freight ships from Malaya to Japan. They thus had an intimate knowledge of the coastline. A number of executives in such plantations were serving and retired Japanese armed forces officers. And they organized an espionage service and were aware of all the defence works constructed in Malaya.30 The 25th Japanese Army was supported by the 3rd Air Corps with some 612 aircraft.31 The single-seater Buffalo was no match against the Japanese fighters. While the rate of climb of the Japanese Zero fighter to 13,000 feet was 4.3 minutes, for Buffalo it was about 6.1 minutes. The speed and range of the Zero fighter were greater than that of Buffalo.32 The Commonwealth Vildebeeste aircraft was obsolete.33 The Japanese pilots were enterprising and skilful, and their high-level bombing was good. The Hurricanes arrived too late and in insufficient number to win back air superiority.34

190  Kaushik Roy

Conduct of operations The strategic outlook for the British in Malaya worsened when on 25 September 1940, the Japanese occupied northern portion of IndoChina.35 Robert Brooke-Popham failed to take a limited risk and order advance British-Indian troops to Singora to prepare a defensive line there,36 when Japanese ships were first sighted on 6 December. At this point of time, the British military high command in Malaya was confused. The Japanese ships were steaming west towards the Gulf of Siam but whether their objective was Cambodia or Siam or Malaya was unclear. When it became clear, late on 7 December, that the Japanese were aiming to invade Malaya, Brooke-Popham judged that it was already too late to launch MATADOR.37 Andrew Gilchrist claims that if MATADOR had been launched then the situation could have been saved.38 As regards this issue, the jury is still undecided. The objective here is not to give a detailed blow-by-blow account of operations but to elucidate some selected pieces of combat to show the strengths of the Japanese vis-à-vis the weaknesses of the Allied/Commonwealth troops in general and the Indians in particular. The Japanese landed at Kota Bahru in North-East Kelantan on the night of 6/7 December 1941.39 At 0025 hours on 8 December, the Japanese troops started landing at the junction of Badang and Sabak beaches. By 0100 hours, the pill boxes manned by the 3rd/17th Dogra Regiment were captured.40 The coastal area was intersected with creeks and streams, and there were extensive swamps and stretches of jungle.41 On the East Coast of Malaya, an elaborate system of beach defence was constructed at Kota Bahru area and in Kuantan. But, the 8th and the 22nd Indian brigades lacked the strength both to man the pill boxes and provide adequate reserves. In general, the 8th Indian Infantry Brigade was in charge of defending six beaches, each about five miles in length and a river front of 10 miles plus three aerodromes. The Commonwealth ground forces had been assured that Japanese landings would be broken up by air action.42 However, when Japanese landings occurred, the Royal Air Force (RAF) was absent. Overall, the 22nd Indian Infantry Brigade was in charge of watching two long beaches and an aerodrome in Kuantan area.43 The 22nd Indian Infantry Brigade had two Indian infantry battalions for this purpose. The 2nd/18th Royal Garhwal Rifles (RGR) was tasked to defend 10 miles of beach frontage extending from the mouth of Kuantan River in the south to the mouth of the Balok River in the north. Further, the unit was ordered to construct pill boxes, wire and antitank obstacles in the area under its command. The 5th/11th Sikhs was

The Indian Army in defeat 191 ordered to defend the approach to Kuantan and Soi rivers including the ferry and the road approach to Pekan with two companies. One company provided ground and AA defence to the aerodrome. Two platoons were held in reserve. The battalion was further ordered that it might have to deal with airborne landings or incursions on the line of communications (LoCs) from Pahang River in the south to jungle tracks in the north. Further, the unit had to prepare itself to launch counter-attacks.44 Due to shortage of Bren Guns, the 5th/11th Sikh Regiment continued to use Lewis Guns for AA defence. The weapon stopped after the first burst, thus ensuring Japanese aerial superiority was more or less unchallenged.45 The Commanding Officer (CO) of the 5th/11th Sikh Regiment was Lieutenant Colonel John Parkins. Limited training in jungle warfare was carried out because the emphasis was on construction of fixed defence works. This was a tactical mistake made by the higher military authorities. Instead of fixed ground defences, the focus should have been on carrying out manoeuvre by small parties in the jungle country. In this sphere, the Commonwealth troops proved deficient vis-à-vis the IJA’s infantry which bypassed the fixed defences and outflanked repeatedly the Allied defensive units by moving across them through the jungle country.46 On 8 December, the commander of the Kelantan Front moved up his reserve unit: 1st/13th Frontier Force Rifles (FFR) with some antitank guns from Peringat. At 1030 hours, the 2nd/12th FFR (less two companies) was ordered to counter-attack from the south and the 1st/13th FFR from the north. However, thick waterlogged countryside and almost impassable creeks behind the beaches created problems with the counter-attacking troops. The Indian troops, unlike the Japanese, were just not trained to advance along such a difficult terrain. And the counter-attack came to a halt at 1700 hours. Worse, at about 1630 hours, the RAF Station Commander decided that Kota Bahru aerodrome was no longer fit to operate aircraft and obtained permission from Air Officer Commanding (AOC) Far East to evacuate the aerodrome. By 1900 hours, more Japanese ships were reported in the Sabang Beach and the Japanese started to infiltrate along the beaches in the Kota Bahru area. The commander of the Kelantan Force decided to withdraw to a line east of Kota Bahru. That night was pitch-dark with heavy rainfall. In the ensuing confusion, part of the 1st/13th FFR was left behind.47 Once ashore, Japanese troops advanced swiftly and effectively: Major H. P. Thomas wrote: ‘The landing at Kota Bahru on night the 6/7th December, under the conditions prevailing at the time, indicated

192  Kaushik Roy a thorough mastery of this type of operation. . . . Once ashore in strength, it was only a matter of hours before they succeeded in worming their way to the rear of the beach defences.’48 Boldness on part of the Japanese did pay them dividends in this case. The Takumi Detached Force of the 18th Japanese Division which successfully conducted assault landing at Kota Bahru at 0130 hours on 8 December did indeed suffer heavy casualties.49 But, the Japanese relentlessly pushed on. As an alternative to MATADOR, there was another plan for a much more limited offensive action. This plan was named as Operation SANDWICH. It involved a forward move by road of the 6th Indian Infantry Brigade and 1st/14th Punjab Regiment to Singora (Songkhla) for destroying the port facilities in the latter place. Then, this force would retreat to Jitra carrying out demolitions along the route.50 The original aim was that the KROHCOL (a column which operated on the Kroh-Patani Road) under Lieutenant Colonel H. D. Moorhead should comprise of the 3rd/16th Punjab Regiment and 5th/14th Punjab Regiment from Penang, one company of sappers and miners, one field ambulance and 10th Mountain Battery from the North Kedah. The 5th/14th Punjab Regiment moved up to Kroh (a small town on the Malayan side of the border) on 8 December. The responsibility for Kroh Front on 8 December was delegated by the commander of the 3rd Indian Corps to the commander of the 11th Indian Division. At 1330 hours on 8 December, the commander of KROHCOL was ordered to occupy the Ledge position some 40 miles beyond the frontier. The Ledge was a position on the road which ran from Patani, a small Thai port, a little to the south of Singora. It was hoped that the Thais would display benevolent neutrality. However, as soon as the vanguard of the KROHCOL moved across the frontiers at 1500 hours, they were engaged by Thai police armed with light automatics and rifles. Further, Japanese snipers and roadblocks delayed the column. The Japanese would use these tactics repeatedly against the road-bound Commonwealth troops. By nightfall, the column had advanced only three miles.51 On the North Kedah Front, a mechanized column comprising of two companies and the carriers of 1st/8th Punjab Regiment with some anti-tank guns and engineers crossed the Thai frontier at 1730 hours on 8 December. Their aim was Singora to harass and delay the Japanese. Singora was an East Coast Thai port with gentle sloping beach. It had an airfield surrounded by rice fields.52 An armoured train with a detachment of the 2nd/16th Punjab Regiment and some engineers advanced into Thailand from Padang Besar in Perlis. The Singora

The Indian Army in defeat 193 column at dusk reached Ban Sadao, some 10 miles north of the frontier. There it halted and took position north of the village. At about 2130 hours, it confronted a Japanese mechanized column headed by tanks and moving in close formation with headlights on. The two leading tanks were knocked out by anti-tank guns but then the Japanese infantry swarmed around and started an enveloping movement. The Commonwealth infantry had no answer to the light Japanese infantry’s swarming tactics. Then, the Singora Column was withdrawn through Kampong Imam and destroyed three bridges during its retreat. The armoured train party reached Klong Gnea in Thailand and destroyed a large bridge before withdrawing to Padang Besar.53 The Japanese engineers quickly repaired these bridges and the Nipponese troops pushed on. Overall, the senior British officers wasted time and assets in launching ill-conceived pinprick attacks across the Thai frontier when things were heating up along the East Coast of North Malaya. By the evening of 8 December, the 5th Japanese Division had completed its concentration in the Singora-Patani area. The 5th Japanese Division’s order was to advance rapidly southwards to the line of Perak River. This division started moving south through two roads: Singora to Alor Star and Patani to Kroh. The 9th Japanese Infantry Brigade supported by a tank battalion and a battalion of field artillery moved down the Alor Star Road with orders to destroy the Commonwealth force at Jitra. The 42nd Japanese Infantry Regiment with two companies of light tanks and a battery of field artillery moved by the Kroh Road with the objective of cutting communications of the Allied units north of Perak River.54 Kuantan was a small port on the East Coast of Malaya some 200 miles from Singapore. On 9 December, at 1100 hours, the Japanese attacked the airport twice with 27 planes each time. The RAF was caught on the ground. Three aircraft were destroyed and five were injured. The young soldiers of A Company of 5th/11th Sikh Regiment fought on ineffectively with their LMGs and small arms for two hours against the Japanese aerial raiders.55 On the Singora Road, the advance of the Japanese column was delayed by the engagement at Ban Sadao and due to demolished bridges. At 0430 hours on 10 December, the Japanese reached the region north of Changlun. The 1st/14th Punjab Regiment with some artillery and engineers took a position behind a stream south of Changlun Cross Road. Early on the morning of 10 December, the Japanese made contact with the forward detachments of 1st/14th Punjab Regiment. The Punjabis retreated southwards. The 15th Indian Brigade’s commander Brigadier K. A. Garrett was ordered by Major General D. M.

194  Kaushik Roy Murray-Lyon (GOC 11th Indian Division) to hold the Japanese north of Asun at least till the morning of 11/12 December. The 2nd/1st GR (less one company) was detached from the 28th Indian Brigade and given to the 15th Indian Brigade. This battalion took over the Asun position and the Punjabis were concentrated forward.56 In the Kedah Front, the plan for the defence of Jitra position was to hold it with two brigades forward: the 15th Indian Infantry Brigade on the right and the 6th Indian Infantry Brigade on the left. Of the two forward battalions of the 15th Indian Infantry Brigade, the 2nd/9th Jat Regiment took up extended positions from the hills on the right flank to the main road. On this unit’s left was deployed the 1st Leicesters who covered both the main and the Perlis Road. West of the Leicesters, was placed the 2nd East Surreys which happened to be the right battalion of the 6th Indian Infantry Brigade. The East Surreys covered the wooded Pisang salient forward of the Alor Changlih Canal. On their left, the 2nd/16th Punjab Regiment covered the region from the railway to the sea. It had positions on the railway and the coast and patrolled the paddy fields and the marsh which intervened between the railway and the coast. The outpost position of the 6th Indian Brigade at Kampong Imam was held by the reserve 1st/8th Punjab Regiment. The 28th Indian Infantry Brigade was supposed to become divisional reserve on arrival at the Alor Star aerodrome region. The divisional artillery consisted of two batteries of 155th Field Regiment. Each battery had eight 4.5-inch howitzers. In addition, the 22nd Mountain Regiment and the 80th Anti-Tank Regiment with 16 Bofors plus the 137th Field Regiment (24 25-pounders) comprised the divisional artillery. So, it packed a powerful punch. Other units were less effective: the 3rd Indian Cavalry was the division’s assigned reconnaissance regiment but had it had arrived without its armoured vehicles. Moreover, the regiment had only recently handed over its horses and consisted of three squadrons of dismounted men who were mostly recruits with little training. The regiment had few trained drivers and only a few, newly issued unarmoured trucks.57 The Jitra defensive position was not completed before the Japanese attacked on 11 December. Most of the posts became waterlogged after a week’s heavy rain. The rains also adversely affected demolitions.58 The Japanese took advantage of the jungle on the right flank of the imperial defensive position. By cutting a passage through the thick foliage, the Japanese troops exploded the erroneous idea that it was impossible to move through the jungle-covered countryside.59 On 13 December 1941, the Commonwealth troops evacuated Jitra.

The Indian Army in defeat 195 By 20 December, Kelantan too was evacuated.60 On the same day, the 11th Division withdrew to the Perak River.61 Percival had to dissipate his force throughout the coast of Malaya. He provided the reason for this dissipation: ‘On the east coast they had complete liberty of action. I thought a combined sea and air attack against Kuantan was likely, and I could not disregard the possibility of an attack against the east coast of Johore or even against Singapore Island itself.’62 Percival’s revised operational plan was as follows: ‘I had calculated that, if we were to prevent the Japanese getting the use of the Central Malaya aerodromes before the mid-January convoy arrived, we must hold him north of the Kuala Kubu road junction until at least 14 January. That would give Paris a depth of seventy miles in which to maneuver during the next fortnight.’63 Once again, the Japanese threw spanners in Percival’s plan. On 1 January, patrols of the 5th/11th Sikh Regiment reported that Kuantan River was fordable west of its position. It was realized that the Japanese could cross the river at several possible positions and could cut the road in rear of the brigade headquarters.64 GOC’s Malaya’s strategy at that time was described by Percival himself in the following words: We now knew that we might expect to receive an Indian infantry brigade with attached troops during the first few days of January and the whole of the 18th British Division. . . . In this convoy also were coming fifty Hurricane fighters in crates with their crews. In them lay our first hope of regaining some sort of air superiority. . . . If the enemy could, before its arrival, be in a position to operate his aircraft from the aerodromes in Central Malaya, especially those at Kuantan and Kuala Lumpur, the scale of that attack would be greatly increased. . . . The convoy was due to reach Singapore about 13–5 January.65 On the night of 4/5 January, Paris was ordered to move 15th Brigade (less 3rd/16th Punjab Regiment) from Sungkai to Tanjong Malim, 3rd/16th Punjab Regiment to Rawang and the rest of the 11th Division to hold an intermediate position in the Trolak-Slim River area covering the probable river crossings.66 At 0300 hours on 7 January 1942, the Japanese initiated heavy artillery fire. In the moonlight, 10 light Japanese tanks moved across the road. The light tanks were followed by 20 armoured cars and a few medium tanks. The Battle for Slim River had started.67 The Japanese infantry–tank combination

196  Kaushik Roy penetrated along a narrow front and was able to overwhelm the nervous untrained Allied infantry. Sixty-six Hurricanes arrived on Singapore from the much-desired convoy, though they were too few and too late to win back air superiority for Commonwealth forces.68 The Japanese Imperial Guards Division occupied the town of Malacca on 14 January. Lieutenant-General Takumo Nishimura, GOC of the Japanese Guards Division, concluded that instead of consolidating his position, it would aid the Japanese force on the trunk road and would raise further the prestige of his division if he could capture the Muar-Batu Pahat area. So, he pushed forward the 4th Japanese Guards Regiment on the right and the 5th Japanese Guards Regiment on the left. The former was to occupy the attention of the forces holding Muar town and the latter to make an upstream crossing of the river at night and attack the town from the east. The 4th Japanese Guards Regiment was then to make for Batu Pahat along the coast road and the 5th Japanese Guards Regiment to advance along the inland road to Yong Peng.69 On 16 January 1942, the Japanese made contact with the 45th Indian Brigade positioned at the left flank of WESTFORCE in the Muar area. Two battalions of the 45th Indian Brigade were deployed on Bennett’s instruction along the Sungai Muar’s winding course. One of these units was the 4th/9th Jat Regiment, which had a company each at Grisek, Panchor and Jorak and fighting patrols north of the river. The 4th/9th Jat was trained for deployment in the Caucasus region to help the Russians. But, suddenly it was sent to Malaya. All the trucks of this battalion were camouflaged for snow conditions and made an excellent target for the Japanese aircraft.70 The other unit was the 7th/6th Rajputana Rifles which covered the region between Jorak and the mouth of the river. This unit had two companies north of the river. It was a misjudged deployment since if these companies were attacked they would get no support from the sister companies deployed on the other side of the river. Further, in the event of a Japanese concentration of force the advanced companies north of the river would have to conduct a fighting retreat and cross the river under hostile gunfire and while the Japanese enjoyed aerial supremacy. It was a tough task for veterans and almost impossible for the ‘rookies’. The two aforementioned battalions covered 15 and nine miles of the front respectively. The 5th/18th RGR was placed in reserve at Bukri, with a company forward at Simpang Jeram on the inland road from Muar and a detachment south of Parit Jawa, where another road came in from the coast to Bakri. For fire support, the 45th Indian Brigade was allotted the 65th Australian Battery of the 2nd Battalion of the 15th Field Regiment.71

The Indian Army in defeat 197 The principal crossing of the Muar River from the network of roads in Malacca was near the river mouth by ferry to the township of Muar. The banks of the river were covered with jungle. The disposition of two companies of the Rajputana Rifles on the far side of the river was part of Gordon Bennett’s policy of following aggressive defence and his desire to ambush the advancing Japanese. On 16 January, the Rajput company east of Muar was attacked. A Japanese company reached the Muar town from the eastern direction and overwhelmed the battalion headquarters. Both the Rajput companies north of Muar River were lost. Bennett’s misjudgement in deploying the two Rajput companies on the north bank of river without additional fire and infantry support was exposed, and on the night of 16 February, remnants of the 7th/6th Rajputana Rifles withdrew down the coast to Parit Jawa and then to Bakri.72 ‘Battle hardened’ Australians, as well as ‘inexperienced’ Indians troops, were also frequently ambushed by the Japanese. The gunners under Lieutenant R. McLeod on their way to support the advance headquarters of the 5th/18th RGR at Simpang Jeram were ambushed early on 16 January. The Garhwalis were attacked on the same day at about 1100 hours and soon retreated into a rubber plantation. In close-quarter combat with hand grenades and bayonets, the Japanese again demonstrated their superiority and at 1300 hours, the Garhwalis started retreating again. The 4th/9th Jat Regiment was not attacked but when they saw that the Japanese had crossed Muar River, the commander of the Jat unit withdrew his forward companies and concentrated them on the road from Panchor to Muar. Bakri, the headquarters of the 45th Indian Brigade, and, only 30 miles from the trunk road at Yong Peng, was threatened. Late on 16 January, it was reported that the Japanese had landed south-west of the town of Batu Pahat and were moving inland. They posed a threat to the rear of the 45th Indian Brigade and also to the communications of the WESTFORCE. Nishimura’s plan was working with clocklike precision. By 17 January, the 5th Japanese Guards Regiment had completed its crossing of the Muar River.73 The Japanese overturned the Muar position by applying frontal pressure through infiltration tactics and carrying out small-scale amphibious landings along the West Coast of Malaya under Colonel Masakazu Ogaki in order to outflank the static Allied defensive position.74 From 27 January onwards, the Allied force in Malaya started retreating towards the causeway. The causeway was blown at 0800 hours on 31 January 1942.75 The Battle for mainland Malaya was over and the Battle for Singapore Island was about to start.

198  Kaushik Roy

Reasons behind commonwealth military failure Events in Malaya, when they become to be known, will make very sad reading and the Indian Army will not feel very proud of itself when facts become known. —General Staff India, New Delhi, 16 January 194276

On 15 February 1942, after about 70 days of fighting along the length of Malaya Peninsula and Singapore, a Commonwealth force of 130,000 was defeated.77 Some 45,000 IJA soldiers took part in the Malaya Operation, underscoring the fact that the Japanese won cheaply in Malaya. Around 3,500 Japanese soldiers died during the Malaya Campaign.78 The total casualties of the Commonwealth troops (dead and wounded excluding prisoners of war) came to about roughly 8,000 persons.79 The monsoon and the underdeveloped East Coast of Malaya were considered as serious obstacles to any Japanese landing operations in Malaya. The British planners erroneously assumed that the difficult terrain and bad communications within the Malaya States would slow down Japanese advance.80 Probably, the naval and air superiority enjoyed by the Japanese armed forces in the Far East, especially after Pearl Harbour and the sinking of Prince of Wales and Repulse off the coast of Siam, made Commonwealth defeat in Malaya inevitable. Nevertheless, the crucial issue is why the Commonwealth troops were defeated by the IJA so easily and cheaply. Carl Bridge has suggested that: ‘There was undeniably a strong racist tendency to underestimate the Japanese. Europeans were thought to rule the world out of some innate superiority.’81 Percival certainly underestimated the mobility and effectiveness of the Japanese troops, suggesting the Japanese were the ‘Italians of the East’.82 He believed the thick jungles of Malaya and difficult terrain and their long LoC (more than 700 miles) in case of advance from Siam through Malaya made impossible a rapid Japanese advance across Malaya towards Singapore. He assumed that Singapore could only be attacked from sea for which the island seemed to be well prepared. Harbakhsh Singh, commandant of the Manjha Company of a Sikh regiment which fought in Malaya, notes: ‘Many British and Commonwealth generals visited us, and gave talks in which they mostly derided the Japanese soldiers as bandy-legged and with poor eye-sight who daren’t attack the British.’83 On 24 December 1941, when the lead elements of Japanese invasion force had only reached Perak River, Yamashita was confident

The Indian Army in defeat 199 of defeating the Commonwealth force in Malaya. Yamashita concluded that he did not require any additional troops.84 One reason for the relative ease with which the Japanese were able to gain victory was their superior generalship.85 Despite some strain, the Japanese command system during the Malaya Campaign functioned more effectively compared to the Allied command structure. In the Commonwealth command system, there were personality clashes, which debilitated the command effectiveness. For instance, Percival was on bad terms with Lieutenant-General Lewis Heath, commander of the 3rd Indian Corps.86 Heath was senior to Percival but in Malaya the former was subordinate to the latter. This was because Percival was appointed by the London Government and Heath by the Government of India (GoI).87 Inadequate training was also a factor in retarding effectiveness. Colonel J. R. Broadbent, the Quartermaster General of the 8th AIF Division, noted on 28 January 1942: 9th Indian Division . . . has been under us and Henry Gordon Bennett is responsible for putting fire into them to such an extent that they are again a fair fighting force and have done well. The Indian I am afraid has been a failure partly due to lack of training and damp climate, the rain makes him very miserable, but mainly because he has been badly lead. British officers with them including many brigadiers have no offensive or fighting spirit.88 During the last days of January 1942, both the Indians and the British were probably more exhausted than the relatively fresh Australians. This was because the Australians had just started fighting when the Japanese moved into South Malaya while the British and Indians were at the receiving end of continuous drubbings in the hands of the Nipponese from the beginning of the Malaya Campaign in 7 December 1941. Major General H. Gordon Bennett provided several explanations as regards the debacle in Malaya. He asserted like Broadbent that the blame was due mostly to the Indian troops who suffered from low morale. This was because ‘Eastern races less able to withstand modern war.’ This was a typical racist explanation, which was popularized among the British officers from late nineteenth century in the guise of the martial race theory. Besides the racial factor, Bennett also pointed out certain other organizational and material factors for Commonwealth failure against the Japanese. Bennett also brought the British officers under his critical graze. While Indian soldiers suffered from

200  Kaushik Roy homesickness and lack of entertainment, their British officers had failed to build up the troops’ morale. For most of the time, the Indian soldiers were quartered in the rubber plantations and they never saw the sunlight. He claimed that many British commanders and senior officers were imbued with ‘retreat complex’ and a spirit of resignation prevailed among them. This depressing spirit seeped down among the junior officers who also showed lack of spirit. The net result was that slightest Japanese aggression resulted in withdrawals without launching any local counter-attacks. Bennett pointed out the low level of staff work, especially in the 3rd Indian Corps.89 Both Bennett and Broadbent accused the senior and mid-level British officers of lacking leadership qualities. The morale of the British soldiers was probably undermined by the belief that the Malayans had turned against them and some Malayans were working with the Japanese.90 Distrust of the ‘natives’ was common among the British throughout their Asian Empire – the British also suspected that many Chinese were working with the Japanese in Hong Kong Island – and this was likely an additional contributory factor. The greatest failure of the British troops in Bennett’s format was their inadequate training in jungle fighting and conducting patrols.91 Bennett elaborates: ‘The British method attacking position pound it heavily with artillery until opposition reduced, then advance under artillery barrage. . . . Beach defence systems provided long thin line of posts along beach without depth with vulnerable flanks whereas modern perimeter system of defence on shorter flank much more effective.’92 Bennett correctly noted the following characteristics of Japanese tactics: infiltration and outflanking; avoiding frontal attack and search for soft spots; small parties penetrated and then coalesced into large bodies behind the line causing withdrawal of the imperial troops; use of trickery, i.e. noise in order to induce fear among the imperial troops. To conclude, Bennett noted that while the Japanese adapted their tactics in accordance with the local circumstances, the British commanders adhered to outmoded rule books and emphasized barrack square training.93 Broadbent penned a report on 28 January 1942 while he was in the midst of a rubber plantation somewhere 20 miles north of Johore Bahru. Unlike Bennett, Broadbent pointed out the inadequacies of both the Australian and other imperial troops. Broadbent asserted: ‘Diversity of types and size of ammunition makes supply difficult which means more transport on the roads. . . . Infantry has forgotten that they have to march. . . . The Indian divisions have more transport

The Indian Army in defeat 201 than us and their drivers are frightful.’94 About the Australian troops, Broadbent noted: The Jap has almost complete air superiority and has been bombing and machine-gunning our forward areas with absolute immunity. The effect on morale is very considerable. . . . The individual must have complete confidence in his ability to shoot. . . . Japs climb trees and shoot down. . . . There are many cases of infantry wading through marshes waist high and above all extra weight produces a fatigue which is too great to be neglected.95 Unlike Bennett, Broadbent accepted the inadequate tactical culture of the Australian infantry in close-quarter combat and provided the following correctives: Main points are infantry must be infantry and forget wheels, they must be able to shoot straight and quickly, musketry seems to have been sadly neglected. . . . The Jap streams down the road on bicycles and is easily ambushed, but he then goes to the ground and sends out flanking movements which have to be countered by wide patrols, they work round rear.96 The issue of lack of mobility of the Australian infantry in jungle terrain as discussed by Broadbent was also applicable in case of the British and Indian troops. A modern historian, Brian P. Farrell repeats several points raised by Bennett more than 60 years earlier. Farrell claims that the battle tactics and doctrine of the British Army was completely unsuited for the nature of land war which occurred in Malaya. The battle was fought efficiently by the IJA at the lowest level of command. But, in the British Army, colonels and not the section commanders made the crucial decisions. The orthodox British defensive technique was to hold a line of fixed positions in a static defence relying on the firepower of the dug in troops and their MGs. They would fix the enemy and the attacking enemy would be finished off by supporting artillery fire. Rigid control required senior officers closely directing the battle rather than the sergeants operating independently with their small units in the bushes. Further, the British Army doctrine required preserving the LoCs from being cut by flanking or encirclement. In 1941, air supply on a large scale was not possible and this meant giving up the defensive position and retreat. Farrell continues that the 11th Indian Division was trained

202  Kaushik Roy to fight 1918-style Western Front battles. The troops were expected to hold a line with a front and a rear, and supply connection between the two must be maintained. Their mental map was static defensive warfare.97 In other words, conventional static defence by the British and Indian troops proved to be easy meat for the unorthodox techniques followed by the nimble Japanese. Major H. P. Thomas of the Indian Army attempted to rebut Gordon Bennett’s charges. He noted that while the Indian formations fought all the way in Malaya, the AIF started fighting only at Johore. In fact, the casualties suffered by the AIF in the mainland did not exceed 300 men. It is true that the 18th British Division was somewhat hampered by lack of jungle training and the personnel were not acclimatized in Malaya’s weather.98 For fighting in the jungle-covered terrain, Bennett and Broadbent rightly pointed out that large number of wheeled vehicles was a burden.99 Besides inadequate training due to rapid expansion of the Indian Army from 1941 onwards and absence of proper equipment, there were several problems specific to the ‘brown’ soldiers of the Raj. Even trained Indian units which had combat experience on the North-West Frontier failed to inculcate aptitudes key to success in the jungle. Harbakhsh Singh says in his autobiography that the patrols were afraid of certain areas which they believed were dominated by the king cobras and pythons which were found in the jungles of Malaya.100 One historian estimates that on average each of the Indian battalions deployed in Malaya lost 240 experienced officers, NCOs and specialist troops due to the emergency expansion of the Indian Army and received in exchange raw recruits. This was disastrous in close country operations in which the presence of experienced junior officers was vital.101 Additionally, racial discrimination alienated many Indian soldiers and officers and lowered their morale. Harbakhsh Singh writes that the strict colour bar in Malaya was very disturbing. The clubs, swimming pools, buses, railway carriages, etc. were for exclusive use of the white men.102 The Japanese agents were also working to alienate the sepoys from the sahibs. Major Fujiwara Iwaichi arrived in Thailand on 1 October 1941 following a report sent by Colonel Tamura Hiroshi (Japanese Military Attaché in Bangkok) to Tokyo that nascent Indian nationalism in Thailand and Malaya could be utilized for Japan’s advantage.103 The Japanese made wide use of propaganda leaflets which were dropped from the aircraft.104 Japan’s propaganda war directed especially towards the Indian troops had an effect on the defeated and demoralized Indian troops who were continuously

The Indian Army in defeat 203 retreating from the beginning of the campaign. One Sikh commissioned officer notes in his memoirs: The Japanese were dropping a large number of leaflets, expressing their war aims in pithy slogans, assuring the coloured races of their immediate liberation and beseeching them to join hands in that mighty undertaking. They were appealing to the honour, dignity and self-respect of all Asians in general, and Indians in particular: ‘Asia for the Asians’; ‘Kick out the white-devils from the East’: and ‘India for the Indians’, were some of the propaganda.105 In contrast, at that time, the British had nothing to offer except political repression in India and empty slogans.106 The Baluch Regiment, for instance, proved susceptible to Japanese propaganda.107 Alienation of the sepoys from the sahibs was also because the personalized bond between the soldiers and their British officers were not as strong as in the traditional Indian Army. The newly inducted British officers in the newly raised and expanded Indian units were ‘strangers’ to their men. Worse, these officers did not know the vernacular language of the jawans. Urdu was the lingua franca in the Indian Army. In order to establish a bond with the soldiers, it was necessary for the British officers to have knowledge about the soldiers’ own languages. Failure to communicate with the troops certainly reduced battlefield cohesion within the Indian units.108 On 16 January 1942, the General Staff of India noted: The fact that certain Indian troops have not put up a good show in Malaya, when the testing time came, is due undoubtedly to the rapid expansion and the policy of milking units at frequent intervals. . . . From the infantry point of view, therefore the position is not a pleasant one. . . . We require . . . wireless equipment, cable and other signal equipment. . . . I should add to that, bridging equipment, barbed wire, Dannert wire, steel helmets and belts and components of the Vickers Machine Gun Mark I.109 Andrew Gilchrist, who was a senior staff member of the British Embassy at Bangkok from 1939 to 1942, notes in his autobiography that the Indian Army was an excellent fighting force, and many of its units had a military tradition for a hundred years and more. If it had been represented in Malaya by some of the units which distinguished themselves in the Middle East, the campaign would certainly have taken a different turn. But, when in 1940–41 there was an enormous

204  Kaushik Roy expansion of the Indian Army, the Middle East had priority for all the best formations, so that only (in effect) raw recruits were left for Malaya, officered not by long-serving British officers but by ‘callous young men from England’ who for the most part knew nothing about Indian customs and traditions and spoke no Indian languages.110 So, Bennett’s point about weak/inefficient British officers to an extent could be substantiated. Lack of air support proved to be an important shortcoming for the Allied war effort in the Far East. Qualitative and quantitative inferiority in the Allied air assets enabled the Japanese to rule the skies and they were able to make landfall at ease in areas and time of their own choosing due to their command over the sea.111 In general, all the Commonwealth commanders agreed that the performance of the Japanese aircraft and their pilots especially as regards high-level bombing came as a surprise to them, suggesting that racism also shaped the way in which the Japanese threat was assessed (and underestimated).112 Karl Hack and Kevin Blackburn assert that Japanese air superiority sapped the morale of the defenders. Japanese air supremacy also gave an edge to their commanders in intelligence collection.113 Further, the British had no tanks to counter those of the Japanese. At times, the appearance of Japanese tanks created a sense of psychological despair among the Commonwealth troops. Many of the Indian soldiers had never previously seen a tank. However, more than the Japanese tanks, the Japanese infantry posed a greater threat to the Commonwealth force. Against the innovative tactics of the daring Japanese infantry, the Commonwealth infantry at this stage of the war had no answer. Here, one finds a similarity with the so-called Small Wars, where rather than mechanized technology, men on foot posed far greater danger. Poor morale of the imperial soldiers along with inferior tactics, use of light tanks plus aerial superiority of the Japanese created a dangerous compound for the Commonwealth troops. Major H. P. Thomas of the Indian Army at General A. P. Wavell’s order drew up a report on Japanese tactics which was submitted on 30 May 1942. Thomas noted: ‘Briefly, it consisted in locating the areas held and the flanks by drawing fire, working round or through small parties, threatening the road – the vital feature – and causing confusion by shooting from unexpected directions.’114 An Indian officer offered much the same appraisal of Japanese tactics: ‘they also made full use of small infiltrations behind the lines, so as to interdict . . . convoys. They would fire from flanking trees, at night, along a one-road approach, thereby

The Indian Army in defeat 205 creating, generally, the impression among their opponents that they had been cut-off from behind.’115 The Allied troops had no counter to such Japanese combat techniques. As the British Official History of the War in the Far East explained: To troops unused to it, the jungle is apt to be terrifying and to produce physical and emotional stresses which have to be felt to be appreciated; rubber too, with its gloom, dampness and sound deadening effect, gives them a feeling of isolation and tends to lower their morale. The only antidote to jungle fear . . . is to give troops the opportunity of learning sufficient jungle lore to enable them to regard the jungle as a friend rather than an enemy, or at least as a neutral, and to teach them how to operate efficiently in the restricted visibility of the rubber plantations.116 Long before Kirby and his team, H. P. Thomas noted the inadequate training of the British and Indian troops in the following words: The first of the basic causes for our weakness in training was the failure to realize in time that, to fight successfully in Malaya, troops must undergo a highly specialized form of training. The minimum period suggested by one authority for this training was six months, the concurrent acclimatization of the man being of course, almost as important as the lessons themselves. Even allowing that exigencies of the war as a whole would permit of only half this period being made available, could we have met the situation?117 GOC Malaya Command realized that the culture of tactical training of the Commonwealth troops was seriously flawed. As the campaign unfolded, this became clearer to all concerned. On 15 January 1942, GOC Malaya informed the War Office and Commander-in-Chief India that to teach all concerned elements of tactics peculiar to Malaya new units known as Jungle Warfare Training Teams were to be established. On 25 January 1942 the War Office approved Percival’s scheme for establishing a Jungle Warfare Training Team at Malaya.118 However, in the last week of January 1941, such training could not be provided as the defeated and dispirited Commonwealth troops retreated towards the southern tip of Malaya with the Japanese in hot pursuit. Attempts to redress the shortcomings were seriously disrupted when all hell broke loose on the Commonwealth troops at ‘Fortress’ Singapore.

206  Kaushik Roy

Conclusion Gilchrist’s claim that weakness at the top leadership resulted in the failure of the Commonwealth troops at Malaya119 is only partly true, as the Commonwealth troops were ‘soft’ indeed. Close-quarter combat between infantry in the jungle terrain (including nocturnal combat) set the format for ground combat in Malaya. The Australian, British and the Indian officers all agreed that Japanese air superiority resulted in lowering of morale of the defenders. However, in 1944 in France and Burma both the German and Japanese troops fought doggedly in the face of Allied air superiority. Battle-hardened and well-motivated troops could indeed go on fighting even when the hostile party enjoyed air superiority. But, the Commonwealth troops in Malaya in 1941 were raw, untrained and inexperienced. The British commanders’ insistence on constructing fixed ground defences which were outflanked and bypassed by the nimble Japanese infantry compounded these problems. Some officers like Carpendale had identified a more appropriate training regimen. But, there was neither time nor proper infrastructure to allow for training the troops intensively in such techniques. So, while there were sporadic ad hoc attempts by formation commanders to tune in their troops as quickly as possible, in the face attacks from the hardened IJA, such ad hoc measures proved insufficient. The reality was that with raw troops at their disposal the British officers had few options. Our account of combat in Malaya shows that in mobile battles in the jungle country, the Commonwealth troops were hopelessly outclassed and outmanoeuvred by the highly mobile Japanese. Further, the Commonwealth commanders with raw, untrained, not-so-well-motivated dispirited troops repeatedly failed to hold the river crossings (including Slim and Muar) against the dynamic and aggressive Japanese soldiers infused with high combat spirit. The disastrous Malaya Campaign was the curtain raiser to the greater humiliation at the surrender of Singapore. Intra-force mudslinging – notable in many contemporary accounts – provides little insight. We can conclude that all the Commonwealth troops – Australians, British and Indians – displayed equal levels of proficiency. And this level of proficiency fell far short of the cold professionalism of the IJA. The IJA then was at the height of its power. Its tactical brilliance, operational audacity and strategic masterstrokes became a model for others to emulate. Inadequate tactics, training and doctrine bedevilled the Commonwealth troops as they retreated to the Causeway and fell back to the Island of Singapore.

The Indian Army in defeat 207

Notes 1 Alan Warren, ‘The Indian Army and the Fall of Singapore’, in Brian Farrell and Sandy Hunter (eds.), Sixty Years on: The Fall of Singapore Revisited (Singapore: Academic Publishing, 2003), pp. 270–89. 2 T. R. Moreman, The Jungle, the Japanese and the British Commonwealth Armies at War 1941–45: Fighting Methods, Doctrine and Training for Jungle Warfare (London; New York: Frank Cass, 2005), see especially pp. 13–14; Alan Jeffreys, ‘The Indian Army in the Malayan Campaign, 1941–1942’, in Rob Johnson (ed.), The British Indian Army: Virtue and Necessity (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014), pp. 177–97. 3 Major-General S. Woodburn Kirby with Capt. C. T. Addis, Colonel J. F. Meiklejohn (succeeded by Brigadier M. R. Roberts), Colonel G. T. Wards and Air Vice-Marshal N. L. Desoer, History of the Second World War, The War Against Japan, vol. 1 (1957, reprint, Dehra Dun: Natraj, 1989), pp. 153–4. 4 Brigadier Jasbir Singh, Combat Diary: An Illustrated History of Operations Conducted by 4th Battalion, the Kumaon Regiment, 1788 to 1974 (New Delhi: Lancer, 2010), p. 92. 5 K. D. Bhargava and K. N. V. Sastri, Campaigns in South-East Asia: 1941–42, in Bisheshwar Prasad (ed.), Official History of the Indian Armed Forces in the Second World War: 1939–45 (New Delhi: Ministry of Defence Government of India, 1960), p. 88. 6 Kirby et.al., The War Against Japan, vol. 1, p. 163. 7 Singh, Combat Diary, pp. 93–4. 8 A. B. Lodge, The Fall of General Gordon Bennett (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1986), pp. 36, 49–50. 9 General Mohan Singh, Soldiers’ Contribution to Indian Independence (New Delhi: Army Educational Stores, 1974), p. 45. 10 Singh, Combat Diary, p. 91. 11 Lieutenant General Harbakhsh Singh, In the Line of Duty: A Soldier Remembers (New Delhi: Lancer, 2000), pp. 86, 88, 91. 12 Singh, Combat Diary, p. 93. 13 Major General Prem K. Khanna and Pushpindar Singh Chopra, Portrait of Courage: Century of the 5th Battalion the Sikh Regiment (New Delhi: Military Studies Convention, 2001), p. 157. 14 Brigadier W. Carpendale, Report on Operations of 11 Indian Division in Kedah and Perak, p. 1, L/WS/1/952, India Office Records (IOR), British Library (BL), London. 15 Ibid., p. 1. 16 Ibid., p. 1. 17 Ibid., p. 2. 18 Ibid., p. 2. 19 War Diary of the 9th Indian Division, Part 1, 553/5/22, Part 1, Appendices 19 & 20, pp. 38–9, Australian War Memorial (AWM), Canberra, Australia. 20 Carpendale, Report on Operations of 11 Indian Division in Kedah and Perak, pp. 1–2.

208  Kaushik Roy 21 Colonel Masanobu Tsuji, Japan’s Greatest Victory, Britain’s Worst Defeat from the Japanese Perspective: The Capture of Singapore, 1942, ed. by H. V. Howe, tr. by Margaret E. Lake (1997, reprint, Gloucestershire: Spellmount, 2007), p. XVII. 22 Ian Morrison, Malayan Postscript (London: Faber and Faber, Mcmxliii), p. 78. 23 Notes on Japanese Warfare on the Malayan Front, Information Bulletin No. 6 (Washington, DC: Military Intelligence Division, War Department, 1942), p. 3. 24 Lieutenant-Colonel Paul W. Thompson, ‘The Jap Army in Action: The Fight for Malaya’, in Thompson, Lieutenant-Colonel Harold Doud and Lieutenant John Scofield (eds.), How the Jap Army Fights (1942, reprint, New York: Penguin Books, 1943). Information under Photo II. 25 Brian P. Farrell, The Defence and Fall of Singapore: 1940–42 (2005, reprint, Stroud, Gloucestershire, 2006), p. 137. 26 Notes on Japanese Warfare on the Malayan Front, Information Bulletin No. 6, pp. 4–6. 27 Ibid., p. 8. 28 Farrell, The Defence and Fall of Singapore, pp. 135–6. 29 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, Operations in Malaya and Singapore, 30 May 1942, p. 4, CAB 66/26/44, Public Record Office (PRO), Kew, London. 30 Kirby et.al., The War Against Japan, vol. 1, p. 156; Clifford Kinvig, ‘General Percival and the Fall of Singapore’, in Farrell and Hunter (eds.), Sixty Years on, p. 245. 31 Hisayuki Yokoyama, ‘Air Operational Leadership in the Southern Front: Imperial Army Aviation’s Trial to be an “Air Force” in the Malaya Offensive Air Operation’, in Brian Bond and Kyoichi Tachikawa (eds.), British and Japanese Military Leadership in the Far Eastern War: 1941–45 (Oxon: Frank Cass, 2004), p. 141; Tsuji, Japan’s Greatest Victory, Britain’s Worst Defeat from the Japanese Perspective, p. 28; Japanese Monograph No. 24, History of the Southern Army, p. 9. 32 Despatch on the Far East, by Air Chief Marshal Robert Brooke-Popham, 8 September 1942, Appendix O, p. 72, CAB 66/28/33, PRO, Kew, London. 33 Ibid., Appendix M, p. 71. 34 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, p. 7. 35 Bhargava and Sastri, Campaigns in South-East Asia: 1941–42, p. 97. 36 Ibid., p. 107. 37 Karl Hack and Kevin Blackburn, Did Singapore Have to Fall? Churchill and the Impregnable Fortress (2004, reprint, Oxon: Routledge, 2008), pp. 54–5. 38 Andrew Gilchrist, Malaya 1941: The Fall of a Fighting Empire (London: Robert Hale, 1992), pp. 119, 129. 39 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, p. 5. 40 Lieutenant-General A. E. Percival, ‘Operations of Malaya Command from 8 December 1941 to 15 February 1942’, Second Supplement to the London Gazette, No. 38215, 20 February 1948, p. 1268. 41 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, p. 5. 42 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, p. 3; Bhargava and Sastri, Campaigns in South-East Asia: 1941–42, p. 110. 43 Bhargava and Sastri, Campaigns in South-East Asia: 1941–42, p. 110. 44 Khanna and Chopra, Portrait of Courage, p. 156.

The Indian Army in defeat 209 45 Singh, In the Line of Duty, p. 91. 46 Khanna and Chopra, Portrait of Courage, pp. 156–7. 47 Percival, ‘Operations of Malay Command from 8 December 1941 to 15 February 1942’, pp. 1269–70. 48 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, p. 5. 49 Akashi Yoji, ‘General Yamashita Tomoyuki: Commander of the TwentyFifth Army’, in Farrell and Hunter (eds.), Sixty Years on, p. 191. 50 Bhargava and Sastri, Campaigns in South-East Asia: 1941–42, p. 108. 51 Percival, ‘Operations of Malay Command from 8 December 1941 to 15 February 1942’, p. 1269; Hack and Blackburn, Did Singapore Have to Fall?, pp. 43–4. 52 Hack and Blackburn, Did Singapore Have to Fall?, p. 42. 53 Percival, ‘Operations of Malay Command from 8 December 1941 to 15 February 1942’, p. 1269. 54 Kirby et al., The War Against Japan, vol. 1, p. 203. 55 Khanna and Chopra, Portrait of Courage, pp. 158–9. 56 Percival, ‘Operations of Malay Command from 8 December 1941 to 15 February 1942’, p. 1271; Kirby et al., The War Against Japan, vol. 1, p. 204. 57 Percival, ‘Operations of Malay Command from 8 December 1941 to 15 February 1942’, p. 1270. 58 Ibid., pp. 1270–1. 59 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, p. 4. 60 Khanna and Chopra, Portrait of Courage, p. 160. 61 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, p. 5. 62 Lieutenant-General A. E. Percival, The War in Malaya (1949, reprint, Bombay: Orient Longmans, 1957), p. 191. 63 Ibid., p. 193. 64 Khanna and Chopra, Portrait of Courage, p. 161. 65 Percival, The War in Malaya, p. 189. 66 Kirby et al., The War Against Japan, vol. 1, pp. 272–3. 67 Singh, Combat Diary, p. 112. 68 Michael Dockrill, ‘British Leadership in Air Operations: Malaya and Burma’, in Bond and Tachikawa (eds.), British and Japanese Military Leadership in the Far Eastern War, p. 124. 69 Lionel Wigmore, The Japanese Thrust, Australia in the War of 1939–45, Series One, Army, vol. 4 (Canberra: Australian War Memorial, 1957), p. 224. 70 Account of the Malaya Campaign by Captain F. E. Mileham, 4/9th Jat Regiment, Road to Malacca, D1196/33, IOR, BL, London. 71 Wigmore, The Japanese Thrust, p. 222. 72 Ibid., pp. 222–4. 73 Ibid., pp. 224–5. 74 Francis Pike, Hirohito’s War: The Pacific War, 1941–1945 (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), p. 237. 75 Hack and Blackburn, Did Singapore Have to Fall?, pp. 77, 79. 76 DSD to R. M. Lockhart, New Delhi, 16 January 1942, L/WS/1/74, IOR, BL, London. 77 Carl Bridge, ‘Crisis of Command: Major-General Gordon Bennett and British Military Effectiveness in the Malayan Campaign, 1941–42’, in Bond and Tachikawa (eds.), British and Japanese Military Leadership in the Far Eastern War, p. 64.

210  Kaushik Roy 78 Tsuji, Japan’s Greatest Victory, Britain’s Worst Defeat from the Japanese Perspective, pp. XIX, 12. 79 Gilchrist, Malaya 1941, p. 63. 80 Ong Chit Chung, ‘Major-General William Dobbie and the Defence of Malaya, 1935–38’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, vol. 17, no. 2 (1986), pp. 282–3. 81 Carl Bridge, ‘The Malayan Campaign, 1941–42, in International Perspective’, in Nick Smart (ed.), The Second World War (Hampshire: Ashgate, 2006), p. 97. 82 Singh, Combat Diary, pp. 92–3. 83 Singh, In the Line of Duty, pp. 93–4. 84 Kyoichi Tachikawa, ‘General Yamashita and His Style of Leadership’, in Bond and Tachikawa (eds.), British and Japanese Military Leadership in the Far Eastern War, p. 79. 85 Ibid., p. 81. 86 Raymond Callahan, ‘Churchill and Singapore’, in Farrell and Hunter (eds.), Sixty Years on, p. 171. 87 Warren, ‘The Indian Army and the Fall of Singapore’, in Farrell and Hunter (eds.), Sixty Years on, p. 272. 88 Letter to Major-General S.T. Rowell from Colonel J. R. Broadbent, 28 January 1942, Gordon Bennett Papers, PR90/111, Australian War Memorial (AWM), Canberra. 89 Telegram from CGS Australia to War Office, The Malayan Campaign, War Cabinet, 4 April 1942, pp. 1–2, CAB 66/23/25, PRO, Kew. 90 Morrison, Malayan Postscript, p. 78. 91 Telegram from CGS Australia to War Office, The Malayan Campaign, War Cabinet, 4 April 1942, p. 2. 92 Ibid., p. 2. 93 Ibid., p. 2. 94 Letter to Rowell from Broadbent, 28 January 1942, Gordon Bennett Papers, p. 1. 95 Ibid., p. 1. 96 Ibid., pp. 1–2. 97 Farrell, The Defence and Fall of Singapore, pp. 131, 134. 98 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, Appendix A, p. 20. 99 Telegram from CGS Australia to War Office, The Malayan Campaign, War Cabinet, 4 April 1942, p. 2. 100 Singh, In the Line of Duty, p. 90. 101 Kinvig, ‘General Percival and the Fall of Singapore’, in Farrell and Hunter (eds.), Sixty Years on, p. 244. 102 Singh, In the Line of Duty, p. 91. 103 Sibylla Jane Flower, ‘Allied Prisoners of War: The Malayan Campaign, 1941–42’, in Farrell and Hunter (eds.), Sixty Years on, p. 209. 104 Notes on Japanese Warfare on the Malayan Front, Information Bulletin No. 6, p. 8. 105 Singh, Soldiers’ Contribution to Indian Independence, pp. 65–6. 106 Ibid., p. 66. 107 History of the 11th Indian Division in Malaya, Comments by LieutenantGeneral A. E. Percival, Percival Papers, Imperial War Museum, London.

The Indian Army in defeat 211 108 From GOC Malaya to the War Office, C-in-C India, 28885, cipher 25/1, p. 69, L/WS/1/645, IOR, BL. 109 DSD to R. M. Lockhart, New Delhi, 16 January 1942, pp. 2, 5, L/WS/1/74. 110 Gilchrist, Malaya 1941, p. 24. 111 Telegram from CGS Australia to War Office, The Malayan Campaign, War Cabinet, 4 April 1942, p. 2. 112 Percival, ‘Operations of Malay Command from 8 December 1941 to 15 February 1942’, p. 1269. 113 Hack and Blackburn, Did Singapore Have to Fall?, p. 79. 114 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, p. 5. 115 Singh, In the Line of Duty, p. 96. 116 Kirby et al., The War Against Japan, vol. 1, p. 164. 117 Report by Major H. P. Thomas, 30 May 1942, p. 13. 118 From GOC Malaya to the War Office, C-in-C India, 28428 cipher 14/1, 15 January 1942, War Office to GOC Malaya, 66278 cipher SD3 23/1, pp. 68, 70, L/WS/1/645. 119 Gilchrist, Malaya 1941, p. 161.

9 Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War1 Cat Wilson

Few eyebrows are raised when a politician’s memoir diverts attention away from his (or her) least finest hours in office. The combination of Churchill’s enviable literary skill and his almost untouchable post-war reputation, however, meant his six-volume memoir, The Second World War, became so revered that it took on the guise of genuine historical narrative.2 Consequently, any subject which he either skilfully avoided or deemed insignificant became almost lost within the shadows of history. Along with subjects such as the irreversible loss of the British Empire’s prestige in the Far East for example, or the volatile and transient nature of Anglo-American relations, or the role of Bomber Command in the strategic air defensive, Churchill ‘largely evaded’ the subject of the Indian Army in his memoir.3 Subsumed within his wider account of the war, and his role in it, Churchill conveniently sidestepped the achievements of the Indian Army in order to help expedite his one remaining political ambition – his return to 10 Downing Street as Prime Minister of a peacetime Britain.4 Over the course of the Second World War, the Indian Army had, in the main, and despite its lack of resources, training and preparedness, become a formidable fighting unit.5 A month before the outbreak of war, one Indian Infantry Brigade (the 11th) had left India for Egypt illustrating its readiness as a physical presence. Battles were hard fought and lessons were equally hard learnt but, by February 1945, the Indian Army was described as ‘a match for the equivalent formations of any first-class power’.6 A little over a decade earlier, Churchill had not been alone in thinking that the Indian Army, particularly the individual sepoy, needed ‘a white officer among them when fighting’ to inspire and guide them to victory.7 His lack of regard for the Indian Army seemed not to dissipate, for during the disastrous and arguably pivotal year of 1942 he accused Wavell (in a private conversation) of ‘creating a Frankenstein by putting modern weapons in

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  213 the hands of sepoys’.8 Clearly Churchill associated the Indian Army with an ever-present threat of mutiny. After the war had ended and the Indian Army’s reputation had been transformed, Churchill began to compose his memoirs. Yet, he downplayed the Indian Army’s contribution to the British Empire’s victory (especially in Burma and the Far East) and continued to perpetuate his turn-of-the-century distrust of the sepoy – who may have fought hard in Italy and in Burma, for example, but had really, in Churchill’s view, only been good enough to guard captured Italian soldiers (who were the weakest of all soldiers according to Churchill’s hierarchy of troops).9 This chapter examines Churchill’s portrayal of the Indian Army, as set-out in his memoir The Second World War, and considers not only why, in effect, he ignored the largest volunteer force ever amassed but also the extent to which his narrative influenced history.

Churchill as writer, historian and memoirist Churchill’s political career spanned over half a century, but his first profession was that of a war correspondent and writer.10 He saw writing as a way of increasing his disposable income, as well as proselytizing his opinions. In 1895, five years before he entered the House of Commons for the first time, Churchill honed his literary skills as a war correspondent in Cuba’s war for independence against the United States of America. A year later he covered the British reconquest of the Sudan, and it was in his first volume of edited war correspondence, The Story of the Malakand Field Force: An Episode in Frontier War, that Churchill introduced his readership to the Indian Army – in this instance, the Rattray Sikhs. One passage of vivid prose deserves repeating: The band of Sikhs were closely packed in the cutting, the front rank kneeling to fire. Nearly all were struck by stones and rocks. Major Taylor, displaying great gallantry, was mortally wounded. Several of the Sepoys were killed. Colonel McRae himself was accidentally stabbed in the neck by a bayonet and became covered with blood. But he called upon the men to maintain the good name of ‘Rattray Sikhs’ and to hold their position till death or the regiment came up. And the soldiers replied by loudly shouting the Sikh war-cry, and defying the enemy to come on.11 Churchill noted how Subedar Syed Ahmed Shah defended his post to the bitter end and whose ‘gallant conduct on this occasion’ was the

214  Cat Wilson subject of a special paragraph in despatches.12 Similarly he pointed out how Sepoy Prem Singh would risk his life every day to come out through a tiny porthole in a tower, under constant enemy fire, so that he could establish his heliograph and send urgent messages to the main force.13 Perhaps Churchill waxed lyrical about the valour and bravery of a handful of Indian troops because at this point in his career he had no great political axe to grind. India was still very much under the Raj, India’s future remained at the heart of the British Empire and the Indian Army was governed and led, not by Indians, but by the British. All was, in Churchill’s opinion, just as it should be. His commentaries and articles were, in the main, favourably received, and Churchill was clearly ‘thrilled’ at having found ‘a new way of making a living and of asserting’ himself.14 Having become the most highly paid war correspondent of his time, Churchill was spurred on by his literary success and became quite a prolific writer. Not content with journalistic commentaries he also penned a novel but quickly gravitated towards works of a historical nature.15 In 1906, Churchill published a two-volume biography on his late father, Lord Randolph Churchill, written with the determined aim of silencing his father’s detractors.16 While not entirely successful in his remit, Churchill did at least dispel some of the harsher criticisms which had been levelled at Lord Randolph. One reviewer wrote that Churchill’s biography would ‘have to be read – nay, even more than read – it would have to be carefully studied by all’ who wished to be ‘well versed’ in British political history of the latter part of the nineteenth century.17 That being said, as John Lukacs noted, as a vindication of his father’s reputation Lord Randolph Churchill did not succeed, but as a great political history it did.18 Churchill’s most forceful encounter with history, however, was his multi-volume narrative on the First World War – The World Crisis.19 Even though Churchill exhibited concern for those in the trenches – perhaps due to his own stint at the front – inaccuracies and distortions occurred throughout the five volumes, and Churchill continually aggrandized his own role. So much so that Arthur Balfour (the Conservative British Prime Minister 1902–05), described The World Crisis as Churchill’s autobiography disguised as world history.20 Indeed, but as Churchill’s narrative on the Great War was quick off the mark it encountered little immediate competition. Even though some reviews were less than generous, it was written in a fluid and easy-to-read style, and Churchill succeeded in simplifying the chaotic history of the outbreak of war.

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  215 Churchill’s most assured historical work was an account of his ancestor, entitled Marlborough: His Life and Times.21 Determined ‘from the first to make the best case he could’ for Marlborough, the exclusive access to papers and documents in the muniment room at Blenheim Palace helped Churchill establish a cohesive historical tale.22 In fact, Marlborough was more than a political biography of his ancestor; it was Churchill’s pronouncement on ‘how the harsh and excessive demands of the victors’ had ‘produced innumerable and unforeseen consequences for the defeated nations’.23 In other words, Marlborough was Churchill’s warning from history – it was his indictment of the consequences of the 1919 Treaty of Versailles. His Marlborough was highly successful, received ‘critical acclaim’ and resulted in Churchill being made an honorary Vice-President of the Royal Historical society in 1936.24 Combining his pre-war success as a writer and his reputation as an historian, with his wartime record, and the fact that no other officially sanctioned history of the war had yet to be produced, it is no wonder that Churchill’s memoir of the Second World War was perceived as the most authoritative historical narrative.25 Rather modestly, or perhaps disingenuously, Churchill claimed that his six-volume memoir was not history – rather it was ‘a contribution to history’ which would ‘be of service to the future’.26 In the late 1960s, the Cambridge historian John Harold Plumb astutely wrote that Churchill had deliberately ‘organized’ the narrative and structure of the war to reflect and magnify his own role ‘in the drama’.27 Plumb observed that the ‘phases of the war’ which Churchill constructed in order to aid the flow of his memoirs had primarily reflected his importance and exaggerated his centrality to the Allied war effort. While Plumb did not openly state that the post-war Churchill placed his wartime self at the epicentre of international political and diplomatic events in order to garner support for his campaign to return to 10 Downing Street as a peacetime Prime Minister, it was implied. The result of Churchill’s structure, Plumb contended, was that it so effectively cut through the ‘confusion and complexity’ of the war that it had already begun to influence historians who found themselves being steered down the self-serving ‘broad avenues’ which Churchill had laid down.28 Plumb concluded that ‘Churchill the historian’ was ‘at the very heart of all historiography of the Second World War’, and would always remain there.29 Plumb’s critique is as pertinent today, as it was then. Though the historiography has progressed apace, and Churchill’s memoir no longer operates in a vacuum, the effect that Churchill’s historical narrative had on the Indian Army’s contribution to the Second World War was particularly damning and its effect long-lasting.

216  Cat Wilson

Churchill’s World Crisis and the Indian Army Churchill’s opinion of Indian troops originated from his experience in Bangalore, as a subaltern in the Queen’s Hussars at the turn of the century, through to his time in the trenches during the Great War, and then during his first time as the King’s first minister. He would go from either emphatically supporting or completely disparaging the sepoy. Whether publicly or privately expressed, his thoughts and opinions seem to switch from one to the other – rarely did he reach and occupy a middle ground on this subject – and his judgement nearly always reflected the way in which he rallied against the ongoing proposal for Indian self-government. In his memoir of the Second World War, Churchill introduced the Indian Army to his readership by narrating how, during the First World War, ‘the steadfast Indian Corps in the cruel winter of 1914, held the line by Armentieres’.30 Indian troops had often (but not always) served with distinction in the trenches on the Western Front, in Mesopotamia, and each of the major theatres of the First World War.31 Within four days of Britain declaring war on Germany, on 4 August 1914, two infantry divisions and a cavalry brigade of the Indian Army were ordered to mobilize; eventually a total of 23 Indian infantry battalions and 14 Indian cavalry regiments served on the front.32 Indian troops were fighting a war in a territory which was far removed climactically as well as geographically and culturally from their own. Churchill had previously written about the Indian troops in the Great War in his narrative The World Crisis, how their mobilization primarily created a logistical problem as troops removed from India would have to be replaced by territorial troops in order to maintain India’s internal and frontier security. The implication being that Indian troops were effective if used to police the frontiers of India, but less so when transplanted into unfamiliar regions of the British Empire. Nonetheless, Churchill knew what the Indian Army was capable of and what it had achieved in the previous conflict. Churchill’s memoir of the Second World War would have been, for many, the first and most assured historical narrative which they encountered. While crystallizing the reasons for the gathering storm clouds of war (as well as his own role within the conflict), and giving a lucid and arguably palatable interpretation of the events of the war itself, Churchill’s memoir may have encouraged some to think of the war not just as Britain’s part in defeating Nazism, but the larger British Empire’s role and therefore the part played by various imperial subjects. Not simply the Dominions, and their troops, but India, and

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  217 perhaps, Africa and their respective troops. Churchill may have written more about Indian troops in the Great War in his World Crisis but, even though The World Crisis had sold some 58,334 volumes by 1933 (with further sales of 5,844 for the abridged edition), it could not compare with the gravitas of his voice, his reputation or the sales figures of the first volume of The Second World War (that which contained his brief and cursory mention of the Indian troops at Armentieres).33 Sales from these volumes eclipsed anything he had ever written and as a result of high sales (and extensive serialisation) his historical narrative would have undoubtedly shaped and formed public opinion – especially as no official histories of the war had yet been published.34 His version of events, and his portrayal of the key protagonists, when combined with his literary skills and his considerable post-war reputation (which he of course enhanced through the memoirs themselves), were accepted with little criticism. Arguably, it was possibly the first time that the majority had even thought about the role the soldiers of the British Empire – the Indian Army (let alone other Colonial or Dominion troops) – had played within the world war. While Churchill’s brief mention of the sepoys in the trenches at Armentieres could be described as both timely and adequate, especially considering the sheer amount of content which he and his team of researchers had to cram into the first scene-setting volume, the question as to why he barely glanced at the Indian Army’s participation in the Second World War in his memoirs remains. An examination of his own experience of India, and his inability to separate his view of India from his view of the Indian Army, may go some way to explaining why he virtually ignored the largest volunteer force every assembled. Churchill developed a ‘curious complex’ about India when he had been a subaltern in the Queen’s Hussars, stationed in Bangalore, from 1896 to 1899.35 Although commissioned for three years, Churchill spent no more than a total of 10 to 12 months in India, as he made his various sorties as a war correspondent and several trips back to London to break up what he called the ennui of continental military life.36 Throughout his time in India, Churchill had been more concerned with the prestige his position as a cavalry man offered, and the advantages it might lend to a political career, rather than what he could learn about the Indian Army, or India itself. Churchill refused to learn vernacular languages, which he pronounced as ‘quite unnecessary’, even though it meant he could not understand the ‘thoughts and feelings’ of the Indian troops which he encountered.37 But many British officers in India shared this attitude and, as Churchill’s unit did not include any Indian ranks, learning Urdu (the lingua franca of

218  Cat Wilson the Indian Army) was not therefore, in the Bangalore Cantonment at least, thought of as particularly urgent or necessary.38 A language barrier, however, did not prevent Churchill from believing that he could effectively communicate with the Indian ranks he encountered: ‘there was no doubt they liked having a white officer among them, when fighting . . . they watched him carefully to see how things were going. If you grinned, they grinned. So I grinned industriously.’39 This observation may first have been made by a young Churchill during his time in India, but it was written by an older Churchill and published in 1930. Tellingly, it revealed how his attitude towards the Indian Army had hardly changed in the intervening years.

Churchill’s Second World War and the Indian Army In his memoir of the Second World War, Churchill’s depiction of the Indian Army varied to meet the needs of his narrative. For example, he portrayed them as a potentially disloyal and volatile force when justifying why he had not met the wartime demands (made by the Left in Britain, Congress in India or Roosevelt and American anti-British imperialist opinion) for negotiating post-war self-government for India. He maintained that wartime was ‘no time for a constitutional experiment’ as it would have politicized and therefore destabilized the Indian troops who were serving not just the Allied war effort but also protecting the Indian population from Japanese invasion.40 Constitutional change for India during wartime would have a detrimental effect on the Indian Army’s ability to fight, Churchill continued, as the Indian Army would have disintegrated into ‘a welter of chattering politics and bloody ruin’.41 Yet although Churchill was writing after the war had ended, and after the pivotal event of Indian independence and the horrors of Partition, he still depicted what had been, at least in the Far East, Burma and North Africa, an arguably crucial body of troops as inherently untrustworthy and fickle in their allegiance. He may have needed to portray himself to his post-war audience as able to withstand the wartime onslaught of American anti-imperialism, in order reinforce his standing and relevance to the post-war world, but he did so at the expense of the Indian Army. India experienced a series of crises from 1942 to 1943 – not only the failed Cripps Mission and the resultant Quit India campaign but also the Bengal Famine and the search for a new Viceroy. In order to keep the Indian troops depoliticized, attempts were made to insulate them from these events. Postal censorship, the dissemination of Allied war-effort propaganda through the use of mobile film units and radio

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  219 programmes, and only allowing British newspapers in army camps were measures thought to help in this regard.42 The Bengal Famine was one particular crisis which Churchill avoided in his memoirs. General A. Wavell, the reluctant Viceroy of India, had called in Indian troops to help distribute what rations were available, as well as to sort out distribution centres and transport deficiencies.43 Undoubtedly disturbed by what they witnessed these troops, upon returning to their regiments, may have possibly been more susceptible to Japanese propaganda and may have questioned why they were fighting for the Empire and not against it.44 How could an Indian soldier who was ‘eroded by anxieties about whether his wife and children had enough to eat’ continue to be loyal, or continue to fight and defeat the enemy?45 Had Churchill revealed in his memoirs how his indifference towards the starving Bengali population had jeopardized the loyalty of the Indian Army, it would have shown that his reasoning to Roosevelt (over why he had placed an embargo on raising the Indian constitutional issue during the war so as not to affect the loyalty or effectiveness of the Indian Army) had merely been a pretence – a delaying tactic. Since Churchill wanted to return to power, and the Cold War necessitated that Anglo-American relations run smoothly, he needed to downplay, if not completely omit, the reality of his role in finding a solution to the Bengal Famine and his low expectation of the Indian Army’s reaction.46 The advent of the Indian National Army (to which Churchill alludes only once in his memoirs, and even then it is tucked away in an Appendix), the impact of Japanese anti-British Empire propaganda (much of which featured Churchill very prominently) and the horrors of the Bengal Famine might well have swayed the loyalty of the Indian Army. But, as noted earlier, by 1945, the Indian Army was deemed by many to never have ‘been so trusted’.47 The belief in the superiority of the British soldier over the Indian soldier proved itself to be outmoded and mistaken. ‘Gone were the days’, one historian has written, ‘when it had been supposed that the example of British troops was needed to fire Indians to valour’.48 There were pockets of disloyalty and of dissent, and until mid-1942, the Indian Army proved itself to be both ‘brittle and conditional’ in its affections.49 Yet better material supply, equipment, training and the increase in concern for their families, however, meant that by 1944 the loyalty of the jawans (Indian privates) to their commissioned officers was not questioned (by their officers or by themselves). It was following demobilization, and the loss of regular pay, that the majority of jawans became politically aware – that is to say nationalist. It was probably the politicization of soldiers which

220  Cat Wilson Churchill had feared when he took Wavell to one side, in 1942, and called them nothing more than an armed Frankenstein monster. It should be noted that Churchill was equally disparaging towards African brigades and viewed them with a similar suspicion.50 In a memo addressed to Ismay but marked for the attention of Wavell, Churchill wrote that he was not satisfied by the part played by the African brigades who were stationed in Kenya. Churchill viewed indigenous troops as inferior to British troops, as inferior to the Australian and New Zealand soldiers whom he thought were, in turn, below the standard of the British troops. He also wrote that such ‘native’ troops were to be mixed together ‘so that one lot can be used to keep the other in discipline’.51 There was a hierarchy of troops in Churchill’s mind – a definite pecking order with British officers and British men at the top. Without exception, in the first two volumes of The Second World War, Churchill intimated that Indian troops (like the ‘native’ colonial African soldiers) were not to be trusted. They were ill-disciplined, inefficient and not as professional as their British counterparts. It was in the fourth volume of memoirs, first published in 1951, a month after he succeeded in his triumphant return to 10 Downing Street, that Churchill made the first noticeable distinction between the British Army and the Indian Army. Up to this point in his memoir, he had described the Indian Army as the ‘British-Indian Army’, using what Raymond Callahan perfectly described as a ‘clumsy locution’.52 Churchill’s use of the term ‘British-Indian Army’ spoke volumes about what he thought of the Indian Army, even if his writing did not. For Churchill, the Indian Army was essentially British, albeit that it included Indian soldiers. In fact, whenever Churchill wrote ‘BritishIndian Army’ what he was really referring to was the British-officered Indian Army of which he had been a part, when stationed in Bangalore at the end of the nineteenth century. In his memoirs, Churchill became consistently inconsistent when referring to the Indian Army and this annoyed some members of his research team. General Henry Pownall, who became one of the most trusted members of Churchill’s literary research team (otherwise known as the ‘syndicate’), was particularly scathing about such inconsistencies (Churchill interchanging the term Indian Army for British-Indian Army and vice versa) when he lamented how Churchill’s ‘British-Indian Division phrase is rather a bore really’. Pownall continued that Churchill only remembered ‘now and again’ that it was his ‘own hobby horse’, his own obsession with India and the Raj, which he kept falling off. Called upon to verify facts, write drafts and tidy-up tracts of text on military matters,

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  221 Pownall found that there were so many of these inconsistencies that he became exasperated and ‘weary of chasing them up’.53 Churchill was not the only person to unrelentingly think of the Indian Army as the British-Indian Army during the war, but he was one of the few who appeared unable to alter his attitude in the postwar, and post–Indian independence, world. Churchill was disparaging about the ill-prepared state of the Indian Army at the outbreak of the Second World War – as were others. Most notably British Commanding Officers posted in the Middle and Far East, such as Pownall, Auchinleck, and Slim, shared Churchill’s views about the state of unreadiness of the Indian troops, at the beginning of the Burma campaigns. Even Pownall, who was himself considered less progressive than Auchinleck for example, soon reversed his opinion of them.54 By contrast, Churchill’s negative mindset was still apparent when writing his memoirs in the late 1940s and early 1950s. The relative ease with which Japanese troops had invaded and occupied Burma shocked Churchill. Yet, as Pownall commented in his diary in December 1941, it was hardly surprising that Burma had crumbled so easily for defence arrangements there had been ‘sketchy, to put it mildly’.55 For Churchill, Burma was little more than a geographical buffer zone which protected India from foreign invasion. But even more galling for Churchill than Burma’s fall was the fact that the Allied ‘victory over the Japanese [in Burma] was won by the Indian Army’.56 From March to May 1944, some of the fiercest battles against the Japanese were being fought. The aim of the Japanese offensive, U-GO, was to destroy British and Indian forces around Kohima and Imphal, advance up the Dimapur pass and forge ahead across India. Churchill allocated less than two pages to his descriptions of the battles for Imphal and Kohima.57 He mentioned the 5th and 7th Indian Divisions and how they were flown into Imphal and Dimapur respectively. He wrote how the 33rd Corps, under General Stopford’s command, along with the 2nd British Division, and the remnants of Wingate’s Chindits, were also sent to Dimapur. Churchill was equally scant regarding the battle of Kohima, to which he devoted a similarsized paragraph. The 2nd British Division, along with the 161st Indian Brigade, relieved the Kohima Garrison, and Churchill ended his narrative by writing that the ‘valiant defence of Kohima against all odds, was a fine episode’.58 Churchill briefly mentioned eight individual British, Indian or Nepalese units. Nor did Churchill mention Slim’s 14th Army. Churchill also mistook the units of the 2nd Indian Division for units of the 2nd British Division. Even though Churchill wrote how, back in London,

222  Cat Wilson he had ‘felt the stress’ of how ‘sixty thousand British and Indian soldiers, with all their modern equipment, were confined’ to these two battlefields, it equated to no more than four paragraphs.59 He then reverted to describing American successes, such as Stilwell’s manipulation of Chinese forces, especially of Chiang Kai-Shek, as well as the exploits of Merrill’s Marauders. He finished this brief chapter on the beginning of the reconquest of Burma by quoting Mountbatten, who wrote that ‘the Japanese bid for India was virtually over, and ahead lay the prospect of the first major British victory in Burma’.60 As always, when Churchill was recollecting an uncomfortable truth, he did not use his own words to express a reality which, for whatever reason, he found difficult to accept. The phrase ‘forgotten army’ is now widely used to refer to Slim’s 14th Army as they not only received little in the way of equipment and supplies but also seemed to be ‘neglected by both London and Washington’.61 Slim’s army was also forgotten, or at least glossed over, by the British public during the war. In The Times ‘Review of the year’ for 1942, the British public read how the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor and how America had been officially brought into the war. The general public read how ‘the Japanese did not pause, but turned at once to attack Burma’ and how the Russian, Mediterranean and Middle Eastern war theatres had seen heavy fighting. The North African campaigns, the Russian resistance to the German offensive, the George Cross awarded to the Maltese for their ‘heroism and devotion’ were all mentioned; but even though 1942 was the year in which the British Empire in the Far East suffered its worst defeats, there was no mention of specific army units fighting the Japanese in Malaya, Singapore or Burma.62 The 8th Army received several mentions, as did Alexander, Wavell and the American troops. But, no mention was made of the armies fighting in Burma, let alone any specific mention of Indian troops. Churchill maintained this silence in his memoirs. Without doubt, Churchill did not include Slim and the achievements of the 14th Army in his fourth volume of memoirs, due to the usual rush, and general disorganization, of getting the proofs to the publishers.63 Yet, perhaps Churchill did not include the troops in Burma because they had, after all, to use Slim’s phrase, turned defeat into victory, with very little help (compared to the other theatres of war).64 To include them by name, to remember the forgotten, would likely have required Churchill to revise his opinion of Indian troops. This, it appears, was something which he was not prepared to do. In September 1952, following publication of the fifth volume of Churchill’s memoirs, Slim confronted Churchill over the omission. Churchill was

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  223 only too happy to inform him that the 14th Army would get its due credit within the final volume of his memoirs which at that time was still being hastily researched and drafted by the syndicate.65 Churchill’s accommodation may reflect the fact that, by 1952, Slim was not a man anyone could easily ignore. In 1948, Clement Attlee had ensured that Slim succeeded Montgomery as Chief of the Imperial General Staff, and in November 1952 Slim was offered the Governor Generalship of Australia (a post he held for seven years). In a handful of instances, Churchill acknowledged the successes of the Indian Army and singled it out for praise. In early 1941, he wrote that ‘His Majesty’s Government in the United Kingdom gratefully recognise the valiant contribution which Indian troops have made to the Imperial victories in North Africa’.66 But, such instances were few and far between and were more public relation exercises for furthering support, especially in India, rather than genuine offers of praise or thanks. Another example was when Churchill agreed that there ‘must be no discrimination on grounds of race or colour’ in the employment of Indians or other colonial subjects in the Royal Navy. He suggested that ‘each case must be judged on its merits’ and, while he could not see ‘any objection to Indians serving on H.M. Ships where they are qualified and needed, or, if their virtues so deserve, rising to be Admirals of the Fleet’, he did conclude with ‘but not too many of them please’.67 In January 1944, Churchill drafted a message to be published in the first edition of the South East Asia Command newspaper. The message included his ‘best wishes’ for the success of the paper and stated that ‘soldiers of the 14th Army as well as sailors and airmen now serving under Admiral Mountbatten have already won for themselves distinction in battle’. He encouraged the men to think about the ‘great issues’ which lay ‘in their hands’; about how they would ‘acquit themselves with the audacity, the valour and the resourcefulness’ which Britain required.68 While Churchill acknowledged and encouraged the men of the 14th Army in this message, it must be noted that in the following two months, he also drafted similarly encouraging messages to General de Gaulle (on the success of the French troops near Cassino), to the National Farmers Union and to the National Savings Committee.69 All of which indicate that the 14th Army, and its Indian troops, were lauded as a special force by Churchill but only when it suited his purpose to do so.70 The bulk of the evidence suggests that Churchill retained a low opinion of the Indian Army, even after the successes of 1944–5. Further evidence of his disregard for the Indian Army exists within the documents

224  Cat Wilson which relate to the production of the memoir itself – especially within the directives and messages exchanged between himself and various members of his research team. In one of the chapter proofs, for example, one of Churchill’s draft sentences read: ‘so far the Japanese have only had two white battalions and a few gunners against them, the rest being Indian soldiers.’ Denis Kelly, an unenthusiastic lawyer whom Churchill had employed in 1947 as a literary assistant and who was far more than the self-confessed ‘stooge’ of the syndicate, rightly surmised that such a sentence would ‘be read as a reflection on the Indian Army’, and that it would be better to ‘delete the words “the rest being Indian soldiers”’.71 Churchill later agreed. This is just one example of the syndicate trying to protect Churchill from himself, and it was done in the usual manner: by suggesting that the alteration was necessary in order for Churchill’s contemporary concerns to be unaffected by previous occurrences. Other similar examples illustrate how his original wording was interpreted by the syndicate (especially by Pownall) as being overtly critical of Indian officers. Pownall was dedicated to ‘the Master’ (as he sometimes endearingly referred to Churchill) and it was this dedication that prompted him to write that Churchill would have to be knocked off ‘his present perch’ for his own good. Although Pownall was ‘confident’ that Churchill would eventually ‘come down a long way’ and make the necessary revision about his opinion of Indian officers in general, he did not anticipate that Churchill would do so easily. Pownall even concluded that he had seen ‘plenty of previous instances’ in which he thought Churchill was ‘being unfair’ and he had felt compelled to ‘wade in’. He concluded that although Churchill tended to grumble and mumble he would nonetheless ‘give way’, although ‘perhaps at the very last moment and secretly, behind ones back!’72 Churchill may have revised his draft sentences in order to colour how he was perceived by the general electorate in Britain (and by the worldwide book-buying public in general), but he did not revise his opinions. On the matter of the Indian Army, as on any subject which Churchill found too difficult to either recount or express, he downplayed its significance. When the pivotal contribution that the Indian Army had made to the war resurfaced in the chronology of his tale, Churchill again glossed over it. No doubt the advent of Indian, as well as Burmese, independence contributed to this snubbing of the Indian Army’s achievements, but Burma had exposed a morass of raw nerves for Churchill. Contrary to his expectations, the Indian Army had proved itself to be a formidable fighting unit, an army which quickly adapted to unfamiliar terrain and an army that learnt from its mistakes and became adept

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  225 at improvisation. Churchill’s dismissal of the Indian Army, and especially its role in the reconquest of Burma, was manifest throughout his memoirs. Churchill’s imperialist and racist assumptions alone do not explain his interpretations of the war. Having initially regarded the Japanese soldier as non-threatening in 1939 and 1940, Churchill changed his mind and finally admitted in 1943 that Japanese troops were dedicated professional soldiers. Churchill could change his mind about the Japanese soldier, but not the about the sepoy or jawan. The Indian Army had proved its worth, time and time again. But situating the Indian Army’s wartime successes within his post-war concerns was incompatible; it would have revealed how the issue of Indian independence and the reconquest of Burma had almost forced America and Britain apart.73 Churchill wanted the wartime Anglo-American special relationship to appear strong and long-lasting, especially with the onset of the Cold War – a war which he realized Britain could not fight without American help and co-operation. Churchill’s most pressing post-war imperative, to shore-up the binding that tied the Englishspeaking peoples together, was therefore incompatible with extolling the virtues of an army which had been at the centre of such a volatile time. It had been the Atlantic Charter, signed by Churchill and Roosevelt on 12 August 1941, which had marked the start of American pressure on the British Empire to reassess its very nature, as well as Churchill’s preparedness to sacrifice parts of the empire for victory.74 When coupled with pressure from the Left in Britain, as well as from the nationalist leaders themselves, Churchill despatched Stafford Cripps to India with an offer of post-war independence in return for a renewal of support and effort in the conflict. The dire losses that Britain and her empire had incurred in the previous months gave Churchill and his War Cabinet the impetus to solve (or at least be seen to attempt to solve) the political impasse in India – the central wartime bastion for the British and Allied war effort in the East. Even though Churchill believed the idea that the Indian Congress would ‘rally to the common cause and their own security’ was nothing but a ‘vain illusion’, he was willing to acquiesce to wartime American sentiment in very broad terms.75 Clearly, the ‘special relationship’ was buckling under stress and strain. The discernible wartime friction between the English-speaking peoples became palpable over Burma. In an effort to hide the temporary and volatile nature of Anglo-American relations in the latter part of the war, Churchill diminished the severity of the Japanese invasion of Burma and India. In doing so, Churchill was able to sidestep having to

226  Cat Wilson revisit just how volatile Anglo-American relations had been only a few months after Pearl Harbor. The cracks between Roosevelt and Churchill (between American anti-imperialism and British imperial interests) had begun to show over the lack of wartime constitutional progress for a post-war self-governing India. These cracks quickly turned into fissures over Burma. Writing in November 1952, after he had achieved his ambition of a return to 10 Downing Street, Churchill was very much aware that he had to still tread carefully with the Americans: ‘of course we have not got permission to publish letters and telegrams from Ike and Truman’ and, so he continued, he did ‘not intend to print anything they would object to’.76 Churchill was obviously conscious of how the wartime fragility of the union between the English-speaking peoples had persisted into the post-war world. Downplaying the severity of the threat that the Japanese invasion posed to India, therefore, allowed him to gloss over the fragile nature of the wartime ‘special relationship’ and thereby almost ignore the Indian Army. It was far preferable for Churchill to rail against the Indian Army and India itself (a characteristic manoeuvre for one who had held a lifelong and complex vision of the Raj as the heart of Empire) than it was to jeopardize his most pressing contemporary concern – of portraying the transatlantic alliance as indelible.

Churchill’s influence on official history The barrister and Independent Conservative MP Sir Cuthbert Headlam, upon seeing how Churchill and Roosevelt were enjoying the ‘popular ovation’ given to them at the Quebec Conference of September 1944, commented that Churchill would find it hard to make the transition to a peacetime world. What Churchill would do when the war was over ‘goodness only knows’. Perhaps, Headlam continued, Churchill should ‘retire from public life’ and ‘sit down and write his reminiscences’.77 Churchill refused to retire, but he did write his memoirs. Widely perceived as history, Churchill significantly influenced the way in which the narrative of the war in the Far East was presented for a long period of time – as a sideshow, a comparatively unimportant and little discussed theatre when contrasted against the volumes and tomes dedicated to the war in Europe, the Battle of the Atlantic and even the fight for North Africa. Douglas Ford recently pointed out that Britain’s conduct of the war in the Far East had ‘not attracted much scholarly attention’, because ‘the Asia-Pacific theatres were of secondary importance for Britain’.78 Ford researched British intelligence matters in the Far East – aiming to firmly locate the subject of

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  227 British intelligence within the general history of the Second World War instead of it retaining its extra-curricular quality – and he noted how the official histories of British intelligence argued that ‘because Britain’s engagement in the Far East was minor, its intelligence activities there do not demand scholarly research’.79 What compelled the official histories of the war (not only of British intelligence but also of the war in general) to downplay the war in the Far East, and the armies that fought there, was Churchill’s memoir.80 While it is true that we now accept Churchill’s memoirs as memoirs and not as history, as far as the war in the Far East was concerned, his partial version of events cast a long shadow over the history of India’s war effort and the Indian Army – a shadow which only really started to dissipate in the early 1990s.81 Of course the blame for this state of affairs should not be directed solely at Churchill, but he certainly tried to protect his narrative. Churchill’s defence of his own account was effected principally by placing strict conditions upon the use of his papers by any historian. He specified that the official historians were allowed to quote from his private papers, provided the quote was not shorn of context and was quoted in full (whether placed in the text or in a suitably identified footnote or appendix).82 This stipulation was decided upon in 1947, perhaps coincidentally, just as Churchill was settling down into the rhythm of the syndicate and his own narrative. He made it very clear that any extracts which were proposed to be published were to be shown to him beforehand.83 Navigating the permissions and copyright labyrinth proved to be complicated, but the requirement Churchill imposed meant that the vetting of quotes (and determining whether his stipulation had been adequately met) took time and this, in turn, meant delays in publication. By the time James Butler (who had been appointed as Chief Military Historian and Editor of the whole series of official histories in 1946) turned to Norman Brook, the Cabinet Secretary, for precise clarification upon the matter, Churchill’s stipulations had already proved vexing to some of the official historians for a while: one complained that he had been ‘trying for sixteen months to comply’, but as ‘so many different interpretations’ existed it had never been ‘quite clear what the argument was’.84 It took almost eight years before the complexities and problems associated with the conditions imposed upon the use of Churchill’s personal papers reached crisis point for the official historians. By this point, enough time had passed for Churchill’s narrative to have sunk into public consciousness. Having dined and discussed the issue with Churchill at Chartwell, on 27 June 1955, Norman Brook relayed to

228  Cat Wilson Butler that Churchill’s main ‘fear’ was that ‘his meaning might be distorted by partial quotation’.85 In this, Churchill was not alone for other wartime would-be memoirists also feared being taken out of context in the post-war world. The American President, Harry S. Truman, for example, asked that Churchill not quote directly from cables they had exchanged, preferring that Churchill paraphrase them instead. Truman’s reasoning was twofold. Firstly, he could not get access to the National Archives to verify the text as his papers were ‘not in shape’, and secondly, he wished to use the exact text as Churchill within his own memoirs,86 reasoning which Churchill was similarly inclined to give in order to protect his version of events. Brook tried to get Churchill to agree that the official historians should be trusted to use their discretion when quoting ‘only a sentence or phrase’, but he failed. But, Brook succeeded in obtaining the definitive clarification of the conditions of use: Sir Winston said that he did not mind how much of his personal writings was reproduced in the Official Histories, so long as the relevant texts were printed in full. The rule should be that, if any quotations were made, the full text of the relevant part of the document should be reproduced either in the body of the History or in an appendix.87 In order to avoid ‘unsatisfactory replies’ and further delays, Butler and his team of historians were encouraged to accept Churchill’s terms of use.88 Understandably, Butler was sure the historians would be disappointed that Churchill was not prepared to trust their ‘discretion and conscience’.89 The general response, such as that of Major General Stanley Woodburn Kirby, the official historian whose task was to research and record the war in the Far East and therefore the Indian Army’s reconquest of Burma, was one of reluctant acceptance. Kirby was well and truly into the researching and writing of the Malayan campaign during the summer of 1951, when Churchill was preparing for the likelihood of an autumn general election. The American edition of the fourth volume of Churchill’s memoirs (The Hinge of Fate) had already been published in the previous November, and the British edition was due out in August.90 Thanks to the high volume of sales and the comprehensive way in which Churchill’s memoirs were being serialized, his portrayal of the fall of Singapore, the Cripps Mission and the invasion of Burma (events which Kirby was delving into) may already have seeped into the collective historical consciousness. After all, his easily read and lucid text ultimately gave

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  229 a more favourable version of events such as the Blitz, or the Battle of Britain for example, which made the more difficult events, such as the fall of Singapore, easier to comprehend. Kirby entered into considerable correspondence with Lieutenant General Percival, who had led the British surrender at Singapore, and both became enmeshed in the minutiae. Percival was asked by Kirby to clarify, for example, why General Heath was on his way to Singapore when the decision to not withdraw was made by the War Council. Was Heath attending a conference and, if so, at whose behest? Kirby was keen to point out that the purpose behind such questioning was to ‘get all the facts into true perspective’. Furthermore, Kirby wrote that it seemed ‘surprising’ that the Corps Commander would be absent from his post at such a ‘critical moment’ and that it would ‘be interesting to know what the real reasons were’.91 Percival replied, in this instance, the next day. He suggested that Kirby read the official reports and then directed him to read the relevant passages from his own publication, The War in Malaya.92 Sifting through such correspondence took time, and Percival was only one of several dozen correspondents.93 Although such thorough research enabled Kirby to give a fuller perspective and a far more accurate narrative than Churchill, there were other obstacles that he had to overcome: waiting for, and then engaging with, the official histories of other countries; voluminous correspondence with the key participants of the war in the Far East; conforming to Churchill’s terms for quoting from his papers; having to have his work vetted by men such as Pownall (who had been a key member of Churchill’s syndicate) and, above all, the fact that his narrative, no matter how full and comprehensive, had to compete with Churchill’s version which had already gained a significant hold over the public consciousness. Anticipating the production of other countries’ official histories also acted as a brake on Kirby’s efforts. In another communiqué with Percival, for instance, Kirby was well aware that there had been a wish to avoid ‘strife between ourselves and Australia’, so, instead of circulating the draft volume which dealt with the Malayan campaign, the consensus had been to wait until the Australian official history had been published so the versions could be compared. Kirby was well aware that he (representing the official histories) and Percival did not ‘see quite eye to eye’ on various matters, but he nonetheless anticipated that Percival would still make his views known to him.94 Kirby had to deal with voluminous correspondence, widely varying points of view and experiences, fading memories, personal biases and outside pressures. He wrote that as the volume was deemed contemporary history, he was ‘quite unable to tell half the awful truth’, such as ‘how

230  Cat Wilson even in the threat of invasion conflicting personalities were allowed to interfere with the security of the vital strategical points in the Far East’.95 Adding to the forces affecting the volumes which narrated the war against Japan was the growing concern over the exact conditions pertaining to the use of Churchill’s minutes. Kirby sifted through the first volume and found only seven quotations from Churchill (five of which had been published in his memoirs). For the sixth and seventh instances, Kirby proposed to ‘quote the whole telegram’ and ‘paraphrase the quotation’ respectively.96 The first volume of Kirby’s official history was not published until 1957. The official histories had set out to be ‘readable’, and the depth and scope of Kirby’s knowledge and research was (and still is) breathtaking – but it could not compete with the readability or reputation of Churchill and his Second World War.97 Churchill never claimed that his was the definitive version of the history of the war, and ironically, the longer his narrative remained unchallenged (that is to say the longer the official histories were delayed), the less obstructive he needed to be because his narrative had become the accepted perspective. Although Churchill’s six-volume narrative did not exist in a vacuum, it was the only memoir to span the entire war and remained unrivalled.98 As far as the Indian Army’s contribution to the Second World War was concerned, Churchill’s version of history was secure until at least the early 1980s.99

Conclusion In one of his many philosophical moments, Churchill wrote that ‘words are the only things that last forever’.100 Undoubtedly his memoirs remain a source of inestimable value – not as an historical narrative but rather as a lens through which Churchill himself can be viewed and examined. His skilful wielding of a pen manipulated history, in this instance, at the expense of the Indian Army, so that he could mythologize the wartime history of the Anglo-American ‘special relationship’ and not reveal how volatile it had been – especially over the issue of Indian independence and the reconquest of Burma. Prasad, Bhargava and Khera published the official history of the Indian Army in 1958 (reasonably soon after Churchill’s version), but its accuracy and style was hardly discernible above Churchill’s more powerful and verbose effort.101 Things are, however, changing, as the original eight volumes of the official history of the Indian Armed Forces in the Second World War were recently republished. A new generation will be more able to see

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  231 how the Indian Army participated in the 1940 campaigns in Europe; how some took part in the evacuation at Dunkirk and just how bloody the battles for Monte Cassino actually were. India is reclaiming its military history; a history which has to confront and account for the existence of the Indian National Army, the machinations of the nationalist movement, and the still staggering thought that the largest volunteer army ever amassed fought on behalf of others for a freedom which they themselves did not have. This complex historical narrative needs to be placed within the wider frame of the Second World War because despite its complexity, the Indian Tiger had struck, it had killed, and it had triumphed.102 Not just in Burma, but in North Africa, in Italy, in Eritrea and Ethiopia, Greece and the Middle East. The wartime history was there for Churchill to include, and expand upon – he chose not to. Those who knew Churchill well, encouraged each other to discuss the Indian Army and its achievements with him in the hope that he might give some form of acknowledgement. In May 1945, Leo Amery wrote that he hoped Churchill would have a talk with Claude Auchinleck so that he could ‘learn from him something of the real efficiency behind the front line of the Indian Army’.103 Amery’s remark illustrates how Churchill had clearly not changed his outdated, imperialistic and disdainful regard for the Indian Army by the end of the Second World War. When it came to writing his memoirs, and the pivotal role the Indian Army played in the reconquest of Burma resurfaced, it became one more issue that Churchill glossed over. He made it clear in his preface to Closing the Ring – the volume which dealt with the reconquest of Burma – that he had ‘found it necessary . . . to practise compression and selection in an increasing degree’.104 The advent of Indian (as well as Burmese) independence may have contributed to his snubbing of the Indian Army’s achievements, but Churchill wrote his memoirs to aid his return to Downing Street and to secure Britain’s ability to enter the Cold War as one of the main players. He could not do this without pandering to wartime, as well as contemporary, American sensibilities. In doing so, he neglected how India provided the largest volunteer force ever mustered; how it was thrust into an imperial war which was not of its making; how the Indian Army developed an unerring ability to learn quickly from its mistakes, and arguably become the most successful army, in arguably the most difficult terrain. Churchill’s obsession with India, and his post-war contemporary concerns of appeasing American opinion, affected his portrayal of the Indian Army’s role in the Second World War, which, until recently, at least in historiographical terms, remained in the shadows.

232  Cat Wilson

Notes 1 For quotes reproduced from the speeches, works and writings of Winston S. Churchill: Reproduced with the permission of Curtis Brown, London, on behalf of The Estate of Winston S. Churchill. © The Estate of Winston S. Churchill. 2 Winston S. Churchill, The Second World War, vols. 1–6 (London: Cassell, 1948–52). 3 Raymond A. Callahan, ‘The Leader as Imperialist: Churchill and the King’s Other Army’, Finest Hour, vol. 158 (2013), p. 25. 4 The term ‘Indian Army’ refers to the British-Indian Army stationed in India which comprised of British officers, Indian rank and file and Indian Viceroy Commissioned Officers (VCOs). The term ‘sepoy’ comes from the Persian term sipahi (soldier), and was used to describe the Indian rank and file. It was later replaced by (or became interchangeable with) the term jawan (an Indian private). 5 The exception to this statement is, of course, the Indian National Army which (according to British military intelligence) numbered of 23,266. 6 General Sir Mosley Mayne, ‘The Indian Fighting Services in the War’, talk delivered on 21 February 1945 at the Royal United Services Institute, London, Journal of the Royal United Services Institution, vol. 90, no. 559 (1945), p. 288. 7 Winston S. Churchill, My Early Life: A Roving Commission (London: Thornton Butterworth, 1930), p. 164. 8 Penderel Moon (ed.), Wavell: The Viceroy’s Journal (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 1974), p. 3. 9 Winston S. Churchill, The Second World War, vol. 3, The Grand Alliance (London: Cassell, 1950), Churchill to Chief of Staff Committee, 17 February 1941, Appendix C, p. 653. 10 The following works have been pivotal in bringing Churchill’s literary career to the fore: Peter Clarke, Mr Churchill’s Profession: The Statesman as Author and the Book That Defined the ‘Special Relationship’ (London: Bloomsbury, 2012); John Ramsden, Man of the Century: Winston Churchill and His Legend Since 1945 (London: HarperCollins, 2002); and David Reynolds, In Command of History: Churchill Fighting and Writing the Second World War (London: Allen Lane, 2004). 11 Winston S. Churchill, The Story of the Malakand Field Force: An Episode in Frontier War (London: Longman, 1898; Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1962), p. 34. 12 Ibid., p. 39. 13 Ibid., p. 55. 14 Churchill, My Early Life, p. 170. 15 Winston S. Churchill, Savrola: A Novel, a Tale of Revolution in Laurania (London; New York: Longmans Green, 1898); serialised in Macmillan’s Magazine May–December 1899. 16 Winston S. Churchill, Lord Randolph Churchill, vols. 1–2 (London: Macmillan, 1906). 17 Edward Porritt, ‘Review: “Lord Randolph Churchill” by Winston Spencer Churchill’, The American Historical Review, vol. 11, no. 3 (1906), p. 675. 18 John Lukacs, Churchill: Visionary, Statesman, Historian (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), p. 109.

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  233 19 Winston S. Churchill, The World Crisis, vols. 1–5 (London: Thornton Butterworth, 1923–1931). 20 As cited by Reynolds, In Command of History, p. 5. 21 Winston S. Churchill, Marlborough: His Life and Times, vols. I–IV (London: Harrap, 1933–1938). 22 Maurice Ashley, Churchill as Historian (London: Secker & Warburg, 1968), p. 138. 23 Morton J. Frisch, ‘The Intention of Churchill’s “Marlborough”’, Polity, vol. 12, no. 4 (1980), p. 562. 24 Ashley Jackson, Churchill (London: Quercus, 2011), p. 232. 25 The ‘Official History Programme’ was originally conceived so that lessons could be learnt from mistakes made during the Boer and Russo-Japanese wars. Following the outbreak of the Great War, however, the Committee of Imperial Defence (the government department assigned the responsibility of compiling the histories since 1906) decided that only wars in which Britain had participated would be produced by the small and recently created Historical Section. Some 50 volumes of official Great War history were eventually produced (although some were still being researched and published as the Second World War erupted), with the onus on military and naval history. The objectives of the official histories (split into four sections: military, civil, diplomatic and unified) were: ‘to record the course of the war as completely as possible for the benefit of posterity, and of the professional student’; to ‘record the organizations set up and found necessary (or unnecessary) for the various aspects of a war effort’; and to ‘educate public opinion in the meaning and conduct of war’. It was thought that the military histories should appear later than five years (but no later than seven years) after the end of the war so that a full analysis of prisoner of war accounts and enemy documents could either be incorporated or at least consulted. A 12-year limit for the production of the histories was introduced as it was thought that not only would the public have lost interest by then, but also because ‘memories fade and those who took part cannot give useful comments on the narrative’. The national Archives (also known as Public Record Office) TNA, CAB 103/150: Annexe 1, draft, p. 1, c. September 1941. See also TNA, CAB 103/151: ‘War Cabinet, Committee for the Control of Official Histories, Suggested outline plan for the Official Histories of the Present War’, 8 October 1941. 26 Winston S. Churchill, The Second World War: vol. 1, The Gathering Storm (London: Cassell, 1948), p. VII. 27 John H. Plumb, ‘The Historian’, in A. J. P. Taylor (ed.), Churchill: Four Faces (London: Allen Lane, 1969) p. 148. 28 Ibid., pp. 148–9. 29 Ibid., p. 149. 30 Churchill, The Gathering Storm, p. 5. 31 See Stephen P. Cohen, The Indian Army: Its Contribution to the Development of a Nation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971), especially pp. 68–76; Philip Mason, A Matter of Honour: An Account of the Indian Army, Its Officers and Men (London: Jonathan Cape, 1972), pp. 412–43; Hugh Tinker, ‘India in the First World War and After’, Journal of Contemporary History, vol. 3, no. 4 (October 1968), pp. 89–107;

234  Cat Wilson and Charles C. Trench, The Indian Army and the King’s Enemies, 1900– 1947 (London: Thames and Hudson, 1988), pp. 75–90. 32 See Gordon Corrigan, Sepoys in the Trenches: The Indian Corps on the Western Front, 1914–1915 (Stroud: Spellmount, 2006); David Kenyon, ‘The Indian Cavalry Divisions in Somme: 1916’, in Kaushik Roy (ed.), The Indian Army in the Two World Wars (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 33–62; and David E. Omissi, Indian Voices of the Great War: Soldiers’ Letters, 1914–18 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 1999). 33 See Clarke, Mr Churchill’s Profession (London: Bloomsbury, 2012), p. 144. 34 Cassell’s sold 221,000 copies of the first edition of Churchill’s The Gathering Storm, whereas in the United States, 530,000 copies had been sold by July 1951. Reynolds, In Command of History, pp. 136, 139. 35 Moon (ed.), Wavell, Wavell quoting Mountbatten, p. 3. 36 Churchill spent no more than 12 months in India as he interspersed his post with various sorties as a war correspondent (in Cuba, Egypt and the Sudan) and with several trips back to London. He resigned his commission in May 1899. Sarvepalli Gopal puts the total time Churchill spent in India at 10 months: Gopal, ‘Churchill and India’, in Robert Blake and Wm. Roger Louis (eds.), Churchill: A Major New Assessment of His Life in Peace and War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), p. 457. 37 Churchill, My Early Life, p. 164. 38 The languages spoken within Churchill’s cantonment would have been either Kannada or Tamil. A debt of gratitude is owed to Dr Chandar Sundaram for his corrections and guidance offered on the languages used within the Indian Army (especially those which would have been used in and around the cantonment in Bangalore). 39 Churchill, My Early Life, p. 164. 40 Winston S. Churchill, The Second World War, vol. 4, The Hinge of Fate (London: Cassell, 1951), p. 194. See also his justification to Roosevelt, 4 March 1942, pp. 185–6. 41 Churchill, The Hinge of Fate, p. 195. 42 See Sanjoy Bhattacharya, ‘British Military Information Management Techniques and the South Asian Soldier: Eastern India During the Second World War’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 34, no. 2 (2000), pp. 483–510; and Kaushik Roy, ‘Military Loyalty in the Colonial Context: A Case Study of the Indian Army During World War II’, Journal of Military History, vol. 73, no. 2 (2009), pp. 497–529. 43 Nicholas Mansergh and E. W. R. Lumby (eds.), The Transfer of Power 1942–7, vol. 4, The Bengal Famine and the New Viceroyalty, 15 June 1943–31 August 1944 (London: HMSO, 1973), Wavell to Amery, 2 November 1943, doc. 200. 44 Transfer of Power, vol. 4, Amery’s memo, 22 September 1943, doc. 133. 45 Lawrence James, Raj: The Making and Unmaking of British India (London: Little Brown & Company, 1997), p. 578. 46 Churchill has wrongly been demonized as the cause of the famine. The causes were the Japanese invasion and occupation of Burma, the subsequent cessation of Burmese imports of rice to India and the inability of local government officials to act upon the situation quickly enough, as well as localized and centralized stockpiling, and ever-increasing prices.

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  235 Churchill (and of course the War Cabinet) could have done far more to alleviate the horrific famine conditions. 47 Mason, A Matter of Honour, p. 513. The obvious exception to this statement is the Indian National Army. See Gajendra Singh, ‘‘‘Breaking the Chains with Which We Were Bound”’: The Interrogation Chamber, the Indian National Army and the Negation of Military Identities’, in Roy (ed.), The Indian Army in the Two World Wars, pp. 493–518. 48 Mason, A Matter of Honour, p. 509. 49 Roy, ‘Military Loyalty in the Colonial Context: A Case Study of the Indian Army During World War II’, pp. 528–9. 50 Another example of Churchill being disparaging towards so-called native troops reads: ‘The African Colonial divisions ought not surely to be called divisions at all. No one contemplates them standing in the line against a European army’. Churchill, The Grand Alliance, Churchill to Chief of Staff Committee, 17 February 1941, Appendix C, p. 653. This also shows his lack of knowledge as the West African Brigade contained some British troops. 51 Churchill, Grand Alliance, Churchill to Chief of Staff Committee, 17 February 1941, in Appendix C, p. 653. 52 Raymond Callahan, ‘Churchill and the Indian Army’, paper presented at ‘The Indian Army, 1939–1947’, Second Joint Imperial War Museum/ King’s College London Military History Conference, 9 May 2009. 53 ISMAY 2/3/196A: Pownall to Ismay, 23 January 1950, LHCMA, London. 54 A debt of gratitude is owed to Alan Jeffreys (Imperial War Museum) for his corrections and guidance on the varying differences (and at times subtle nuances) between the Commanding Officers. 55 Brian Bond (ed.), Chief of Staff: The Diaries of Lt.-General Sir Henry Pownall, vol. 2 (London: Leo Cooper, 1974), 20 December 1941, p. 66. 56 Mason, A Matter of Honour, p. 522. 57 Winston S. Churchill, The Second World War, vol. 5, Closing the Ring (London: Cassell, 1952), pp. 500–2. For details on Kohima and Imphal see, among others: Louis Allen, Burma: The Longest War 1941–45 (London: Dent & Sons Ltd, 1984); Leslie Edwards, Kohima, the Furthest Battle: The Story of the Japanese Invasion of India in 1944 and the ‘British-Indian Thermopylae’ (Stroud: History Press, 2009); Col. Michael Hickey, The Unforgettable Army: Slim’s XIVth Army in Burma (Tunbridge Wells: Spellmount, 1992); Robert Lyman, Japan’s Last Bid for Victory: The Invasion of India 1944 (Barnsley: Praetorian Press, 2011); and Daniel Marston, Phoenix from the Ashes: The Indian Army in the Burma Campaign (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2003). 58 Churchill, Closing the Ring, p. 501. 59 Ibid., p. 501. 60 Ibid., p. 503. The reference that Churchill made to this victory being ‘the first major British victory’ has two connotations. The first being that the Indian Army was in fact part of the army of the British Empire and therefore the defeat of the Japanese was effected by British agency. The second connotation was that being a British victory rather than an American-led victory which, to Churchill, proved far more important a point to score in the post-war world as it implied that he had been correct to defy American

236  Cat Wilson wartime demands and the implication was that Churchill was the man who would be able to do so again in the Cold War world. 61 Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper, Forgotten Armies: Britain’s Asian Empire and the War with Japan (London: Penguin, 2005), p. XXX. 62 ‘Review of the Year, 1942’, The Times, 2 January 1943. 63 Reynolds, In Command of History, pp. 402–3. 64 The phrase ‘defeat into victory’ is used constantly when referring to the Burma campaigns of 1941 to 1945, and finds its origins in Field Marshal Viscount Slim, Defeat into Victory (London: Cassell, 1956). 65 CCAC, CHUR 4/341/6: Letter in which Churchill relayed (to Pownall) Slim’s complaint and Churchill’s assurance and placatory response, 8 November 1952. 66 Churchill, The Grand Alliance, Churchill to Maharaja Jam Sahib of Nawanagar, 24 March 1941, Appendix C, p. 667. 67 Churchill, The Gathering Storm, Churchill to Second Sea Lord, 14 October 1939, Appendix II, p. 607. 68 CCAC, CHAR 4/401/18: Message from Churchill for the South East Asia Command Newspaper, 10 January 1944. 69 CCAC, CHUR 4/401/20: Churchill to De Gaulle, 4 February 1944; CCAC, CHUR 4/401/19: Churchill to National Farmers’ Union, 25 January 1944; and CCAC, CHUR 4/401/22: Churchill to the National Savings Committee, 20 March 1944. 70 Callahan, ‘Churchill and the Indian Army’, 9 May 2009. 71 CCAC, CHUR 4/253A/128: Kelly to Churchill annotated note, 30 May 1950. 72 ISMAY 2/3/271/2: Pownall to Mountbatten, 16 February 1951, LHCMA. 73 Churchill wrote that, in December 1941, he had ‘reacted so strongly and at such length’ when Roosevelt had first ‘discussed the Indian problem’ that ‘he never raised it verbally again’. Churchill, Hinge of Fate, p. 185. In a draft of the chapter ‘India: The Cripps Mission’, Churchill had originally written a rather less dramatic sentence: ‘The President had first discussed the Indian problem with me in general terms during my visit to Washington in December 1941’. The vehemence behind the final published version certainly gave the impression that Churchill was a man who would stand his ground even in the face of overwhelming opposition – a vital attribute to any international statesman who was operating within the Cold War era. 74 Upon his return to Britain, Churchill quickly emphasized that the Atlantic Charter did ‘not qualify in any way the various statements of policy which have been made from time to time about the development of constitutional government in India, Burma or other parts of the British Empire’. HC Deb, vol. 374, col. 68, Churchill, 9 September 1941. 75 Churchill, The Grand Alliance, p. 614. 76 CCAC, CHUR 4/25A/57: Churchill to Ismay, 15 November 1952. 77 Stuart Ball (ed.), Parliament and Politics in the Ages of Churchill and Attlee: The Headlam Diaries, 1935–1951, Camden 5th series, vol. 14 (London: Royal Historical Society, 1999), p. 419. 78 Douglas Ford, Britain’s Secret War Against Japan: 1937–1945 (London: Routledge, 2006), p. 2. 79 Ford, Britain’s Secret War Against Japan, 1937–1945, p. 2. See Francis H. Hinsley with E. E. Thomas, C. F. G. Ransom and R. C. Knight, British

Churchill, the Indian Army and The Second World War  237 Intelligence in the Second World War, vols. 1–2, Its Influence on Strategy and Operations (London: HMSO, 1979–1981); Hinsley with Thomas, Ransom and C. A. G. Simkins, British Intelligence in the Second World War, vol. 3, Parts 1 & 2, Its Influence on Strategy and Operations (London: HMSO, 1984–1988); Hinsley and Simkins, British Intelligence in the Second World War, vol. 4, Security and Counter-Intelligence (London: HMSO, 1990); and Michael Howard, British Intelligence in the Second World War, vol. 5, Strategic Deception (London: HMSO, 1990). 80 The one obvious exception to this rule was produced by the Military Histories Section: Major-General S. Woodburn Kirby, The War Against Japan, vols. 1–5 (London: HMSO, 1957–69). 81 Applying the search term ‘Indian Army’ into the Bibliography of British and Irish History database (date range of 1947–2000) produces 142 results: 57 articles within journals; nine chapters within edited books; 76 books. From 1947 until 1988, there was an average of two publications a year. Between 1989 and 2000, however, the average output increased to five a year. Perhaps it is coincidental, but just as Churchill’s political legacy was being unsentimentally tested by John Charmley, Churchill: The End of Glory, a Political Biography (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1993), the areas which his historical narrative neglected began to be examined more closely, for example, the history of the Indian Army (albeit not solely its role within the two world wars). 82 The term ‘official history’ is used to describe the government-sanctioned official histories of the war which were researched and written by a series of well-respected serving officers and historians under the editorial leadership of James R. M. Butler (knighted in 1958 for his contribution to the series). 83 Reynolds, In Command of History, p. 513; citing TNA, CAB 103/422: Churchill to Bridges, 17 July 1947. 84 TNA, CAB 140/68: Major-General Ian S. O Playfair to James R. M. Butler, 19 August 1955. 85 TNA, CAB 140/68: Brook to Acheson, 8 August 1955; TNA, CAB 140/68: James R. M. Butler to the official historians (Sir Charles Webster; Dr. Frankland, Captain Roskill, Mr Collier, Major Ellis, General Playfair, General Kirby, Mr Gwyer, Mr Passant, Mr Ehrman, and Professor Gibbs), 18 August 1955. 86 CCAC, CHUR 4/63A/34: Truman to Churchill, 20 May 1953. 87 TNA, CAB 140/68: Brook to Acheson, 8 August 1955. 88 TNA, CAB 140/68: Brook to Acheson, 8 August 1955. 89 TNA, CAB 140/68: Butler to the official historians, 18 August 1955. 90 Reynolds, In Command of History, p. 531. 91 TNA, CAB 101/150: Kirby to Percival, 18 June 1951. 92 TNA, CAB 101/150: Percival to Kirby, 19 June 1951. 93 For example see: TNA, CAB 101/157: Correspondence between Kirby and Lt-Col. J. Dow Sainter regarding the action of the 6/1st Punjab; TNA, CAB 101/159: Correspondence between Kirby and Air Chief Marshal Sir Robert Brooke-Popham; TNA, CAB 101/185: Correspondence between Kirby and Slim. 94 TNA, CAB 101/150: Kirby to Percival, 14 June 1954. 95 TNA, CAB 101/150: Kirby to Butler, 14 January 1955.

238  Cat Wilson 96 TNA, CAB 140/68: Kirby to Butler, 23 August 1955. 97 TNA, CAB 103/150: Annexe 1, draft, p. 1, c. September 1941. 98 The only other possible rival to Churchill’s historical narrative (written from a personal and top-down perspective) would have been by Anthony Eden, but his memoirs were neither fully researched nor written until the late 1950s and early 1960s. Reynolds remarked that by the time his memoirs were published, Eden would have realized that he had already lost ‘the battle for history’ to Churchill and his syndicate. Reynolds, In Command of History, p. 512. 99 While some works (now considered to be pivotal texts) discussed the contribution the Indian Army had made to the Second World War, such as Slim’s Defeat into Victory (1956), Cohen’s magisterial The Indian Army: Its Contribution to the Development of a Nation (Berkeley: University of California, 1971) and later Callahan’s Burma: 1942–1945 (London: Davis-Poynter, 1978), it was not until the mid-1980s that the Indian Army was being included in the general historical narrative. Works such as Mason’s A Matter of Honour (1986) and Farwell’s Armies of the Raj: From the Great Indian Mutiny to Independence, 1885–1947 (London: Viking, 1989) sparked the Western interest in the Indian Army and led to Trench’s, The Indian Army and the King’s Enemies (1998), and David Killingray and David Omissi’s, Guardians of Empire: The Armed Forces of the Colonial Powers, c. 1700–1964 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999). 100 CCAC, CHAR 8/614/141: ‘The Union of the English-Speaking Peoples’, Typescript Copy, written for the News of the World, published on 15 May 1938. 101 S. N. Prasad, K. D. Bhargava and P.N. Khera, The Reconquest of Burma, vol. 1 (Orient Longmans: Combined Inter-Services Historical Section (India & Pakistan), 1958). 102 Government of India, The Tiger Strikes: The Story of Indian Troops in North Africa and East Africa (London: HMSO, 1942); ibid., The Tiger Kills: The Story of British and Indian Troops with the 8th Army in North Africa (London: HMSO, 1944); ibid., The Tiger Triumphs: The Story of Three Great Divisions in Italy (London: HMSO, 1946). 103 CCAC, CHAR 20/195/80: Amery to Ismay, 8 May 1945. 104 Churchill, Closing the Ring, pp. ix–x.

10 War and Indian military institutions The emergence of the Indian Military Academy Vipul Dutta I The Indian Military Academy (IMA) was formally inaugurated in 1932. Together with its precursors in the form of preparatory schools and colleges, it provided the first formalized and institutional training for Indians who wanted to be ‘officers’ in the Indian Army. The Prince of Wales Royal Military College, one of these preparatory cadet schools, was established in 1922 in Dehradun as a feeder institution to Sandhurst, to which only 10 or fewer Indians were admitted each year and who received the King’s Commission which entitled them, in the words of an historian, ‘salutes from British as well as Indian soldiers’1 as opposed to the Viceroy’s Commissions which were a notch below the former. The issue of commissions, coupled with increasing demands for replacing British officers with Indians, provides the broad framework in which institutional spaces for training Indians came to be defined.2 The institutional architecture for training stretches back to the days when the East India Company (EIC), while gaining a firm foothold in India in the earlier decades of the nineteenth century, strove to officer its units on a more regular scale. The genealogy, as it were, of this stream of institutional innovation, which dotted the Indian landscape and evolving into more modern structures in the following century, started with the establishment of a cadet school on the lines of Woolwich, 15 miles from Calcutta (now Kolkata) at Barasat in 1802. Although shut down seven years later, it typified the later trajectories of academies, schools and centres that came to be established in its wake and suffered from similar, uneven phases of activity.3 Following the intensification of the nationalist movement in India and the conclusion of the First Round Table Conference in 1931, the proposed establishment of an Indian Training College on the lines of Sandhurst was one of the resolutions. The Indian Military College

240  Vipul Dutta Committee, as it came to be known, was then set up under the chairmanship of Field Marshal Philip Chetwode. In the 1930s when the IMA was being set up, it was largely seen as a measure intended to placate nationalist sentiment in India. Only nine years later, however, its importance was felt acutely when Indian men and materiel were exported from India to Europe for deployment in the Second World War. The IMA’s courses were shortened to increase recruitment and an unprecedented expansion of the institution took place. The establishment of the IMA in 1932, two decades after the First World War, marked an important step towards Indianization of the army. It stood as a symbol of progression of colonial policy, highlighting its initial reluctance in awarding commissions to Indians to finally agreeing to set up the infrastructure that granted them. This chapter attempts to interrogate the processes of nationalization and Indianization of the army through studying the emergence of the IMA in 1932. Through analyses of multiple snapshots of its early years of functioning, it is intended to bring into focus the finer nuances of the efforts at first Indianizing, and then later nationalizing this academy, much of it unexplored in the historiography that exists on the subject today. From initial attempts at recruitment through competitive examinations to later controversies relating to the position of Anglo-Indian candidates, the academy found itself dealing with vital issues of class, race, prestige and identity, a microcosm of the larger domain it inhabited at this time. Known as the ‘Indian Sandhurst’, a rather suggestive moniker for an edifice seen mainly as an end point to the protracted legislative campaign which preceded its establishment, the IMA on a closer look helps to frame more cogently, the terms of the debates on Indianization and is a touchstone for measuring the relative strength of opinions and forms of support which shaped its initial growth and character. Much of the scholarship on the academy can be classified as a subset of the sizeable body of work on the Indian Army that has been produced in the past decades. Apart from a ‘demi-official’ history4 and another by M. P. Singh,5 a significant textual source for the IMA is gleaned from memoirs and archival records comprising official and private papers, and newspapers. Although the subject of the nationalization and Indianization of the Indian Army is by no means devoid of historical scrutiny, it is the relatively unimaginative and staid approaches that have attempted to chart the field. One symptom of this lack of vitality has been the absence of a critical study of the above two processes in a sharper context. Chandar Sundaram6 provides the

War and Indian military institutions 241 breakthrough in devising a newer approach by focusing on institutions which inhabited the nebulous space between policy and practice. His work on the Indianization of the Imperial Cadet Corps (ICC) unpacks larger concepts, hitherto studied in their broad outlines to reveal a more nuanced picture of the ways in which Indianization operated in all its complexities. This chapter, through bridging a gap in the existing literature on the subject, intends to portray the history of the IMA as a distinct but connected story to the mainstream debates on nationalization and Indianization that took place at that time. It is precisely because the emergence of Indian academies is an inescapable reality that it becomes imperative to look how closely it was shaped and in turn fed into the governmental policy that operated in the period. The results merit attention. The acceptance of the need to have an ‘Indian’ Sandhurst was a triumph for the nationalists, but it also laid the path clear for thinking the future contours of an army that was to take shape in the coming years for the political arrangement in India veered towards selfgovernment. The academy occupied a pivotal position in the by-lanes of history and war itself. The years between the First and the Second World Wars re-calibrated the military links which the colonies shared with Britain. The transition from trench warfare to combined operations and the increasing professionalization of the armed forces during this time called for an intensively trained force. Those recruited in South Asia ranged from agriculturalists to medical professionals. This variegated posse of men was representative of the same block of people for whom the nationalists were striving to secure better terms of service. Commissions apart, a major portion of deliberations on the fate of the Indian military personnel from 1920s onwards was concerned with issues relating to demobilization, Indianization, training and securing their careers by providing means of livelihood for their children in the same service. The emergence of the academy was seen as the solution to the above issues and was partly the outcome of the wave of professionalization that had swept the military architecture of the Raj as a result of previous conflicts in which Britain found itself. This wave had swept the shores of India often enough, from the first signs of the emergence of a band of military men under the EIC, to Lord ­Kitchener’s reforms in early twentieth century, it had now brought ashore the idea that a space on the lines of Sandhurst could and should be conceived which would enable the formation of a force that could be on par with the forces of Britain and the Dominions, both quantitatively and qualitatively. Of course, like all littoral

242  Vipul Dutta zones, the space of the academy and its initial years of functioning had a complex ecology of its own. The setting up of the academy thus became part of the larger canvas wherein wide and determined brushstrokes of economic and political policies were attempted to be applied. Ranging from discussions on the post-war economy to politico-constitutional changes as heralded by the Government of India Act of 1935, the decades from the 1920s to 1940s were a watershed for India and the attendant military arming, recruitment and mobilization caused the state to ‘penetrate more deeply than ever before into Indian society’.7 The years between the two world wars, apart from the general military mobilization they brought in their wake, are momentous because they help illuminate the pathways along which colonial policies towards India moved. The interwar years saw the Raj in an accommodative posture in relation to India. While scaling back its defence commitments after the First World War (and not anticipating the second), India was now to be made more responsible towards her own defence. This attitudinal shift brought to the fore many issues to the table. A credible defence architecture would comprise a well-trained, Indianized force that could man the frontiers in the face of reduction of British troops. An Indian force needed to be led by commissioned officers, and commissioned officers’ numbers had to be increased significantly to sustain this machine in the subcontinent. While commissions earned through Sandhurst were too small in number to enable enough Indian officers in the organization, the emergence of the IMA in 1932 sought to complete the equation on many levels. As an ‘Indian’ Sandhurst, it would award commissions to Indians in sufficient numbers so as to keep the nationalization and Indianization plans on a firm footing. An academy in India would also be seen as a visual proof of Britain’s commitment to India’s realization of self-government that could placate the nationalist sentiment in India and critics of imperialism back home. Of course, this equation became complex with the outbreak of the Second World War, when an infusion of men from Britain, coupled with increased recruitments from India under a wide-ranging panoply of services and terms of enlistment, complicated the picture and made the task of subsequent demobilization painful. Not to mention the constitutional wrangling of the 1940s which, leading to partition, replaced, albeit temporarily, the primary goals of nationalization and Indianization with those of dissection and division of military assets. While the academy functioned continuously during the war years, churning out cadets in tune with the fluctuating demands, it was the years leading up to and during the conflict that the IMA was able to decisively

War and Indian military institutions 243 negotiate for space and ‘legitimacy’ in India.8 The multiplicity of courses of varying lengths turned the IMA virtually into a ‘factory’ of sorts. Although it created flashpoints for future conflicts relating to commissions and demobilization of several cadets trained in these courses and who felt short-changed by the refusal of the authorities to keep their alleged promises of ensuring continued service after the war, the site of the academy as a place for joint training of British and Indian cadets drawn from various backgrounds and levels of education lent it a certain degree of gravitas it was struggling to acquire in its initial years. The efforts to impart the academy with a national tone remained a cornerstone of the policies of this period. As an establishment conceived for Indians desirous of becoming officers in an ‘Indian’ Army, the initial years of IMA’s functioning didn’t quite acquire the ‘national’ status it was supposed to be imbibed with. The continued obsession in some quarters with Sandhurst and Woolwich and the disdain attached to Indian commissions suggested a sour fruition for the IMA in its early years of functioning. Preceded by a hectic phase of lobbying by colonial, nationalist and Indian princely states, the emergence of the IMA was seen to be symptomatic of the larger narrative of the period where in the wake of the gradual transfer of power to India, it was only natural for her to develop her own institutions through which self-rule would be effected. However, with the academy firmly in place, its initial years were anything but smooth. The inauguration itself, seen in several sections of the historiography of the Indian Army of this period, sees it as the telos of the struggle for Indianization and nationalization – a milestone. However, in what complex ways did nationalization develop within the confines of the academy has evaded scrutiny. The dynamics of nationalization and Indianization of the army take on a more complex meaning when seen through the prism of its training institutions. The rigmarole of running a regular officers training academy, its examination procedures, monitoring outcomes, assessing cadets and the administration in the initial years of the IMA point to a narrative which is less inevitable and more variegated than has been recognized. It questions the neatness with which Indianization and nationalization has often been discussed about. It brings into life the academy itself which has often been seen on the margins of this great debate which saw the IMA only as an object of a campaign, a prize, and not as a site which embodied the essence of that struggle. If more Indians were to be seen in the army, it was to happen organically through the academy, and while a considerable amount of attention has been given to its birth (and its subsequent memorialization), little of it has ventured beyond and into its functioning.

244  Vipul Dutta By the late 1930s, concerns regarding the standards obtained by recruits at the IMA were acute. In a report tabled in 1936, it was noted that since IMA’s inauguration, ‘8 out of 114 competitive cadets (those who entered upon passing an examination) had been removed as unsatisfactory, whereas 19 out of 121 Indian Army cadets (nominated from within the ranks) were below the mark’.9 While the result itself wasn’t too disappointing, it was the overall shortfall in the number of capable cadets filling the seats since the academy’s inception which created the stir. Added to this was the fierce pitch of nationalist rhetoric which cried for seat expansion at a time when, according to government’s reports, the existing full complement at the IMA was being difficult to train due to various quality issues. Concerns relating to the ‘type’ of cadets, their backgrounds and scholastic performance increasingly complicated the picture, and the authorities in charge of the IMA found themselves at odds with discussions in the Legislative Assembly that saw the government as dithering over the issue. To address the problem about the results of the intake, the government offered a two-point solution. It was decided to increase the staff of the three King Georges’ Royal Indian Military Schools by the addition of Warrant Officers of the Army Educational Corps and by increasing the capacity of the Kitchener College (sister institution of the Prince of Wales Royal Military College and located at Nowgong in erstwhile Central Provinces) to ‘concentrate at it all candidates for Indian Army Cadetships for a special course of two years’ training . . . the selection of Indian Army cadets for Dehra Dun would be made annually from those passing out from Nowgong’.10 Feeder Colleges to the IMA were now the focus of the government’s attention (itself a transition from the previous indifference to these colleges which resulted in their closure after the First World War) and were to be treated on par with regular degree colleges by means of focusing on imparting a sound general education fortified with knowledge that was to see them through the entrance examinations in the academy. Following this government directive, Indian Military Schools in Ajmer, Jhelum and Jalandhar were to be revived and avenues opened for their cadets to acquire the kind of education which would enable them to gain entry to not only the IMA but other regular universities.11 The emphasis on a balanced, all-round education required an efficient instructional staff which until the 1920s was not forthcoming and the high costs of education at these colleges ensured only the affluent class sent their wards to study which lent an elitist air to these colleges. Also by the late 1930s it had become quite clear that ‘as far as entry to the Academy is concerned . . . sons of ex-Indian officers

War and Indian military institutions 245 and youths of the martial classes have succeeded at clearing the exam only if they have gone through the Prince of Wales College’.12 With the onset of the system of competitive examinations, the term ‘martial races’ appeared as a relic of faulty colonial policy. Based on privilege, patronage and an exclusivist system of recruitment, it now came to be seen as an obstruction to the larger plan of developing institutions that were to be run on a pan-India scale. Also, the experiences of the two world wars and the astonishing surge of recruitment that they brought along put paid to perceptions relating to fighting abilities on the basis of class or caste (or both). The expansion of the feeder colleges, their reconfiguration along the lines of regular degree colleges and their outreach were based on the rising belief in the importance of sound training for an effective army. It also reflected what C. J. Dewey called, when writing about the institutional changes in the Indian Civil Service (ICS), the ‘element of institutional obsolescence and replacement’ which became ‘familiar at least in outline: the movement from patronage to competitive examination, from Haileybury to the crammers and Oxbridge’.13 The establishment of the IMA had awakened the possibility of such an ‘institutional replacement’ of the obsolete architecture on which it stood. Changes in the feeder colleges apart, the staff at these colleges also came under attack when it was reported that ‘a number of junior British officers who had not passed the Staff College examination were holding staff appointments in these colleges.’ Pressure to replace ‘costlier British instructors with Indians’ were accompanied with demands to have more Indians admitted to the Staff College at Quetta and given staff appointments. The demand for Indian staff officers and other functionaries within these colleges became another of the multiple rallying cries of the nationalists in the Legislative Assembly. Thus, the IMA comes across as a centre point for not just the institutionalization of training within its confines but also for the development of other institutions which were a part of this matrix of training spaces and were interconnected to each other through vital links of financial, social, military and human resources.

II Military institutions in India were as much a product of the experiences of the world wars and nationalist campaigns for greater ‘Indianization’ as they were agents of military professionalism and modernization. The institutionalization of military training in the subcontinent thus reflects much more than just the professionalization of military

246  Vipul Dutta pedagogy. This institutional growth curve becomes even more apparent in the post-independence years, where ‘newer’ protocols of recruitment supplemented by governmental backing resulted in another wave of proposals which sought to widen the ambit of these academies, imbibing them with a reformative spirit not quite dissimilar to the one which sought to refashion the feeder colleges a few years ago. However, the changed political landscape after 1947 did not automatically result in a consensus on every issue. While post-independence governance in India gave credence to revised systems of recruitment that encouraged enlistment from areas beyond the urban centres, it shied away from recruiting men from former militant organizations like the Indian National Army (INA) and gave cold shoulder to the Indian Emergency Commissioned Officers (ECOs) who had willingly offered themselves for service to an eager IMA which needed men to keep itself running just a decade ago. Freshly minted Indian academies in the late 1940s and 1950s, like the National Defence Academy (NDA, inaugurated in 1949) including prior ones like the IMA, appeared to be desirous of starting anew after independence. This meant an overhaul of recruitment practices resulting in the brushing aside of candidates or soldiers who were previously enlisted in other armed outfits, chief among them being the INA. Indeed, the associational linkages with revolutionary outfits and the disdain attached to it went back to the days of the Second World War, and the alleged ‘treachery’ on the part of the INA against Allied war effort, however, fears and suspicions about such individuals joining the army percolated down to the independence years as well. Anxious pleas from some families allowed some candidates to be taken onboard, while others were summarily ignored. By 1934, with the academy in place, candidatures such as that of a certain Mr Sachindranath Sen were considered for entry only after clearing him of all charges of ‘sedition’ and ‘association with a revolutionary Bengali outfit’ through prolonged enquiries into his past.14 While the controversy threatened to scotch Sen’s (who was otherwise working as an engineer in Bath) chances of becoming an officer, Whitehall was also quick to point out to the Indian government that ‘while a taint of sedition was undesirable . . . on the other hand recruits are not too easy to get, and it is important not to lose such a promising candidate if it can be avoided’.15 Perceptions regarding class, backgrounds and race ran deep in official thinking and surprisingly infiltrated even the post-independence years with regard to military thinking. While the onset of war in 1939 and the subsequent mobilization helped upset the existing balance and

War and Indian military institutions 247 highlighted the contingent nature of categories over which colonial understanding of India stood, it was in this larger flux of identities and material changes that the IMA took shape. The academy appeared on the horizon, when concerns regarding ‘Indian’ and ‘foreign’ reached a crescendo in Indian political discourse. The establishment of the IMA was seen as the most visible and tangible result of colonial policy, as a site for Indian cadets to train and earn commissions in a regular army, which after years of foggy policy directives had given rise to an irregular network of training structures which limited the number of opportunities that could come in the way of Indians. The need to ‘fix’ the IMA’s status as a ‘national’ institution during a time when ideological boundaries were blurred even further than they were before was a veritable challenge for the Raj. Efforts to organize consensus and bolster the academy’s precarious position in its early years brought forth several fissures in the Legislative Assembly that lay underneath the broad cushion of support that was being offered to the IMA. Delegates from the princely states, vociferous in their support for an ‘Indian Sandhurst’ (and credible indeed, if financial contribution and endowments were any criteria for assessing emerging institutions), faltered in their other significant commitments to the IMA. The steady reduction in the numbers coming in from the states, coupled with the preference for commissions earned at British institutions, was, in no small measure, responsible in post-marking IMA’s identity as a lesser institution in many eyes and was seen as a space meant solely for former ranks to climb higher up. The indifference of the state forces and the quality of many state cadets who did attend the IMA portended serious security issues for the states as well as the British. A deficiency in skilled officers meant that the State Forces administered by the princes under British tutelage and intended to provide a counterbalance to the ‘Indian Army’ would languish. Since the cadets from the State Forces earned commissions into their local formations, it was essential for the government to see them coming in greater numbers. However, by the mid-1930s, the whole scheme of ‘affording greater support’ than was given before the First World War to the Indian State Forces, initiated in 1921 as a practical sign of ‘policy of trust . . . (had) broken down owing to the inability or unwillingness of the Darbars to maintain efficiency in the units’.16 The chief reason for sending underperforming states’ cadets to the IMA, according to the Political Department, was that the princes and chiefs themselves had ‘failed conspicuously to set an example by sending their own sons to Dehra Dun in favour of an English education and training’.17 Asserting that abject class bias and

248  Vipul Dutta racial prejudices forbade many princes to ‘associate with the type of British India cadets admitted to Dehra Dun, particularly from the Indian Army ranks’, the document’s stark conclusion noted that in fact, ‘social distinctions seem to be taken much more seriously by Indians than in modern England and particularly so by the Indian states’.18 As a solution, it was proposed to refuse recommending the sons of minor princes for Woolwich or Sandhurst ‘unless their dynastic salute is of the highest and their personal qualifications exceptional’ and to persuade their sons to go to Dehradun instead of to England. Efforts to convince the princes to revert to the IMA continued long after the 1932 Regulations forbade Indians from attending the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst. Measures were also put in place to make the education of states’ cadets at Dehradun, one of the conditions of obtaining increased grants of free equipment to State Forces, but its implementation is worth questioning. At another level, the poor showing of the Indian State Forces’ cadets at the IMA posed the risk of eroding the viability of the academy in the eyes of both the British and the Indians. In regular reports on the ‘General quality of the IMA Cadets’ published at the end of each term, the states’ cadets performance appeared well behind others. The figures submitted with the report showed their numbers in 1934 to be half their stipulated complement, with 26 out of 50 places taken up aside from the princely states; initial returns from provinces showed no cadets from Bengal, Madras and small numbers from Bombay, which was an ‘interesting comment upon the contention of the Indian politician that all educated India is longing to obtain commissions in the army’.19 Contemporaneous legislative proceedings highlight the persistence with which the Indian states demanded representation at the IMA; however, within years of its establishment, it was clear that the princes regarded the IMA with indifference. This state of affairs unsettled the colonial authorities as it feared the spread of this ‘indifference to Indian politicians in British India and thus affect their views as regards the method and progress of Indianization of the regular Indian Army’.20 The accent was now on promoting ‘entry to the IMA as a privilege, and not a condescension as some rulers seem to think’ and so a substantial reduction of the number of vacancies allotted to the states’ cadets along with ‘stiffening up the entrance qualification still further’ – by imposing additional English-language tests – was proposed.

III The army in India (British force stationed in India, Indian Army and the Indian States Force) was a composition of a threefold division

War and Indian military institutions 249 comprising the Field Force and Covering Force, both of which were forces for frontier defence, and the Internal Security Troops, which were responsible for safeguarding internal security against frequent disturbances. Since the 1870s, the ‘British Army in India’ had been maintained by the Cardwell System which stipulated an equal number of troops to be maintained at home as those sent overseas so that ‘regular drafts from the former could replace the latter and periodically replace them on overseas service’.21 By withdrawing garrisons from self-governing colonies and reducing troop commitments in India, Britain hoped to signal that colonies were to be responsible for their own security and that any future engagements would demand a greater contribution from them. Whereas the ‘British Army in India’ was recruited and trained in Britain (and then during the 1930s increasingly at the IMA), the ‘Army in India’ was wholly supported by Indian taxes and was under the political control of the Government of India.22 During the interwar years much attention was given over to considering whether British troops in India were purely for the defence of the subcontinent or whether they could function as an imperial reserve within a wider remit. The constitution of the IMA was rooted in the principle of reduced expenditure and large-scale commitment to the defence of colonies such as India whereby an academy through its own recruits would continue to provide officers without having to station more British personnel in India. The idea, although consonant with the above policy, failed to fructify as hoped, since it was tied to ambiguous terms. The Defence Sub-Committee of the First Round Table Conference, which gave birth to the proposals that established the IMA, recommended the setting up of a training college at the earliest, but it did not prevent eligible Indian cadets for admission to Sandhurst, Woolwich and Cranwell.23 This initial ambiguity in the conception of an ‘Indian Training College’ – which was seen as an Indian training institution but by no means the sole institution for Indians – left the option of gaining higher forms of commissions for those who could go to England wide open. When princely scions, and quite a number of them, went to England to be educated and trained despite the presence of an Indian academy set up in response to many of their own states’ demands, they did so since no explicit regulations forbade them. Although conceptualized as a space where the ‘Indian Question’ could be resolved according to British authorities, the IMA was as much a cause for resentment among Indians as it was to Britain in later years. Questions of inclusion, assessment and commissions were the axes along which some major issues developed and embroiled all the stakeholders involved with the creation of the IMA.

250  Vipul Dutta In its early years, the IMA drew candidates through joint examinations in India and London. However, the idea of joint examinations did not deliver any parity to candidates or their chances of selection, if at all it was ever meant to. Where the Indian examination threw itself open to candidates from all over the country, the London examination was seen as an adjunctive exercise to the main examination in India. Whitehall made repeated demands to close down the London examination and thus to make travel to India a mandatory requirement for taking the examination.24 Notwithstanding the official reason that the London examination drew a smaller number of candidates and was thus disproportionately expensive, antipathy towards the examination went deeper. Whitehall saw the practice of examining candidates in the United Kingdom as a catalyst which would open the field not only to Indians and Anglo-Indians with British domicile, ‘but to all Indians and Anglo-Indians with extra-Asiatic domiciles who are British subjects . . . if the examination were to be abolished in the future and we had in the meantime made provision for the examination in this country of this sort of candidate, we might be . . . in an awkward position. For the candidates in question might then regard themselves as having a reserved right to be examined, and the Government of India might raise objections to opening the examination in India to this sort of candidate’.25 Opening the field of entry to candidates with non-Indian domiciles would have been troublesome in the wake of the limited number of vacancies in the IMA (which, despite ongoing debates about the quality of the intake, was unable to provide seats for most cadets who took the entrance examination). A common pattern of entrance test was itself problematic for the IMA and Public Service Commission authorities in India. The varying quality of IMA’s intake was worrying New Delhi enough to send memoranda to Britain seeking solutions to the problem as early as 1934. Educationally, there was a considerable gap between the ‘better competitive cadets who trained at feeder institutions like the Prince of Wales College and the worst Indian Army and Indian State Forces Cadets’.26 While severe competition existed among the open category cadets who entered the IMA via competitive examination, the reserved seats meant for cadets from the State Forces remained largely unfilled or taken up by those who were of a much lower standard than the others leading to an absence of a margin (or a suitable cut-off mark) for selection.27 But the problem of greater inclusion was not just India’s. Britain was equally uneasy at the prospect of granting entry to these candidates given their own financial burdens and, more significantly,

War and Indian military institutions 251 by allowing Anglo-Indians to train at Sandhurst/Woolwich, Britain would have had to open its gates to the princes, most of whom were clamouring to enter Sandhurst instead of Dehradun after 1932. Such a development would have rung hollow not only with the nationalists but would also have negated the tenuous trope of a ‘National Institution’ with which the IMA had come to be associated. Whitehall, though perhaps conscious of the unequal and disquieting terms on which recruitment into the Indian Army was being carried out as opposed to the ICS and the Police, was ‘careful not to rely on analogies from the ICS and IPS Exams to redress anomalies in the IMA exams’, since in the ‘ICS and the IPS there is no racial distinction as there is in the Indian Army now between British officers coming through Sandhurst and Indian officers coming through the IMA’. Whereas for the civil services, the latter’s London examination was the main test with the Indian examination as an ‘annex’, for the IMA, the examination in India was central and the London exam an ‘unimportant addition’.28 The case of the Anglo-Indians (both in India and abroad) provides a ringside view of the ways in which the IMA was seen as the progenitor of a ‘modern Indian Army’ while enabling Britain to cease granting commissions to them from their own institutions. The whole question of conducting joint examinations for the IMA hinged on the AngloIndians and where they could be accommodated. When the Government in India forwarded the radical proposal to scrap the London examination in order to focus solely on India, Whitehall argued that the Anglo-Indians represented an important source of recruitment for the Indian Army – their small numbers being outweighed by the high percentage of successes in the examinations. In addition to this, the department outlined the ‘obvious advantages of getting into the Indian Army as many boys as possible who have been educated at English schools. So long as that source exists, it seems desirable to use it’.29 While the joint examination system was seen as an avoidable task, the examinees, however, were seen in a different light which in turn made the organization of these joint examinations a necessary exercise. Aside from the practical difficulties of testing them on an Indian syllabus as taught in Indian schools, there were issues of how successful cadets would join the academy and who would bear their travel and living costs while they stayed in India.30 On a larger scale, the position of the Anglo-Indians raised important questions on the nature of the IMA and highlighted the careful re-calibration that was undertaken to define who was supposed to be entering its portals and in what number.

252  Vipul Dutta

IV The study of the emergence of the IMA is important at several levels. First, a more critical reading of sources already available give a more nuanced and detailed understanding of how the academy worked in the larger backdrop of the Indianization of the Indian Army’s officer corps. Focusing on the IMA in its early years gives a more complex understanding of ‘Indianization’ and ‘nationalization’ which have hitherto been discussed in more generalized terms. The object of this chapter is to bring into notice the vagaries, complexities and perhaps even unintended consequences of setting up training academies like the IMA and even the army, during a time when talk of having more Indians into the organization resulted not just in the obvious consequences of more Indians but also called into question the very ideas and structures that came to be associated with what is now known as the ‘Indianization debate’. Second, it is vital to see the emergence of the IMA as a product of interwar policies and politics. Indeed, after the outbreak of the Second World War, the British Army had ceased to grant permanent commissions to cadets other than those training at Sandhurst and Woolwich. Thus, the IMA rescinded its promise of granting permanent commissions as the number of officers, British and Indian, which would be required after the war could not be foreseen.31 The mere presence of a subordinate ‘Indian Sandhurst’ did not fix the institution’s identity in clear terms. Despite formal Indian Army Regulations of 1932 which forbade entry of Indians to Sandhurst, cadets continued to aspire and sit for examinations to Sandhurst and Woolwich (Woolwich remained a lynchpin for Indian hopes because it offered training in Signals and Artillery, which the IMA did not impart till the 1940s). Chief among them were sons of princely rulers (who were invariably nominated), Anglo-Indians and British subjects of ‘Asian descent’ who coveted the ‘King’s Commission’ more than the ‘Viceroy’s Commission’ that the IMA awarded until independence. The issue of commissions by itself was not controversial given the fact that all cadets from the dominions joined their local forces after Sandhurst, but the War Office was conscious of the fact that a ‘Viceroy’s Commission in India meant quite different from what a GovernorGeneral’s Commission means in a Dominion which was run by a Governor-General’ and that this new type of officer from the IMA was ‘proposed to be used to replace VCOs’. The differing nature of commissions and the powers of command attendant on them within different dominions was a cause of concern. The establishment of an Indian Sandhurst meant little when its local graduates were not on a par with

War and Indian military institutions 253 their counterparts in Canada or when some of their own countrymen were serving with a higher form of commission at a higher salary and with equal powers of command. Several accounts on the Indian military either start or end with a mention of the IMA as a single moment which symbolized the long struggle over Indianization. What the institution itself stood for and the vision behind its establishment is drowned in the welter of nationalist euphoria and colonial self-congratulation in being able to finally deliver an ‘Indian Sandhurst’. It does not help either to have scant scholarship on the late 1940s that looks at the question of decolonization and even less which documents the history case the military in this period. Anirudh Deshpande’s socio-political account of the colonial Indian military organization skilfully attempts to locate British military policy in the context of decolonization, albeit ‘selectively and hypothetically’,32 but it is imperative to see the 1940s in the larger context of decolonization because it could help explain the contours of British military policy in India at this time more effectively. It can hardly be contested that a more cogent explanation is called for to explain the shift in the attitudes of Whitehall which gave ascent to the establishment of IMA – something which could not be done at the time of the First World War. The interwar years were witness to a change in British strategic thinking on the role of India. After the mitigation of the ‘Russian threat’ in the 1920s, the notion steadily grew that India should contribute to the general defence of the British Empire in a more coherent and systematic way than in the previous century.33 However, India’s assuming a greater share of imperial commitments was dependent upon having a modernized and professional fighting force. The modernization and mechanization of the army at home rendered the army in India less amenable to be replaced with the home units who were being initiated into tank warfare while any further reductions in troop strength for service elsewhere made the government in New Delhi uneasy. This political climate, in which an increasingly restive India made things difficult for the British, lent urgency to the question of the size and cost of the British garrison in India. Tied down by the Second World War campaigns in Europe, North Africa and the upkeep of garrisons in Malta and Gibraltar, and now in South and South-East Asia, it was thus India’s potential contribution to imperial defence that came under renewed attention. The emergence of the IMA, thus, has to be seen against the backdrop of the interwar years in which the position of India changed dramatically. Envisaged as a training institution, the academy, I argue, was the product of colonial ingenuity which aimed

254  Vipul Dutta to bring India into the net of imperial defence, while at the same time granting an indigenous symbol of legitimation to Indian aspirations for self-rule. At this time, the IMA reflected the British need for an imperial reserve, while at the same time, its creation injected a degree of professionalization and modernization into the fabric of the Indian Army. It may have been a quid pro quo as levels of funding for Indian defence from the British government increased during the War,34 but it was this support which eventually created an institution that served as the blueprint for other instructional institutions to be set up. British colonial policy may have been self-serving as far as acquiring men and materiel for the war was concerned, but its effects were widespread and continues to be felt long after the war was over. This close analysis of the IMA aims to ‘reset’ our understanding of the ways in which Indianization and nationalization progressed. Its inauguration set off a series of manoeuvres which resulted in the crystallization of an active network of training spaces, some that had atrophied and some which were constructed afresh. In 1932 the ‘Indian Sandhurst’ captured the imagination of a people engaged in a struggle to have a more national and less colonial governmental footprint. However, the complexities of the early years of IMA pose a challenge to our understanding of the ways in which this footprint was to be achieved.

Notes 1 Anirudh Deshpande, British Military Policy in India: 1900–1945, Colonial Constraints and Declining Power (New Delhi: Manohar, 2005). 2 Indianization of the Indian Army, or at least its earliest mention, went back to the nineteenth century. However, its more modern avatars, as highlighted in the decades after 1920s, largely meant the increase in the number of Indians earning the King’s Commission and the replacement of the British officers in India by the former. Deshpande, while making this important observation, also remarks that it was the First World War which was responsible in creating a ‘historical potential’ for real nationalization. 3 Brigadier M. P. Singh, History of the Indian Military Academy (Chandigarh: Unistar, 2007). Singh’s account is useful in understanding the intricate matrix of training institutions which appeared momentarily until the establishment of a ‘seminary’ at Addiscombe by the Company in 1810 that operated for almost half a century until the early 1860s. Following Addiscombe came the more familiar Woolwich and Sandhurst which gradually took on greater responsibilities to train men meant for India and continued to do so until an ‘Indian Sandhurst’ appeared on the horizon as a more permanent measure. 4 B. P. N. Sinha, and Sunil Chandra, Valour and Wisdom: Genesis and Growth of the Indian Military Academy (Delhi: Oxford and IBH Publishing Company, 1992).

War and Indian military institutions 255 5 M. P. Singh, History of the Indian Military Academy. 6 Chandar Sundaram, ‘“Treated with Scant Attention”: The Imperial Cadet Corps, Indian Nobles, and Anglo-Indian Policy, 1897–1917,’ The Journal of Military History, vol. 77, no. 1 (January 2013), pp. 41–70. 7 Indivar Kamtekar, ‘A Different War Dance: State and Class in India, 1939–1945’, Past and Present, vol. 176, no. 1 (2002), pp. 187–221, has discussed the ‘differential impact’ the Second World War had on India. Eschewing the imperialist or nationalist frames of analysis, Kamtekar sheds light on how two different provinces – Punjab and Bengal – fared differently during the war on economic indices such as commodity prices and industrial output, thereby offering insights into the class composition and relations in the areas, itself a picture of non-homogenous pattern of development during the war in contrast to the general assumptions of nationalist and imperialist approaches. 8 Sinha and Chandra, Valour and Wisdom, p. 155. The onset of the Second World War in 1939 soon changed the ‘complexion of things’ in the words of the authors. The steady reduction in the lengths of the courses until 1941 resulted in a sharp increase in the number of commissioned cadets. From a total of over 500 cadets who passed out before the war since the academy’s inauguration to an astonishing 3,800 (both Indian and British) who were commissioned during the Second World War, this sixfold increase in the output played a key role in rooting the IMA on firmer ground. 9 Proposals for the improvement of the quality of Indian Army Cadets admitted to the Indian Military Academy, 20 March 1936. Tabled by Mr. Turnbull (Private Secretary to the Permanent Under-Secretary of State, India Office), File IOR/L/MIL/7/19155, India Office Records (IOR), British Library (BL), London. 10 Ibid. The original Scheme for Kitchener College was put into effect in 1928, when nine-month courses were imparted to train Viceroy’s Commissioned Officers. However, by 1931, the scheme was abolished on grounds of ‘economy’ and was seen as an ‘unnecessary extravagance’. 11 Situation Report from the Governor of Punjab, 31 July 1937, Memorandum prepared by Committee of Members of both houses of the Central Legislature, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19155, BL. A common grouse against IMA’s policy of expelling underperforming cadets (even at the advanced level of training) was that it hindered the cadet’s chances of getting a place at other universities because of the nature of training received at the academy which made ‘university education’ a completely different ball game. Efforts were made to make education at feeder colleges uniform enough for both avenues as opposed to previous instances when feeder colleges taught disciplines related largely to the military. 12 Ibid. 13 C. J. Dewey, ‘The Education of a Ruling Caste: The Indian Civil Service in the era of Competitive Examination’, The English Historical Review, vol. 88, no. 347 (April 1973), pp. 262–85. 14 Minute by Military Department, Whitehall, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19144, BL, London. 15 The context of the aforementioned incident bears a dual import – it highlights the suspicions that were cast on such individuals, but more

256  Vipul Dutta significantly, it also goes on to reflect the urgency with which candidates were sought for the fledgling institution and the readiness to water down seemingly ‘ossified’ perceptions. The onset of war five years later and the surge in recruitment from all quarters lent credence to the contingent nature of ‘identity’ and it helped undermine (but not obliterate) the fictitious conception of the ‘martial races’. 16 Minute by Political Department, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19145, BL, London. 17 Ibid. The minute mentions clearly the names of the likes of Raja of Sangli, whose two sons were at the Prince of Wales College, later withdrawn to be educated to England. The Maharaja of Rajpipla had secured entrance to Woolwich for his heir apparent as well. 18 Ibid. 19 File IOR/L/MIL/7/19145: 1934–1941, BL. 20 Ibid. 21 Brian Bond, British Military Policy Between the Two World Wars (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980), p. 99. The Cardwell Reforms were the brainchild of Edward Cardwell, Secretary of State for War, 1868–74, and were aimed at the reorganization of the British Army after the Crimean War (1853–56). The reforms were part of the larger strategy through which a sizeable expeditionary force could be formed during an emergency. Until the 1870s, a large proportion of the army was stationed abroad than at home including India. Moreover, once a unit was sent overseas, its subsequent postings from one garrison to the other meant a virtual exile for soldiers which not only reduced troop strength in Britain but also acted as a deterrent to recruitment. 22 Srinath Raghavan, ‘“Protecting the Raj: The Army in India and Internal Security”, c. 1919–1939’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, vol. 16, no. 3 (2005), pp. 253–79. The author makes a careful delineation of the terms ‘Army in India’, ‘British Army in India’ and ‘Indian Army’ which is useful to foreground the context in which debates for Indianization took place. This is because several contemporary estimates confound the question of army reform in the interwar years by using the terms interchangeably. Whereas the functions of these formations overlapped, the debates on Indianization were largely related to the non-representative character of the British Army in India. On the other hand during and after the Second World War the discourse of the debate shifted to address the bias with which IMA graduates were asked to serve in the Indian Army replacing former Viceroy’s Commissioned Officers, while Indian graduates from Sandhurst served on an equal footing in the British Army in India with a King’s Commission in hand. 23 Excerpts from the Parliamentary Notice, Session 1933–34, Military Department, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19148, BL. 24 Letter from LW Homan to JA Simpson (Military Department, Whitehall), 3 December 1932, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19127, BL. 25 Ibid. 26 Letter from HI Macdonald, Army Department, New Delhi to SK Brown, Joint Secretary, Military Department, Whitehall, 1 March 1934, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19145, BL. 27 Ibid. Letter from Philip Mason, Under Secretary, Government of India to the Secretary, Military Department, India Office. The cadets from the

War and Indian military institutions 257 Indian State Forces were required to pass the same preliminary test as the Indian Army cadets – i.e. the Indian Army Special Certificate of Education with a satisfactory command over ‘colloquial English’. This meant there was little competition for State Forces Cadets and all those who acquired these certificates gained entry into the IMA. 28 Remarks by J. A. Simpson (Military Department, Whitehall) to L. W. Homan, 3 December 1932, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19127, BL. 29 Minute by the Defence Department, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19123, BL. 30 Letter from Deputy Secretary, Government of India, to Secretary Military Department, 4 April 1932, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19123, BL, London. The Government in India thought it was impossible to ‘expect a successful candidate from England to . . . reach India in time to join the Academy by 1st October. . . . It was for this reason they proposed . . . that candidates (from England) should be considered successful and admitted to the second term . . . and (should be) counted against the vacancies of that term’. Incidentally, this was the same system which operated in the case of the admission of Indian candidates to Sandhurst and Woolwich. 31 Press Note by the Defence Department, New Delhi, 21 November 1939, File IOR/L/MIL/7/19157, BL, London. Press Notes like the one mentioned were one among many which were issued at this time. Stopping short of promising a permanent commission, these notices held out the prospect of acquiring one, subject to proper recommendations. Whereas the issue of the nature of commission was kept aside (through the use of careful words), formal entry requirements remained the same (no fee was charged). The overall effect of this campaign was that while shortterm policies ran the IMA, cadets continued to train there through formal entrance procedures, giving the impression that normal practices of passing out would be maintained. 32 Deshpande, British Military Policy in India, 1900–1939, p. 187. 33 Bond, British Military Policy Between the Two World Wars, p. 102. According to the author, the whole period of the interwar years could be viewed in terms of the gradual reconciliation of these discordant views of the Indian Army’s priorities – traditional frontier defence or broader imperial commitments. 34 Ibid., p. 112. In December 1933 the British Government took the momentous decision to make an annual contribution of £1.5 million to Indian defence. A month later Lord Hailsham, Secretary of State for War, in effect asked the India office for a quid pro quo in the form of a division in India earmarked as an Imperial Reserve. Even though the Commander-in-Chief and Viceroy were opposed to it, by 1937 they had grown sympathetic towards the idea of creating an imperial reserve in India in view of the Japanese threat. Indian consent had a lot to do with finance: as the Viceroy put it bluntly, ‘You have the money – we have the men.’

11 ‘Home’ front Indian soldiers and civilians in Britain, 1939–45 Florian Stadtler

South Asian involvement in the early phase of the Second World War in Britain has received only scant attention. This lacuna is interesting for a number of reasons, not least since Britain is increasingly looking towards this subject matter as part of its own articulation of a diverse, multicultural nation. This has been particularly evident during the centenary commemorations of the First World War in 2014. For example, the British Library has made the Charles Hilton DeWitt Girdwood collection available online through the Europeana collections and its own online manuscripts portal.1 This series of photographs depicts Indian soldiers on the Western Front as well as in Britain. The BBC too has devoted much air time to the Indian role in the conflict, including the two-part television documentary ‘The World’s War: Forgotten Soldiers of Empire’ broadcast in August 2014, focusing on the troops from across the British Empire enlisted to fight.2 While the deployments of British Indian Army troops on the Western Front and elsewhere have been brought to much wider public attention, the same cannot be said of South Asian participation in the Second World War – the last BBC documentary, ‘Forgotten Volunteers’, part of the Corporation’s Timewatch series, dates back to June 1999 and focused in the main on East Asia and the Burma front.3 South Asian participation in the European theatre has received even less public attention. Nevertheless, in fictional form, perhaps one of the better-known representations of the South Asian Second World War soldier is Sapper Kirpal Singh, a key character in Michael Ondaatje’s Booker Prize–winning novel, The English Patient, played by the actor Naveen Andrews in the Oscar-winning movie of the novel.4 Singh is taken under the wing of Lord Suffolk, who teaches him how to defuse mines and booby traps. Posted in northern Italy, he forms a close bond with the Canadian nurse Hana, taking care of an English patient in a monastery. Andrea Levy’s novel Small Island also offers a different perspective on the Second World War by focusing on Royal Air Force pilots from

‘Home’ front 259 the Caribbean. As mentioned, a few BBC documentaries have detailed some of these soldiers’ stories but have not had a significant impact on public perception in Britain where the European theatre is considered to be largely a ‘white’ European war with Britain standing ‘alone’ to fight the might of Nazi imperialism. More recently, The Princess Spy (2006) explored the life of the Special Operations Executive wireless operator Noor Inayat Khan, who was infiltrated into France in 1944. Later captured in Paris, she was interrogated by the Gestapo and then executed in Dachau Concentration Camp. A memorial dedicated to her was inaugurated in 2013 and stands in London’s Gordon Square. Recent years have seen a wider process of retrospective commemoration, for example at the yearly service in June at the Chattri memorial on the South Downs near Brighton. This site was used during the First World War as a cremation ground for Sikh and Hindu soldiers who had died in special military hospitals on Britain’s southern coast. Ironically, the area was off limits during the Second World War and the Chattri Memorial was damaged because of target practice during army training in the area.5 The now-annual event has become a focal point for the commemoration of South Asian servicemen and women from different conflicts, including the Second World War. Particularly in relation to the period 1939–45, the preconception persists that Britain ‘stood alone’ as an embattled island left to fend for itself. For many this notion lies at the heart of the articulation of a resilient British character that remains central to the country’s understanding of nationhood. This chapter seeks to challenge some of these myths by focusing on the presence and participation of South Asians resident in Britain in the country’s efforts during the Second World War. Some contributed as combatants, some as civilians. These contributions raise wider questions about citizenship and divided loyalties, some of which were apparent to participants. Indeed, as India remained under colonial rule, despite an accelerated campaign for selfgovernment and independence, many South Asians in Britain committed themselves only reluctantly with a main focus on work in civil defence rather than active military service, which caused a rift among South Asian activists and campaigners. My interest in these narratives stems from a series of images and radio programmes from the BBC’s Indian Section of the Eastern Service, which are reproduced in George Orwell’s 1943 collection, Talking to India.6 One image features a group of South Asian soldiers standing around a BBC microphone and is accompanied by the caption, ‘Hello Punjab – A soldier of the Indian contingent broadcasting to his family in India from a B.B.C. studio’.7 Images of broadcasting Indian

260  Florian Stadtler soldiers as part of wartime propaganda featured in many publications, including the magazines London Calling: BBC Empire Broadcasting and Indian Information, published fortnightly by the Government of India, which became a widely used tool during the war to shape public opinion among the English-speaking public in India. Both of these publications offer a useful indication of the manifold theatres of operation as well as the scale of South Asian involvement in and contribution to Britain’s war effort. They also feature reflective glimpses of how South Asians resident in Britain engaged with the wartime reality. Orwell’s collection is particularly revealing in this regard. For example, in the broadcast for the Indian Section of the BBC’s Empire Service ‘Open Letter to a Nazi’, R. R. Desai directly addresses a character called Hans, whom he had met in London before the war. The talk reflects on the nature of fascism, its relation to wider considerations of freedom and democracy and why it needs to be resisted. In this respect, the broadcast offered a didactic, well-structured argument to the English-speaking Indian listener in an attempt to shape an intellectual elite’s opinion to counter propaganda, particularly the broadcasts by Subhas Chandra Bose from Berlin on Azad Hind Radio. This was of much concern to India Office, War Office and BBC officials.8 Importantly, the choice of speaker and writer was seen as crucial – this programme was written by an Indian in London for an English-speaking Indian audience in British India. The programme was commissioned by Zulfikar Ali Bokhari and was broadcast on 13 August 1942 and belonged to a wider series of ‘Open Letters’.9 Desai formed part of a larger cohort of Indian broadcasters and script writers employed by the BBC. Many of these were left-leaning intellectuals, some involved with pressure groups in London for Indian independence. As is well known, George Orwell worked as a talks producer alongside Programme Director Zulfikar Ali Bokhari at the Indian Section of the BBC’s Eastern Service, which formed part of the corporation’s Overseas Service. While the majority of the Eastern Service’s output was in Indian languages, necessitating a diversity of regional language speakers to be employed by the BBC, including in Bengali, Gujarati, Marathi and Tamil, 45 minutes slots per day were set aside for broadcasts in English for Indian audiences. Notable South Asian broadcasters working for the BBC in English include the writers Ahmed Ali and Mulk Raj Anand; zoologist and cultural critic Cedric Dover; musician, writer and broadcaster Narayana Menon, who was responsible for musical programming; novelist Venu Chitale and political activist Krishnarao Shelvankar, among others. Many of these broadcasters had links to the Indian independence movement

‘Home’ front 261 with connections to Krishna Menon’s London-based pressure group, the India League. Many were also involved in civil defence work, particularly as ARP wardens. Orwell described the Indian Section’s English output as ‘honest propaganda’, though whether propaganda can ever be ‘honest’ is of course a matter for debate.10 Nevertheless, these samples of radio programmes produced by a London-based South Asian team of writers and broadcasters for a South Asian audience in British India are an important snapshot of how South Asians resident in Britain during the war responded to and engaged with their metropolitan environment. As such, they offer a unique view of the conflict. Charged with broadcasting propaganda to India after Britain’s declaration of war on behalf of India and the Empire without prior consultation of Indian leaders, Whitehall officials and ministers in the India Office and War Office sought to impress on the Indian population more broadly and, more specifically on an educated English-speaking elite, not just the gravity of the situation but also the importance of India’s support for the British war effort. This became particularly pressing when Subhas Chandra Bose started to broadcast anti-British propaganda to India from Berlin in 1942. The Indian Section of the Overseas Service was founded in May 1940 as a direct response to Nazi Germany’s attempt to exploit the nationalist grievances regarding the manner in which India was perceived lacking of public support for Britain’s war effort. Such public perception in Britain was of course in sharp contrast to the pledges of monetary and moral support of the princely states. The Indian Section was charged with bolstering and shoring up Indian public opinion, and it fell largely to Orwell and Bokhari to recruit a range of South Asian writers and broadcasters who would write and record programmes for broadcast. This process was not easy, given that many had to reconcile their left-leaning politics and support for Indian independence with producing propaganda broadcasts, and such negotiations of their own conscience provided plenty of conflict while working for the BBC. Susheila Nasta has charted this in its minutiae in her analysis of the friendship between George Orwell and Mulk Raj Anand.11 Orwell and Bokhari were able to assemble a wide range of South Asian public intellectuals whose views on Indian independence were well known. Why then did they agree to join the BBC and help generate what was in effect British propaganda to be broadcast to India’s educated middle-class radio listenership? This can in part be attributed to the antifascist activism with which many of the Indian intellectuals recruited to work for the Indian Section had aligned themselves. Indeed, this

262  Florian Stadtler was not far removed from the position of the Krishna Menon–led India League, which aligned its campaign for Indian self-determination with the anti-fascist fight for freedom and democracy.12 In terms of programming at the BBC, Anand’s collaboration with Orwell, who was initially hired as talks assistant, was significant and their collaboration shaped particularly the Arts output of the Indian Section. However, Anand needed much persuasion to join. Anand had previously rejected working for the BBC and it was Orwell who convinced him to change his mind.13 As Susheila Nasta points out, though Anand had severe reservations about a British government that was committed to fight fascism in Europe while restricting freedoms in India and resisting its demand for self-rule, ‘Anand’s divided perspective shifted significantly after Hitler’s invasion of Russia.’14 Anand’s contribution to the BBC offers an interesting snapshot of the multifaceted nature of these writers’ work. His output was not limited to art; he also wrote radio broadcasts which engaged directly with the reality of wartime Britain. He is responsible for a series of programmes which reveal an important glimpse of 1940s London life, evoking a city under siege and internalized by a perceptive novelist observer who had made the city his home for the previous 20 years. The result was the programme ‘London as I see it’, first broadcast on 14 February 1945 and recently reprinted in the literary magazine Wasafiri.15 Anand describes a Blitz-ravished London, contemplating its ‘scarred face’ as he walks through it. Anand had previously been involved with several other broadcasts which sought to showcase the atmosphere and deprivations of Britain in wartime to a wider Indian audience.16 Anand celebrates the spirit of London, highlighting how ‘heroism is not always so heroic as the attempt by men to adapt themselves to their surroundings during times when the odds are against them’.17 He commends the resilience of Londoners while highlighting how, in the face of adversity, the city had undergone not just dramatic changes to its skyline but also in character. Anand gestures to the wider picture. He argues that through its experience of intense bombardment the city had now become aligned with other cities under siege – Leningrad, Moscow, Chungking and Calcutta. He concludes that ‘one must cultivate certain virtues if one is to build up what has been destroyed, manhood, patience, courage, sensibility and poise’.18 Anand’s perspective is distinctly international and he adopts the position of the outsider to relay to his Indian listener a personal experience, yet he manages to bring this knowledge to a different audience by highlighting a universal resilience in adversity. In this instance we can make connections to the ambivalent way in which Indian soldiers

‘Home’ front 263 and non-combatants in Britain connected and related to their own wartime work and experience. The situation for South Asians living in Britain differed. While there was resistance towards conscription into the British Army, many who were members of the pressure group the India League, including its secretary V. K. Krishna Menon, contributed to the war effort as Air Raid Precaution (ARP) wardens and in other areas of civil defence. South Asians resident in Britain were involved not only in a singleissue campaign for Indian independence in Britain but, more importantly, took up a range of issues concerning social justice and equality. For example, Krishna Menon worked as a lawyer as well as a Labour Councillor for the Borough of St Pancras. According to his biographer, T. J. S. George, for Menon the Second World War required a dual approach. Menon saw himself as having a local duty to St Pancras and as being responsible for providing the necessary leadership to his constituents. As Rozina Visram points out, Menon served with two others on a reduced team of the council.19 He also acted as an air-raid warden and was instrumental in moving a motion in the council to improve the safety and working conditions in air-raid shelters and posts for attendants. While he apparently conducted his war work with great rigour and courage, his campaigning activities for Indian independence in London did not stall. Menon and the India League used the debate around the fight against fascism and for freedom to bolster the call for Indian self-determination. Indeed, India Office Records suggest clearly the larger question at stake for India’s participation in the war: ‘Would Great Britain have an unwilling India dragged into a war, or a willing ally cooperating with her in the prosecution of and the defence of true democracy? Congress support would mean the greatest moral asset.’20 An article in the Colonial Information Bulletin, published in London on 18 September 1939, further elaborates this point. It clearly outlines that the pledges of support by Indian princes and rajas are not a true reflection of public opinion of the Indian people and stresses again that ‘India has always been opposed to Nazism and the policy of Munich betrayals’.21 But what is reiterated in the article, which the India Office assumes is written by Menon, is that India’s right to self-determination and treatment with equality is paramount. In this respect he argues that the Indian position is two-pronged – on the one hand struggling for the right of the country to manage its own affairs and on the other fighting against Nazism. As mentioned, in his role as councillor Menon participated in airraid precaution work, yet he took a different stance on the issue of conscription and joining the army in Britain. When asked by an Indian

264  Florian Stadtler student about the question of enlistment, he responded, according to a report, that ‘each individual must be guided by his own conscience.’22 But, he would not join. Chuni Lal Katial and Menon were contemporaries, working in local politics in London as well as being part of the India League. Katial was a close friend of Gandhi’s and a staunch supporter of the Indian independence movement. He held long-standing Gandhian principles of selfless service to humanity, reflected in his medical work and the setting up of the Finsbury Health Centre. Katial settled in Britain in 1927 and, as a trained doctor, opened a practice in London’s East End in 1929. Katial involved himself in local politics and was elected to Finsbury borough council in 1934. He also served as deputy mayor and later as mayor of Finsbury. As a council member he worked tirelessly for the borough as chairman of the Air Raid Precautions Medical Service and Food Control Committee. He was also a first aid medical officer.23 In an oral history interview he recalls a meeting with Lady Mountbatten at Birla House after he returned to India in 1947: She looked at me and said, ‘we meet at funny places.’ I said, ‘Yes, we do.’ She was the Colonel Commandant of the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade in London during the Second World War and she used to come to Finsbury, which was my borough, my constituency, of which I was the Mayor, in the evening to see civil defence arrangements and shelters. Then we would meet and walk over and have a drink together in the Mayor’s Parlour.24 The meeting with Edwina Mountbatten is striking and highlights the multifaceted nature of his work. Important to note here is his wider commitment, like Krishna Menon, to work for greater equality and social justice at both local and international levels. South Asians were present on the home front, which is well documented in propaganda pamphlets of the time, yet in the post-war process of memorialization their contribution has been marginalized and has largely remained unrecognized. As previously highlighted, South Asians volunteered in civil defence, as Air Raid Precaution wardens (Sudhindranath Ghose in Ealing, Krishna Menon in Camden, C. L. Katial in Finsbury) or ambulance workers. For instance, a group of Indians formed and manned the auxiliary ambulance station in Augustus Street, St Pancras, London. This station was set up at the suggestion of Dorai Ross. Its personnel was drawn mainly from the Indian community in London, and it was known as Auxiliary Ambulance Station 50 (Indian Section). The unit included some 100 women and

‘Home’ front 265 men who were from a range of professional backgrounds, including doctors and barristers.25 Another example is the Indian Comforts Fund which was inaugurated in December 1939 by the Dowager Viscountess Chelmsford. It was a registered war charity approved by the Admiralty, War Office and Air Ministry to provide for the war needs of Indian troops in Europe and lascar seamen, who were often stranded for long periods of time in Britain as sea routes became increasingly disrupted. During the war years, an estimated 30,000 Indian seamen arrived in British ports annually. The Fund’s operations were centred at India House, Aldwych, where the Indian High Commissioner had offered muchneeded space as a depot and accommodation for the working parties, including the food parcel packing centre. The Fund was run by British and Indian women and took responsibility for the welfare of Indian soldiers as well as sailors of the Merchant and Indian navies. By 1945 the Fund packed over 1.6 million food parcels to be despatched to prisoner of war (POW) camps in Europe.26 It also organized knitting parties to supply warm clothing to Indian sailors stranded in Britain and POWs in the camps in Germany and Italy. At its peak, there were some 100,000 knitters across the country, with one of the largest groups in Oxford numbering some 400, who the Fund supplied with wool and whose work it oversaw. This enabled the packing and dispatch of over 75,400 parcels with warm clothing. In 1941, the Indian Comforts Fund estimated there were some 2,300 Indian POWs in Europe, 550 of which were seamen. The Fund packed food parcels for them, which were paid for by the Indian Red Cross.27 The Indian contingent, too, was cared for by the Indian Comforts Fund, with the present of garments as well as support for the weekly leave parties, which were accommodated at the mosque in Woking.28 As an entirely voluntary organization, the Indian Comforts Fund worked in close cooperation with the Indian Red Cross and St John’s Ambulance Service. The Fund was officially next of kin for all Indian POWs and civilian internees in Europe. This enabled it to provide the quarterly next-of-kin parcels which included clothing, toothbrush, toothpaste, razors and shaving soap, washing soap, pencils, combs, bootlaces as well as other essentials. It coordinated the packing of food parcels, which were regularly shipped to the International Red Cross in Geneva, from where they would be sent on to the internment camps. The work of the Fund reached its peak in 1943 when the number of Indian internees in Europe had risen to 14,000. The parcels contained Indian staples including dhal (pulse), curry

266  Florian Stadtler powder, ghee (clarified butter), atta (wheat flour) and rice to the same calorific value of those for British soldiers. In Britain, the charity also supported the entertainment of Indian troops and seamen, providing gifts such as gramophone records, books and sporting equipment. The Fund organized weekly leave parties for Indian soldiers to visit London and introduced a visiting scheme for hospitalized servicemen. The Fund’s workload grew exponentially through the war years until it was wound up at the end of 1945. The Indian Comforts Fund highlights especially the way in which Indian soldiers, seamen and civilians engaged in the war effort were supported by the organization. It also serves as an example how people across divisions of class and gender participated in this charitable work for an organization which commanded support across political lines. The early South Asian contribution to the war effort in Britain was largely shaped by a resident civilian population, but was bolstered in 1940 by the arrival of three animal transport companies of the Royal Indian Army Service Corps which had seen action in France and were evacuated in June 1940. Their role has now been largely forgotten. Known in Britain at the time as the Indian contingent, its personnel worked on the home front and featured heavily in wartime propaganda. One such example is a radio interview between the commander of the Indian contingent, Lieutenant Colonel Reginald Hills, Mohamed Akbar Khan of the Royal Indian Army Service Corps and an unnamed newly arrived Indian Flying Officer who served with the Royal Air Force.29 These men were among the first British Indian Army troops to participate in military action in the Second World War. Their story can be pieced together through archival holdings at several UK and Indian repositories, including the National Archives of India, the Imperial War Museum, National Archives, Kew and the India Office Records at the British Library. Propaganda materials in Britain and India, including Orwell’s collection of BBC talks and illustrated photographs, referred to these troops only as ‘the Indian contingent’. This designation followed as the original name of the force from India in December 1939 on despatch, K6, had led to difficulties in recognizing it in Britain.30 The Times reported the arrival of Indian units in France in December 1939. The newspaper saw it as an example of Indian contributions to the war effort and a statement of Indian opposition to Nazism: ‘for even those with a political grievance against Great Britain are as convinced as are the people of this country that existing German policy and methods must be eliminated if the human family is to live in harmony and progress.’31 It is clear that this is of course part of a wider propaganda

‘Home’ front 267 campaign designed to underscore that the British Empire was united in its fight against fascism and Nazi Germany’s aggression. The article, then, must be read as an example of how this early deployment was instrumentalized in Britain to showcase Indian support for Britain’s war effort, which was severely doubted given the fallout from the widely reported adverse response of Congress leaders to the Viceroy Linlithgow’s declaration of war on behalf of India without consultation of India’s political parties. Indeed this was a contravention of any pledges made previously by the Viceroy and the Government of India that no Indian troops should be moved out of India without the Central Legislature being informed. Dissatisfaction was compounded by knowledge of the fact that the British government had consulted all other dominions of the Empire before the joint declaration of war on behalf of Britain and its Empire had been made. The situation had been woefully mishandled by the British government and the Government of India. Previously, the country had been able to rely on large-scale Indian support during the First World War, with some 1.4 million South Asian combatants and non-combatants fighting for the Empire.32 Even M. K. Gandhi, then in London, submitted a petition to the India Office pledging support from the Indian community in Britain and led the establishment of the Indian Field Ambulance Corps.33 The year 1914 was invoked in many propaganda publications of the 1940s, highlighting the unprecedented deployment of Indian troops in Europe and wider Indian support for the British war effort.34 However, in the wake of 1918, when many promises for greater autonomy for India had ended in disappointment and consequently a movement pushing for full independence was fully underway, the outbreak of war in Europe in 1939 and any potential involvement from India proved a much more challenging situation to handle. Thus, the Government of India and India Office officials were working hard to prevent the fallout from becoming a total public relations debacle. On 28 September 1939, Lord Hailey published an article in the BBC magazine The Listener outlining the many ways in which India would support the British war effort. Hailey, too, focuses initially on Indian contributions to the First World War. He arrives at the conclusion that the First World War played a significant part in awakening a political consciousness in India and in generating an increased awareness of the geopolitical position of the country in world affairs. He maintains that the 1935 Government of India Act ‘demand[s] that we should respect to the full the position of its elected representatives, but we have everything to gain if we can carry them with us’.35 Hailey stresses

268  Florian Stadtler the importance of bringing together a consensus on civil and military activity as the bedrock of any colonial war effort. Hailey offers a relatively balanced interpretation of the Congress point of view, explaining clearly its anti-fascist stance as well as its demand for a clearer position on any future autonomous status of India. Nevertheless, his article obscures the fact that the Imperial Government’s unilateral declaration of war led to the resignation of Congress ministers and reluctance to support the war effort. After its evacuation from France during June 1940, the Indian contingent was headquartered at Shirley Common, Derbyshire. In the late summer of 1940 it was decided to concentrate the contingent in Southern Command with only one company as an animal transport company and to mechanize the remainder for its future role.36 This is an interesting decision, considering that the British Army requested Animal Transport Companies from the British Indian Army precisely because Britain had mechanized its own transport companies after the First World War. Indeed, Hills recommended that, in the light of recent operations, animal transport companies should be retained as they had ways of accessing and overcoming terrain where transport infrastructure had been destroyed; particularly in areas where mechanized transport was precluded, animal transport became a necessity. It is also seen as more economical for short hauls and for close work with advance troops, as was the case in the Saar area.37 Official records contain conflicting information about the Indian contingent, its position and its ongoing deployment in the United Kingdom. Formed at the request of the War Office in October 1939, the Indian contingent was constituted out of four animal transport companies consisting of 16 troops with support units to administer and maintain them.38 They were seconded from the British Indian Army’s Royal Indian Army Service Corps (RIASC) to provide logistical transport support for formations in the British Expeditionary Force sent to France in 1939. In addition to mule transport companies, other units were mobilized so that it would be self-contained. They were evacuated at Dunkirk and other ports in Northern France and stationed in Britain until the end of 1943 and featured in much publicity during their time in Britain. On initial dispatch, the contingent numbered approximately 1,800 personnel and 1,950 animals. In May 1941, the contingent increased by three mule companies was partly mechanized and also received arms training. The Indian Army Lists of 1942 included the companies which had been stationed in Europe.39 By early 1942, the contingent was placed under the command of the Commander in

‘Home’ front 269 Chief of the Home Forces and subsequently moved to Scottish Command for operational training together with the 52nd (Light) Division.40 By that time the contingent had grown to approximately 3,400 men responsible for 3,400 animals. While seconded to Southern Command, where they helped with sea defences, they were also regarded as useful to provide publicity to highlight to an embattled Britain that the Empire supported the mother country in its hour of need. It is interesting to note here how little attention this early example of South Asian contributions to the war effort has received subsequently. While it needs to be acknowledged that the numbers were small by comparison with later large-scale deployments in northern Africa and the Middle East, archival evidence suggests that the contributions of these troops were highly valued at the time. A range of photographs, official publicity materials, letters and oral history interviews attest to their work. Although incomplete, the Indian contingent’s war diaries also survive. Why then has the contribution of these men remained so little known, despite their high visibility at the time? Was it because theirs was mainly a supporting role? Compared with a total of 2.5 million men the British Indian Army had mobilized by 1945, they constituted only 0.08 per cent of total South Asian military recruitments. Nevertheless, given the recent trend to memorialize and commemorate all manner of diverse wartime contributions, this lacuna seems striking and is only a further example of a lingering and ongoing public view that Britain ‘stood alone’ when this narrative is actually much more complex. One might also want to question contemporary public perceptions of Britain in the 1940s, which is represented as largely monocultural when in fact the population’s make-up is actually much more diverse than usually acknowledged.41 For example, Indians in London involved in civil defence, Indian lascar sailors as part of the Merchant Marine keeping supply lines open and the charitable organization the Indian Comforts Fund, based at India House, Aldwych, were testament to a settled South Asian community. Three crucial questions emerge here. Why have the contributions made by South Asians to the war effort in the Second World War remained little acknowledged? How could Britain’s collective memory of the Second World War today be expanded by making visible these archival holdings, and what impact might this have on how the South Asian community in Britain engages with what can be revealed as a shared history in which the entire population is mutually invested? How do we deal with the marginalized stories of these South Asians beyond tokenistic forms of cultural historical retrieval, and what

270  Florian Stadtler impact does this have on how the war is commemorated and how the legacy of Britain’s so-called Finest Hour is interpreted? In recent years there has been a slight shift in the prevalent narrative of Britain and the Second World War. In public discourse, the notion that she ‘stood alone’ is in the process of being reformulated. Perhaps this is a spill-over effect from similar efforts in relation to the First World War where the narratives are being refocused to include the contributions of soldiers from the former Empire in wider public debates. It is also a reflection of how history becomes a prism through which a contemporary reality is viewed and refracted, where such narratives become increasingly privileged to represent the culturally diverse present. Such processes are of course fraught with potential pitfalls of perhaps overemphasizing the importance of marginal stories. I want to return, however, to the Animal Transport Companies. When the Ministry of Defence (MOD) received an enquiry from the BBC journalist Anita Anand, then working for the Southall-based channel Zee TV in 2000, in relation to Paddy Ashdown’s father John, who was a captain with 32nd Animal Transport Company of the RIASC in France, the MOD replied that, after two days of searches in their archives, they were unable to find any record of Indian troops at Dunkirk.42 Shortly before the company’s evacuation, John Ashdown was reprimanded for threatening to disobey an order, which stipulated that he should abandon the Indian troops and their mules on the beaches in France. He refused and insisted on their evacuation along with all the other British troops. A very short note in the India Office files marginally alludes to the incident.43 The company was part of the Flanders withdrawal of units and arrived on the outskirts of Dunkirk. The unit embarked on 25 May and after arrival in Britain was despatched to Aldershot. The unit suffered one casualty; shipping for animals, equipment and supplies was impossible and orders were received to abandon these. 25th Company was also evacuated at Dunkirk on 29 May, and 29th Company, previously stationed in Le Mans, embarked at St Nazaire on 17 June. The rest of K6 was also evacuated. One exception was the 22nd Company, which was seconded to Saar Force for service on the Maginot Line and subsequently captured. From Aldershot, the evacuated contingent was then initially stationed in Glasgow, Doncaster and its headquarters established at Shirley Common, near Ashbourne in Derbyshire. Despite pleas by the Government of India for their return, it was subsequently decided to keep the contingent in Britain. They were employed in local defence, 25th and 32nd being allotted a sector of the Garrison defences and the 25th working with beach defence groups. The Indian contingent

‘Home’ front 271 was universally praised by its commanders for their admirable conduct and their discipline during the retreat and evacuation. However, as the units had not been armed and trained to shoot, they had been a liability during the chaotic evacuation from northern France and had to be moved away from danger. The retention of the units in Britain was driven by political considerations: ‘they should be employed in this country in as conspicuous a capacity as possible for political reasons. At a time when troops from all parts of the Empire are concentrated in this country for the defence of Britain, it is unfortunate that there are no fighting units of the Indian Army to take their full share. I suggest, however, that the fact of there being Indian troops present should be allowed to have full significance.’44 Furthermore, anecdotal evidence also suggests that the British public also appreciated their presence. Units were posted across the United Kingdom in the Midlands, Devon, North Wales and Scotland; leave parties made frequent trips to London, and their work was widely reported. Unlike South Asian soldiers during the First World War, the Indian contingent interacted fairly freely with the British public until their return to India in early 1944. Although a simple search of The Times or The Guardian archive would have provided a lot of evidence of their presence and activities, it seems the general lack of awareness of the contributions of South Asian troops in Europe in the early years of the war has erased their role in the early stages of hostilities from the official radar. The contemporary debates surrounding the British government’s treatment of the Gurkhas and their battle for citizenship rights in Britain are perhaps a further example of this, exemplifying how elisions in the historical narrative of the war influence how the social ‘value’, ‘impact’ and contribution of minority communities in relation to a common shared British history are perceived.45 Far from being excluded from this history, South Asians have an investment through their presence and important contribution to Britain’s war effort as soldiers, pilots, as part of civil defence, doctors, nurses and ambulance drivers. In this respect, this archival material offers a direct challenge to the manner in which the Second World War continues to be memorialized today. In the context of Britain’s own historical self-perception, this merits further scrutiny, in particular in relationship to the narratives of Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain, the Blitz and D-Day. Indeed, the role of Indian merchant mariners in the latter has been entirely forgotten. According to the timeline of the war published in the magazine Indian Information, 1,183 sailors took part in these operations.46 Many more

272  Florian Stadtler had helped to keep supply lines open, for example by sailing on Arctic convoys. Their role came to wider public attention when British prisoners of war were freed from the prison ship Altmark and returned to Britain.47 Another little-known aspect of South Asian participation in the war, which came to much wider public prominence thanks to the efforts of Mahinder Singh Pujji, is that of 18 Indian pilots who were selected to fly with the Royal Air Force (RAF) in September 1940. Trained at RAF Cranwell, these pilots would fly either bombers over Germany or sorties in fighter planes over the English Channel and Northern France. Due to a severe shortage, the RAF had advertised for pilots in Indian newspapers. Mahinder Singh Pujji applied and was one of 24 chosen to go on an intensive training course in Britain. In the end 18 successfully passed the test and six – Pujji among them – became fighter pilots, while the remainder flew bombers. Yet, hardly any history of the RAF mentions them. Furthermore, they were omitted during the inauguration of the Bomber Command Memorial in June 2012, while the stories of Czech, Polish, Caribbean and French pilots are much more widely publicized. In a personal interview in 2009, Mr Pujji suggests that initially he was unconcerned that there was no official recognition of the Indian pilots. For him, having won the Distinguished Flying Cross for his services was the official recognition for his work. However, when the commemorations for the 50th anniversary of the end of the Second World War occurred, Mr Pujji wrote a letter to the MOD challenging them as to why, as a veteran RAF pilot of the UK-based 43rd and 258th Squadrons, he had not been invited to the commemorations for Victory in Europe Day, although he had received an invite to the Victory in Japan Day celebrations, and why the other Indian pilots flying with the RAF at the time had not been mentioned.48 Pioneering historian of Asian Britain, Rozina Visram first highlighted his story in her schoolbook and he subsequently gave talks to children. This has generated more coverage of his story in recent years. A staunch campaigner, he also made interventions challenging the appropriation of symbols like the Spitfire by right-wing organizations such as the British National Party.49 Christopher Somerville’s extensive interview with Pujji is available at the Imperial War Museum Sound Archive, extracts of which are published in his book Our War: How the British Commonwealth Fought the Second World War (1998). Pujji published his biography For King and Another Country in 2010, just before his death. Yet, recognition at the public level of the contributions of South Asian airmen remains sparse.

‘Home’ front 273 The aforementioned case studies highlight the range and breadth of individual stories that have remained under the radar, despite being well documented by archival evidence. They point to the fraught process of the writing of colonial and military history. It highlights particularly how the historical presence and contribution of citizens from different ethnic backgrounds still do not feature productively in national stories. This lack of representation, despite archival documentation, is perhaps due to the fact that these material documents have not been accorded the retrospective significance they merit. It is only over the past 20 years that these materials relating to the Second World War have been revisited more systematically by archivists, curators and historians, and are brought to wider public attention. However, the process of reinserting these narratives into contemporary discussion about the Second World War is fraught and difficult as it counters received national discourses. The historian Michael-Rolph Trouillot offers some useful observations here. In Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (1995) he proposes that ‘history as social process, involves people in three distinct capacities: 1) as agents, or occupants of structural positions; 2) as actors in constant interface with a context; and 3) as subjects, that is, as voices aware of their vocality’.50 This segmentation of agents, actors and subjects has ramifications of how commemoration takes place in the present but also points towards the slippages that lead to absence and silence within historical discourses. This absence is premised on hegemonic discourses in the present day which privilege certain interpretative models and which reflect and confirm a national consciousness in relation to the Second World War, particularly the notion that Britain ‘stood alone’. This in turn has an effect on how historical events are memorialized in the present and how other historical narratives are obscured, however much material may be found in the archives. For Trouillot, ‘silences enter the process of historical production at four crucial moments: the moment of fact creation (the making of sources); the moment of assembly (the making of archives); the moment of fact retrieval (the making of narratives); and the moment of retrospective significance (the making of history in the final instance).’51 As Britain has become increasingly perceptive and aware of its own cultural diversity, the manner in which it remembers the Second World War, too, requires reframing. There is a need to return to the archive to continue the process of diversifying the contemporary historical narrative of the Second World War to account productively for the efforts of the citizens of Empire in the fight against fascism. A sociocultural

274  Florian Stadtler historical approach is therefore vitally important to reveal the interconnection between South Asian contributions in Britain to the Second World War as part of a wider national story. Such re-evaluation can occur only by an analysis that triangulates methodological approaches that engage in equal measure with archival evidence and military, social and imperial histories. In this way, such historiography might productively account for South Asian participation and contribution while also underlining the racism and prevailing inequality they experienced. There is undoubtedly a strong case to be made that this pivotal historical event, so often described as ‘Britain’s Finest Hour’, is part of a common shared history that unearths and reflects the complex relationship between South Asians and Britons across the decades. Acknowledgements: This chapter stems from the AHRC-funded research projects, ‘Making Britain: South Asian Visions of Home and Abroad, 1870–1950’ (Grant No. AH/E009859/1) and ‘Beyond the Frame: Indian British Connections’ (Grant No. AH/J003247/1), led by The Open University. I would like to acknowledge Rozina Visram who generously shared expertise and contacts and opened up her private archive and collection to me, as well as Susheila Nasta, who led both projects, for her expert guidance and support. Many thanks also to Ghee Bowman for sharing with me his knowledge of Force K6.

Notes 1 Record of the Indian Army in Europe During the First World War. Photographer: H. D. Girdwood, Photo 24, The British Library, St Pancras, UK. [accessed 8 July 2014]. 2 ‘The World’s War: Forgotten Soldiers of Empire’, British Broadcasting Corporation, 2014. 3 ‘Forgotten Volunteers’, Timewatch, British Broadcasting Corporation, 1998. 4 Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient (London: Bloomsbury, 2004). 5 ‘Indian Memorial Chattri at Brighton’, India Office Records, L/ MIL/7/19548, British Library, St Pancras, UK. 6 George Orwell, Talking to India: A Selection of English Language Broadcasts to India (London: Allen and Unwin, 1943). 7 Orwell, Talking to India. 8 ‘Criticism of BBC Broadcasts’, India Office Records, L/I/1/952, British Library, St Pancras, UK. ‘Files on Broadcasting and Propaganda,’ India Office Records, British Library, St Pancras, UK. 9 George Orwell, All Propaganda Is Lies, 1941–1942, Complete Works Series (London: Secker and Warburg, 2001), p. 406. 10 Orwell, Talking to India, p. 9. 11 Susheila Nasta, ‘Sealing a Friendship: George Orwell and Mulk Raj Anand at the BBC (1941–43)’, Wasafiri: International Contemporary Writing, vol. 26, no. 4 (2011), pp. 14–18.

‘Home’ front 275 12 Rozina Visram, Asians in Britain: 400 Years of History (London: Pluto, 2002), p. 330. 13 W. J. West (ed.), Orwell: The War Broadcasts (London: Duckworth and British Broadcasting Corporation, 1985), p. 15. 14 Nasta, ‘Sealing a Friendship’, p. 14. 15 Mulk Raj Anand, ‘London As I See It’, Wasafiri: International Contemporary Writing, vol. 26, no. 4 (2011), pp. 19–21. 16 West, Orwell, 194. 17 Anand, ‘London as I See It’, p. 21. 18 Anand, ‘London as I See It’, p. 21. 19 Visram, Asians in Britain, p. 331. 20 ‘Note on the Statement of the Indian National Congress in Regard to the War,’ London, 22 September 1939, p. 38, L/PJ/12/323, India Office Records, British Library, London, UK. 21 Extract from Colonial Information Bulletin dated 18.9.39, London, 18 September 1939, p. 42, L/PJ/12/323, India Office Records, British Library, London, UK. 22 ‘Special Branch Report 26/4/42: Emergency Conference organized by the India League at the Holborn Hall, Grays in Road, W.C.’, London, 26 April 1942, p. 27, L/PJ/12/454 India Office Records, British Library, London, UK. 23 Rozina Visram, ‘Katial, Chuni Lal (1898–1978)’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004) [accessed 29 July 2014]. 24 Hari Dev Sharmi and Dr C. L. Katial, ‘Oral History Interview with Chuni Lal Katial’, New Delhi, 17 June 1976, p. 25, List No. 128, Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, New Delhi, India. 25 Indian Information, vol. 9, no. 84 (1941), p. 503. 26 Indian Comforts Fund, War Record of the Indian Comforts Fund, December 1939 to December 1945 (London: Indian High Commission, 1946), p. 26. 27 Indian Comforts Fund Progress Report October 1941 to March 1942. London: India House Aldwych, 1942, p. 7, L/MIL/17/5/2372, India Office Records, British Library, London. 28 Indian Comforts Fund Progress Report, p. 7 29 R. W. W. Hills, Mohamed Akbar Khan and Sikh Flying Officer of the RAF, ‘In It Together: How the Peoples of India Unite in the Common Cause’, The Listener, vol. XXIV, no. 614 (1940), pp. 559–61. 30 From R. Hills Lieutenant Colonel, Commander, Indian Contingent to the QMG in India, Delhi, India. War Diaries Force K6. 30 September 1940, p. 84. L/WS/1/355. India Office Records, British Library, London. 31 ‘India and the War’, The Times, 29 December 1939, p. 7. 32 War Office, Statistics of the Military Effort of the British Empire During the Great War, 1914–1920 (London: His Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1922), p. 777. 33 M. K. Gandhi et al., Letter to Under Secretary, India Office, Whitehall, London, 14 August 1914, p. 1, Mss Eur F 170/8, British Library, London, UK. 34 George Dunbar, India at War: A Record and Review, 1939–40 (London: H. M. Stationary Office, 1940), pp. 4–5, 8. 35 Lord Hailey, ‘How India Will Help’, The Listener, vol. XXII, no. 559 (1939), p. 602.

276  Florian Stadtler 6 Hills to QMG, p. 84. 3 37 Hills to QMG, p. 86. 38 ‘Decypher Telegram from Government of India, Defence Department, to Secretary of State from India’, 1 November 1939, Movement of Troops: animal transport companies for France – Force K.3, 1939–1942, p. 407, L/WS/1/131, India Office Records, British Library, London, UK. 39 Defence Department, Government of India, The Indian Army List: January 1942 (New Delhi: Government of India Press, 1942), pp. 1791–882. 40 Reginald Hills, ‘Secret Memo: the Indian Contingent’, 29 August 1941, Movement of Troops: animal transport companies for France – Force K3, 1939–1942, p. 41, L/WS/1/131, India Office Records, British Library, London, UK. 41 See Visram, Asians in Britain. 42 Patrick Wintour, ‘Ashdown Tells How Father Stood by Indian Troops’, The Guardian Online (8 November 2000), [accessed 15 June 2010]. 43 Reginald Hills, ‘Secret Report on Operations in France’, n.d., pp. 103–4, L/WS/1/355, India Office Records, British Library, London, UK. 44 Alan Macpherson, ‘Report on a Visit to the R.I.A.S.C. Camp, Ashbourne (Derby) on 2nd July 1940’, Movement of Troops: animal transport companies for France – Force K.3, 1939–1942, p. 266, L/WS/1/131, India Office Records, British Library, London, UK. 45 For an interesting discussion of the subject, see Vron Ware, Military Migrants: Fighting for Your Country (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2012). 46 Indian Information (New Delhi: Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, 1 June 1945), p. 7. 47 Susheila Nasta and Florian Stadtler, Asian Britain: A Photographic History (London: Westbourne Press, 2013), pp. 137, 147. 48 Florian Stadtler and Rozina Visram, ‘Private Interview with Mahinder Singh Pujji’, Gravesend (18 February 2009). 49 Benedict Moore-Bridger, ‘Spitfire Is Not BNP’s to Use, Says Sikh Pilot Who Fought the Nazis’, Evening Standard, 23 November 2009, p. 28. 50 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 1995), p. 23 51 Trouillot, Silencing the Past, p. 26.

Index

The Abyssinian Difficulty: The Emperor Theodorus and the Magdala Campaign, 1867 – 68 (Bates) 31 Afghanistan 7 – 8, 23, 31, 64 – 81, 157 – 8; British invasion of 64 – 81 Afghanistan and the Defence of Empire: Diplomacy and Strategy during the Great Game (Wyatt) 31 The Afghan Way of War: Culture and Pragmatism–A Critical History (Johnson) 30 Agha, Sameetah 157 – 77 Air Officer Commanding (AOC) 191 Air Power and Colonial Control: The Royal Air Force, 1919 – 39 (Omissi) 35 Air Raid Precaution (ARP) 263 – 4 Alavi, Seema 26 Ali, Haidar 27 Allied war effort 190, 215, 218 Amery, Leo 231 Amherst, William 55 The Amritsar Massacre: The Untold Story of One Fateful Day (Lloyd) 34 amusement 92, 96 Anderson, H.A. 166 – 73 Anglo-Afghan War 31 Anglo-American relations 212, 219, 225 – 6,  230 Anglo-American wartime relations 212, 219, 225 – 6, 230 Anglo-Indian press 9 Anglo-Indians 114, 250 – 2; community 115

Anglo-Indian terrorism 120 The Anglo-Maratha Campaigns and the Contest for India: The Struggle for Control of the South Asian Military Economy (Cooper) 27 Anglo-Sikh alliance 79 Anglo-Sikh Wars 87, 96 Animal Transport Company 268, 270 anti-aircraft (AA) guns 187, 188, 191 anti-imperialism 10, 119 – 20, 124, 218, 226 anti-tank guns 192 – 3 Anti-Tank Regiment: 80th 194 armed troops 183, 185 – 8, 200, 205; British 109, 122, 163 – 4, 169, 200, 219 – 20, 242, 249, 270; colonial troops 11, 132, 134 – 43; Company and Crown 89; European 85 – 6; Indian 13, 33, 183, 199, 201 – 2, 214, 216 – 18, 222, 266 – 7; South Asian 271; territorial 216; well-motivated  206 The Armies of India (MacMunn) 23 army 86 – 95, 99; cheap 91; corporal punishment 90; and government officials 88; growth of 48; historiography of 22; medical establishment of 90; pre-Mutiny image of 28; and political officers 32; role of colonial 35; soldiery improvement 90; see also Bengal army; British army; British Indian army; Indian army; Japanese army

278 Index The Army in British India: From Colonial Warfare to Total War, 1857 – 1947 (Roy) 24 The Army in India and the development of Frontier Warfare, 1849 – 1947 (Moreman) 31 Arnott, F.S. 98 Attlee, Clement 223 Auckland, Lord 72 – 7, 79 Australian Imperial Forces (AIF) 183, 184, 199, 202 Awadh in Revolt, 1857 – 58: A Study of Popular Resistance (Mukherjee) 28 Bandyopadhyay, Premansu Kumar 28 Barat, Amiya 26 barqandazes, recruitment of 52, 56, 58 Barua, Pradeep 24, 30 Bates, Darrell 31 battalion 47 – 9, 56, 184, 186, 193 – 4, 196 – 7 battle-hardened troops 13, 206 battle of regiment 185 Bayly, C.A. 32, 35 Bayly, M.J. 74, 79 BBC 258 – 62, 266 – 7,  270 Beadon, Cecil 114 Beattie, Hugh 31 Beckett, Ian F.W. 22 – 44 The Beginning of the Great Game in India, 1828 – 34 (Ingram) 30 Bencoolen: A History of the Honourable East India Company’s Garrison on the West Coast of Sumatra, 1685 – 1825 (Harfield) 25 Bengal 6 – 7, 36, 45 – 59, 87, 93, 218 – 19,  248 Bengal Army 6 – 7, 46 – 50, 52, 56, 58, 112, 115; deployment of 49; vs. EIC 58; EIC, detachment of 48; formation 52; military police force and 50; redeployment of 57; strength of 52 The Bengal Army and the Outbreak of the Indian Mutiny (David) 28 The Bengal Native Infantry: Its Organisation and Discipline, 1796 – 1852 (Barat) 26

Bengal Presidency 58 Bennett, H. Gordon 199, 200 Beresford, Marcus 77 The Best Black Troops in the World: British Perceptions and the Making of the Sepoy, 1746 – 1805 (Wickremesekera) 26 Bird, G. Corrie 163 – 4, 166 – 7, 171 – 2,  175 Blackburn, Kevin 204 Black Mountain 131 – 48; North-West Frontier 131 – 48; tribes 134 From the Black Mountain to Waziristan (Wylly) 131 – 48 Blyth, Robert 30 Bokhari, Zulfikar Ali 260 Bond, Brian 31 Bose, Subhas Chandra 14, 260 – 1 Boyden, Peter 24 Bridge, Carl 198 Bright, John 90 Britain: colonialism 10; colonial war 107; declaration of war 261 Britain’s Army in India: From Its Origins to the Conquest of Bengal (Lawford) 26 Britain’s Persian Connection, 1798 – 1828: Prelude to the Great Game in Asia (Ingram) 30 British: colonialism 157, 176; commanders 206; Empire 4, 14, 107, 124, 213, 217, 258; Expeditionary Force 268; imperial expansion 157; imperial power 1, 75; intelligence 226; Official History 189, 205; political influence 75; war effort 267 British and Indian Armies in the East Indies, 1685 – 1935 (Harfield) 25 British anxieties 105; Anglo-Indian militarism 105 British Army 9, 28 – 9, 76, 99, 108, 142, 162, 201, 220, 249, 252, 263, 268 The British Conquest and Dominion of India (Moon) 27 British East India Company’s (EIC) 45; armed bodies, structure of 57; vs. Bengal Army 58;

Index  279 Bengal Army, detachment of 48; colonial administration and 51; colonial bureaucracy 58; diwani revolutionized 45; Douglas Peers’ analysis 47; expansion of 46, 51; large standing army 51; martial law introduced 46; military context of 58; military hierarchy 54, 59; military reputation 53, 55; north-west frontier 48; paramount status 58; parts of territory 53; political and military supremacy, rise of 58; political dominance of 46; provincial battalions, establishment of 52; public demonstration of 57; revenue work 46; role of 56; victory in the Second Anglo-Maratha War 50; victory over the Marathas 52 British Emergency Commissioned Officers (ECOs) 186 British government 69, 72, 75, 113, 121, 262, 271; control over Punjab 70; Dost Muhammad and71 British Indian affairs 64 – 5, 70, 80 – 1 British Indian Army 162, 258, 268 – 9; Royal Indian Army Service Corps (RIASC) 268, 270 British Military Policy in India, 1900 – 45: Colonial Constraints and Declining Power (Deshpande) 33 British National Party 272 The British Raj and its Indian Armed Forces, 1857 – 1939 (Gupta and Deshpande) 24 Broadbent, J.R. 199, 200 Brook, Norman 227 Brooke-Popham, Robert 190 Broome, Arthur 23 Brown Warriors of the Raj: Recruitment and the Mechanics of Command in the Sepoy Army, 1859 – 1913 (Roy) 29 Bruce, R.I. 164, 173 brutality 106, 122; criticisms of 106 Bryant, Gerald 49 Buddle, Anne 27 Burke, Edmund 124

Burma 12 – 13, 26, 28, 31, 35, 50, 93, 206, 213, 218, 221 – 2, 224 – 6, 228, 230 – 1,  258 Burnes, Alexander 74 – 6, 79 Butler, James 227 The Butcher of Amritsar: General Reginald Dyer (Collett) 34 Cadell, Patrick 23 Callahan, Raymond 26, 220 Callwell, C. 132 – 3, 138, 145, 147 – 8 Campaigns on the North West Frontier (Nevill) 32 Campbell, Colin 32, 111, 116, 118 Canning, Lord 120 cantonments 86, 91 – 3, 99; in amusement 92; economies of 86; Lal Bazaars 86; social life 85 – 99 Caplan, Lionel 29 Cardew, F.G. 23 Cardwell Reforms 87, 88 Carpendale, W. 186, 187 Carson, Dave 95 Christianity 116, 123 Churchill, Randolph 214 Churchill, W. 12 – 14, 212 – 31; as historian 213 – 15; Indian Army and 216 – 26; as memoirist 213 – 15; official history, influence 226 – 30; Second World War 218 – 26; World Crisis 216 – 18; as writer 213 – 15 civilians, in Britain 258 – 74 civil–military relations 162 – 75, 176 Clarke, E.H.S. 173 Clive, Robert 52 Clyde, Lord 111, 120 – 1 Cobden, Richard 90 Cold War 219, 225, 231 Collett, Nigel 34 Colonel Samuel Bagshawe and the Army of George II, 1731 – 62 (Guy) 26 Colonial armies: administration 51; authority 105, 132 – 3, 140, 144, 165; culture, intersection of 132; ethnography 133; expansion of 6; ingenuity 253; knowledge 133; literature 160; paternalism 119, 139; self-congratulation 253; soldiers 132; survey party

280 Index 136; territory 144; tribesmen resistance 140 colonial force 138, 143; against Black Mountain tribes 138; Durand Line, delimitation of 143 colonialism in Bengal: paramilitary forces, role of 45 – 59 colonial military: archive 12, 148, 177; history 177; policy 146; power 132 – 3, 138, 141, 145; service 2 – 3,  11 colonial power 2, 135, 146; military technologies, effect of 146; range of 142 colonial South Asia, history of 6, 17 Colvin, William 70 commanding officer (CO) 87, 92, 94 – 6, 134,  191 Commitment to Empire: Prophecies of the Great Game in Asia, 1797 – 1800 (Ingram) 30 Committee of Revenue 53, 56 Commonwealth 183, 184, 186, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 194, 196; commanders 206; defeat 198; failure of 183; force 12, 186, 199, 204; infantry 193, 204; Japanese forces and 184 – 9; military failure 198 – 205; troops 198, 204, 205, 206; and war-raised British troops 12 A Companion to the Indian Mutiny of 1857 (Taylor) 23 Compton, Richard 99 Constantinople 65 – 6, 109; Russia’s designs on 66 Conway, Henry Seymour 64 Cooper, Randolf G.S. 27 Cornwallis, Lord 57 Corrigan, Gordon 33 cost–benefit analysis 92, 99 Crimean War 108 – 9, 111 Crisis on the Frontier: The Third Afghan War and the Campaign in Waziristan, 1919 – 20 (Robson) 35 Crown troops, India 85 cultural history 13, 17 culture 64 – 81, 131 – 48; intelligence and 64 – 81 David, Saul 28 Davies, Huw J. 64 – 81

Davis, P.K. 33 – 4 Day, Matthew 56 decolonization 15 In Defence of British India: Great Britain in the Middle East, 1775 – 1842 (Ingram) 30 Defence Sub-Committee 249 Delane, J.T. 114 – 16, 118 Delhi 73, 95, 97 – 8, 113, 250, 253 demobilization 219 democracy 185 Dennis, Peter 35 Deshpande, Anirudh 24, 33 On the Designs of Russia (Lacy) 65 Dewey, C.J. 3, 245 Dickens, Charles 104, 114, 116 Dogra Regiment: 3rd/17th 190 Dorrington, Thomas 98 Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley 89 – 90 Durham, Lord 66 – 9, 74; trade missions, expenditure of 66 Dutta, Vipul 239 – 54 East India Company 6 – 8, 25 – 6, 29, 70, 74, 76, 79, 81, 93, 114, 239; military force 8 The East India Company and Army Reform, 1783 – 98 (Callahan) 26 East India Company Army 70, 76, 81 Edge of Empire: The British Political Officer and Tribal Administration on the North West Frontier, 1877 – 1947 (Tripodi) 31 – 2 Egerton, C.C. 164, 173 Ellinwood, De Witt 33 Ellis, Henry 74 Elphinstone, Mountstuart 75 – 6, 80 – 1 Empire and Information: Intelligence-gathering and Social Communication in India, 1780 – 1870 (Bayly) 32 The Empire of the Raj: India, Eastern Africa and the Middle East, 1858 – 1947 (Blyth) 30 Empires and Indigenes: Intercultural Alliance, Imperial Expansion, and Warfare in the Early Modern World (Lee) 25

Index  281

Family Embassy 66 Fay, Peter 35 – 6 fanaticism 133, 145, 160 – 1, 167, 176 Fane, Henry 70, 73, 76 fascism185, 262 – 3, 267, 273 Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) 157 Fidelity and Honour: The Indian Army from the Seventeenth to the Twenty-First Century (Menezes) 24 Field Regiment: 15th 196; 137th 194; 155th 194 Finsbury Health Centre 264 The First Afghan War, 1838 – 42 (Norris) 31 First Anglo-Afghan War 64, 80, 157; conventional analysis of 80 First Burma War 26, 28 First Round Table Conference (1931) 239, 249 First World War 13, 15 – 16, 214, 216, 240 – 2, 244, 247, 253, 258 – 9, 267 – 8, 270 – 1 Fitchett, W.H. 22 Ford, Douglas 226 Forgotten Armies: The Fall of British Asia, 1941 – 45 (Bayly and Harper) 35 The Forgotten Army: India’s Armed Struggle for Independence, 1942 – 45 (Fay) 35 – 6 Forster, Richard 29 Franco-Prussian War 115 Frontier Force Rifles (FFR) 191 Frontier Political Officer 159

Gee, Herbert W. 159 – 63, 165 – 70, 174 – 5 General Headquarters (GHQ) 187, 188 General Officer Commanding (GOC) 184, 194, 195, 196, 205 Gentlemen of the Raj: The Indian Officer Corps, 1817 – 1949 (Barua) 30 Germany 33, 216, 265, 272 Ghosh, K. K. 36 Gilchrist, Andrew 190, 203, 206 Gilliard, D.R. 30 Goodlad, Richard 55 Government of India (GOI) 8, 10, 14, 132, 135 – 7, 139, 157 – 8, 162 – 3, 165 – 6, 168 – 9, 171 – 3, 175 – 6, 199, 249 – 50, 267,  270 Government of India Act (1935) 242, 267 Government of Punjab 132, 136 – 7, 141, 171; expedition of 1852 135; expedition of 1860 141; Hazara expedition of 1888 136 – 7 Governor General 107, 114, 116 – 17 Grant, A.J. 167 The Great Fear of 1857: Rumours, Conspiracies and the Making of the Indian Uprising (Wagner) 29 Great Power rivalry 64 Great Powers of Europe 64 The Great Rebellion of 1857: Exploring Transgressions, Contexts and Diversities (Pati) 29 The Great Uprising in India, 1857 – 58: Untold Stories, Indian and British (Llewellyn-Jones) 29 Gupta, Partha Sarathi 24 Gurkha Regiment (GR): 2nd/2nd 186; 2nd/1st 186; 2nd/9th 186 Gurkhas 2 Guy, Alan J. 24, 26

Galbraith, W. 137 Gandhi, M.K. 267 Garrett, K.A. 193 Garrison, Kohima 221 The Garrison State: The Military, Government and Society in Colonial Punjab, 1849 – 1947 (Tan Tai Yong) 26

Hack, Karl 204 Hanifi, Shah Mahmoud 157 Harfield, Alan 25 Harper, Tim 35 Hastings, Warren 85 Havelock, Henry 110 Hazara 11, 71, 133, 135 – 6, 138, 157

Ends and Means: The British Mesopotamia Campaign and Commission (Davis) 33 – 4 European Powers 67, 74, 76 Ewans, Martin 31

282 Index Hazara expedition of 1888 136 – 7 Headlam, Cuthbert 226 Heath, Lewis (Piggy) 184, 199 Heathcote, Tony 23 Herbert, Christopher 105, 119 Hevia, James 32 Hibbert, Christopher 28 The History of the Bengal European Regiment now the Madras Fusiliers, and How It Helped to Win India (Innes) 23 A History of the Bombay Army (Cadell) 23 History of the Madras Army (Wilson) 23 History of the Rise and Progress of the Bengal Army (Broome) 23 History of the Sepoy War (Kaye) 23 Hogben, W. Murray 163 Holmes, Richard 23 Hopkins, Benjamin 157 Holt, Timothy 32 Howe, Stephen 4 Hyderabad Regiment: 4th/19th 185 ideal soldier, recruits 88 – 92, 99; practical purposes 96 Illustrated London News 94 imperial authority 165 Imperial Cadet Corps (ICC) 241 Imperial Frontier: Tribe and State in Waziristan (Hugh Beattie) 31 Imperial General Staff 223 imperialism 5, 16, 107, 111, 117, 120, 124, 173, 217 Imperial Japanese Army (IJA) 183, 188, 198, 206 imperial military: history of 5, 9, 11; power of 132, 140, 144 – 5 The Imperial Security State: British Colonial Knowledge and Empire-Building in Asia (Hevia) 32 ‘An Incident during the Sikh Wars’ 4 India 6, 8 – 9, 13, 50, 58, 119 – 20, 157 – 77, 203, 205, 212, 214, 216, 250 India and World War I (Ellinwood and Pradhan) 33 Indian Army 22 – 36, 111, 162, 183 – 206, 212 – 31, 239 – 40,

243 – 4, 247 – 8, 250 – 2, 254, 258, 266, 268 – 9, 271; Churchill’s world crisis 216 – 18; in defeat 183 – 206; East India Company 25 – 6, 29; historiography of 6; history of 22 – 44; Indianization of the 240; National Army Museum 24, 27; organizational culture of 13; Second World War 35, 212 – 31; Seven Years’ War 25 The Indian Army, 1939 – 47: Experience and Development (Jeffreys and Rose) 35 The Indian Army and the Making of the Punjab (Mazumder) 29 Indian Army defeat 183 – 211; commonwealth, military failure 197 – 205; Japanese forces 184 – 9; operations, conduct of 190 – 7 The Indian Army in Two World Wars (Roy) 34 – 5 Indian Army Regulations (1932) 252 The Indian Army: The Garrison of British Imperial India, 1822 – 1922 (Heathcote) 23 Indian Brigade: 15th 193; 28th 194; 45th 196, 197; 161st 221 Indian Civil Service (ICS) 245 Indian Comforts Fund 265 – 6, 269; charitable organization and 269 Indian Corps: 3rd 184, 192, 200 Indian Emergency Commissioned Officers (ECOs) 246 Indian Field Ambulance Corps 267; establishment of 267 Indian independence movement 260, 263, 264 Indian Infantry Brigade 184, 186, 188, 190, 192, 194, 195, 212; 6th 192, 194; 8th 190; 12th 184; 15th 194; 28th 186, 194 Indian Infantry Division 187; 11th 184 Indianization 14, 34; debate 252; dynamics of 243; primary goals of 242; understanding of 252 Indian Military Academy (IMA) 14, 16, 239 – 41, 242 – 4, 247, 239 – 54; analysis of 254; constitution of 249; emergence of 239 – 54; establishment of 245, 247, 253

Index  283 Indian Military College Committee 239 – 40 Indian military institutions 239 – 54 Indian military labour market 2 ‘Indian ‘Mutiny’ 104, 112, 116, 124; British writings and 105; and domestic society 123; Russell’s writings 106, 109, 117, 123 Indian National Army (INA) 231, 246 The Indian National Army: The Second Front of the Indian Freedom Movement (Ghosh) 36 Indian population 51 Indian Rebellion (1857–8) 109 – 10, 118 – 19 Indian Red Cross 265 Indian soldiers 258 – 74 Indian stereotypes 95 Indian Voices of the Great War: Soldiers’ Letters, 1914 – 18 (Omissi) 33 India’s martial races, representations of 3 Infantry Brigade, 28th 184 infiltration and outflanking 200 Ingram, Edward 30 Innes, P.R. 23 intelligence 7 – 8, 32, 64 – 81, 98, 105, 113 – 14, 118, 123, 140, 189, 204, 226 – 7; acquisition of 78; analysis of 78; mongrelization of 78, 81 Intelligence and Imperial Defence: British Intelligence and the Defence of the Indian Empire, 1904 – 24 (Richard Popplewell) 32 Internal Security Troops 249 International Red Cross 265 intra-force mudslinging 206 The Invasion of Nepal: John Company at War (Pemble) 31 Islam and the Army of Colonial India: Sepoy Religion in the Service of Empire (Green) 30 Italians of the East 198 izzat 2 – 3 Jack, The Indian Army on the Western Front (Morton) 33 Japan 189, 230, 272 Japanese Army 183, 189

Japanese forces 184 – 9; invasion force 189; troops 198 Japanese Guards Regiment 196, 197; 4th 196; 5th 196, 197 Japanese Infantry Brigade: 9th 193 Japanese Infantry Regiment: 42nd 193 Jat Regiment: 2nd/9th 194; 4th/9th 196, 197 jawans 186, 203 Jeffreys, Alan 35, 183 Johnson, Rob 30 The Jungle, the Japanese and the British Commonwealth Armies at War, 1941 – 1945: Fighting Methods, Doctrine and Training for Jungle Warfare (Moreman) 35 jungle terrain 187 Jungle Warfare Training Team 205 Kabul 67, 69 – 73, 77, 79 – 80, 159 Kai-Shek, Chiang, 222 Kanpur 28, 48 – 9, 105, 111, 114, 122 Katial, Chuni Lal 264 Kaul, Vivien Ashima 24 Kaye, J.W. 23, 111, 113 Kelly, Denis 224 Khan, Dost Muhammad 70 – 3, 76 – 7, 79 – 81; authority in Bamian 71 Khan, Ghulam Muhammad 165 – 7, 169, 172, 174 – 5 Khan, Mohamed Akbar 266 Khan, Ranu 55 Khan, Sadda 164 – 5, 168 – 75; recognition of 165; testimony 166 For King and Another Country (Pujji) 272 Kipling, Rudyard 107 Kirby, Woodburn 228 – 30 Kitchener, Lord 241 Knightley, Phillip 109 Kumbh Mela 98 Lacy, Evans George de 65 Lawford, James 26 Lee, Wayne 25 Lees, James 45 – 59 Lieutenant 184, 188, 189, 191, 196, 197

284 Index light machine-guns (LMGs) 188, 193 The Light That Failed (Kipling) 107 Lincoln, Abraham 118 line of communications (LoCs) 191, 198 The Listener (Hailey) 267 Llewellyn-Jones, Rosie 29 Lloyd, Nick 34 London’s Gordon Square 259 Lord Roberts (1954) (James) 32 Lucknow 110 – 11, 116, 118, 122 Lyall, James 136 McDowall, D.H. 56 MacGregor, Charles 32 – 3 machine-gun (MG) battalion 186, 201 Mackeson, F. 134 McLeod, R. 197 MacMunn, George Fletcher 23 Macnaghten, William Hay 72, 74 McNeill, John 68, 72, 74 McQueen, J.W. 138 Mahsuds 139, 141, 143 – 4, 167 Maizar 11 – 12, 157 – 77; aftermath of 164; attack 162, 164, 166, 168, 170 – 1, 173, 175 – 6 Maizar military tribunal 157 – 77; civil–military relations 162 – 75; establishment of 162 – 75; treachery incident 158 – 62 The Making of Arthur Wellesley (Anthony Bennell) 27 Malacca 183, 184, 196 Malaya 12, 183 – 206, 222, 229 Malcolm, J. 46, 75 – 6, 119, 124 Maliks 12, 140, 159, 162, 164 – 75 Malleson, George 23 Mangal Pandey: Brave Martyr or Accidental Hero? (Mukherjee) 29 Maratha Confederacy (1805) 7, 16, 58 Marathas, Marauders and State Formation in Eighteenth Century India (Gordon) 27 Maratha Wars 25 The March to Kandahar: Roberts in Afghanistan (2008) (Atwood) 32 Marlborough: His Life and Times (Winston Churchill) 215

Between Mars and Mammon: Colonial Armies and the Garrison State in Early Nineteenth Century India (Peers) 26 martial race discourse 2 The Martial Races of India (Lovat) 23 Martial Races: The Military, Race and Masculinity in British Imperial Culture, 1857 – 1914 (Streets) 29 Masson, Charles 72 A Matter of Honour: An Account of the Indian Army, Its Officers and Men (Mason) 24 Menezes, S.L. 24 Menon, V.K. Krishna 261 – 4 Men Without Hats: Dialogue, Discipline and Discontent in the Madras Army, 1806 – 07 (Hoover) 27 military: expeditions 142, 162 – 3, 166; institutions 245; murders 90; power 1, 51; resources, paucity of 54; revolution 25; traditions of 3; tribunal 12, 157 – 77 A Military History of India and South East Asia: From the East India Company to the Nuclear Era (Daniel Marston and Chandra Sundaram) 24 The Military in British India: The Development of British Land Forces in South Asia, 1600 – 1947 (Heathcote) 23 Military Manpower, Armies and Warfare in South Asia (Roy) 24 – 5 The Military Papers of Lieutenant General Frederick Stanley Maude, 1914 – 17 (Syk) 34 milking 12, 185, 187, 203 Mills, H.W. 158, 160 Ministry of Defence (MOD) 270 minority communities 271; contribution of 271 mobilization 201, 216 Moon, Penderel 27 Moreman, T.R. 31, 183 Morris, Mowbray 113 motor transport (MT) 186, 187 Mountain Regiment: 22nd 194

Index  285 Muharram 98 Munro, Thomas 30, 124 Murray-Lyon, D. 193 – 4 Mutiny, 1857 10, 23, 28, 110, 113 Mutiny on the Margins: New Perspectives on the Indian Uprising of 1857 29 The Mutiny Outbreak at Meerut in 1857 (Palmer) 28 My God Maiwand! Operations of the South Afghanistan Field Force, 1878 – 80 (Maxwell) 31 Nalwa, Hari Singh 70 – 1 Napier, William 23 Napoleonic War 65 – 6, 78 Narain, N. 35 Narrative of a Soldier in the 7th Regiment 94 Nasta, Susheila 261 – 2, 274 National Archives of India (NAI) 266 National Defence Academy (NDA) 246 National Farmers Union 223 National Gallery of Scotland 27 nationalism 15; vs. imperialism 14 – 16 nationalization 240; dynamics of 243; primary goals of 242; processes of 240 National Savings Committee 223 Naukar, Rajput, and Sepoy: The Ethnohistory of the Military Labour Market of Hindustan,1450 – 1850 (Kolff) 25 Nazism 15, 263, 266; Britain against 15 – 16; imperialism  259 Nevill, H.L. 32, 143, 161 – 2 The New Imperial Histories Reader (Howe) 4 News International Record Office 118 non-commissioned officers (NCOs) 12, 54, 186, 202 Norris, J.A. 31 North-West Frontier 10 – 11, 31 – 2, 48, 70, 73, 79 – 80, 131 – 48, 157 – 77, 187, 202; British India, of 157 – 77; colonial system in 164; imperial authority challenged by 162

Omissi, David 5, 35 Ondaatje, Michael 258 operational practice 132; colonial culture 132 order of battle (ORBAT) 186 orientalism 105, 122 – 3, 160 oriental phraseology 135 Origins of Nationality in South Asia: Patriotism and Ethical Government in the Making of Modern India (Bayly) 26 Orwell, G. 259, 260 – 2 Our War: How the British Commonwealth Fought the Second World War (Pujji) 272 The Oxford Companion to Modern Warfare in India (Roy) 23 The Pagoda War: Lord Dufferin and the Fall of the Kingdom of Ava, 1885 – 86 (Stewart) 31 Palmer, Frederick 107 Palmerston 65, 68 – 9, 80 Paradise Lost (Milton) 94 Parkins, John 191 Pati, Biswamoy 29 Pearl Harbour 198 The Peasant Armed: The Indian Revolt of 1857 (Stokes) 28 Peers, Douglas M. 25, 50, 76, 104 – 25 Pemble, John 31 Perak River 195 perception 87 Percival, A.E. 188, 195, 198 – 9, 229 Peshawar 70 – 1, 73, 79 – 81, 138, 157 Phoenix from the Ashes: the Indian Army in the Burma Campaign (Marston) 35 Piddington, Henry 93 Pitre, K.G. 27 Plumb, John Harold 215 The Politics of a Popular Uprising: Bundelkhand, 1857 (Roy) 28 Pollock, F.R. 135 Pollock, J.A.H. 173 Pradhan, S.D. 33 Preston, Adrian 30 Prince of Wales 198

286 Index prisoner of war (POW) 265 Public Service Commission 250 Pujji, Mahinder Singh 272 Pukhtun 157 – 77 Punjab 26, 29, 33, 69 – 70, 131 – 2, 157, 159, 171, 173, 259 Punjab Regiment: 2nd/16th 192, 194; 3rd/16th 192, 195; 1st/8th 192, 194; 1st/14th 185, 192, 193; 8th 194; 5th/14th 192 Quebec Conference, September 1944 226 racism 2 – 3, 8, 12, 29, 105, 108, 114 – 15, 118 – 21, 123, 148, 199, 204, 223, 240, 246, 274 The Raj, The Indian Mutiny and the Kingdom of Oudh (Pemble) 28 Rajputana Rifles 197 Ram, Honda 166 – 9, 174, 176 Rand, Gavin 1 – 21, 131 – 48 Rawlinson in India (Jacobsen) 34 regimental clergymen 93 regimental saving banks 87, 92, 95 regimental schools 90 The Regiments and Corps of the HIEC and Indian Army Volunteer Forces (Kempton) 30 regulated entertainments 92 – 6 Rethinking 1857 (Bhattacharya) 29 retreat complex 200 The Road to Kabul: The Second Afghan War, 1878 – 81 (Robson) 31 The Road to Waterloo: The British Army and the Struggle against Revolutionary and Napoleonic France, 1793 – 1815 (Guy) 28 Roberts in India: The Military Papers of Field Marshal Lord Roberts, 1876 – 93 (Robson) 32 Robinson Crusoe and Narrative of a Soldier in the 7th Regiment 94 Robson, Brian 32, 35 The Romance of the Indian Frontiers (MacMunn) 23 Roosevelt, F. 218 – 19, 225 – 6 Rose, Patrick 35

Rosen, Stephen Peter 24 Roy, Kaushik 1 – 21, 24, 36, 183 – 206 Royal Air Force (RAF) 190, 191, 258, 272 Royal Garhwal Rifles (RGR) 190, 196 Royal Indian Army Service Corps (RIASC) 266 Russell, W.H. 9 – 10, 104 – 25; Indian Mutiny, making of 104 – 25 Russia 7, 64 – 7, 69, 72, 74, 80 – 1, 262; Anglo-Russian commercial rivalry 68; British India, threat to 64 – 5; designs on Constantinople 66; expansionism 80; Great Power rivalry with Britain 64; Hitler’s invasion of 262; increase in threat 79; influence in Afghanistan and Central Asia 74; military aggression 65; Russian Mission 68; trade, annual income from 67; trade and commerce 67; trading interests 67 Sahib (Holmes) 23 Said, Edward 3 St. Paul’s Cathedral 108 Scott, Walter 94 Second Afghan War 31 – 3 The Second Anglo-Maratha War, 1802 – 05 (Pitre) 27 Second Maratha War 27 Second World War 12 – 15, 35, 183, 212 – 31, 240 – 2, 246, 252 – 3, 258 – 9, 263, 266, 269 – 74 Securing the Indian Frontier in Central Asia: Confrontation and Negotiation, 1865 – 95 (Ewans) 31 sepoy 8, 28 – 9, 33, 47, 49, 56, 88, 104, 212 – 14, 216, 225; and sebundies 45 – 59 The Sepoy and the Raj: The Indian Army, 1860 – 1940 (Omissi) 29 sepoy regiments, mutiny of 104 The Sepoys and the Company: Tradition and Transition in Northern India, 1770 – 1830 (Alavi) 26

Index  287 Sepoys in the Trenches: The Indian Corps on the Western Front, 1914 – 15 (Corrigan) 33 Shah, Nadir 98 Shah, Syed Ahmed 213 Sherer, J.R. 122 Shore, John 51 Sikh–Afghan conflict 74 – 5 Sikh Regiment: 1st 159; 5th Battalion of 186; 5th/11th 185, 191, 193, 195 Sikhs 2, 7, 29, 70 – 3, 75, 79 – 81, 85, 159, 180, 213 Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Trouillot) 273 Singapore Mutiny of 1915 34 Singh, Harbakhsh 198 Singh, M.P. 240 Singh, Mohan 185 Singh, Ranjit 7, 69 – 70, 73, 75, 79 – 80 Sir Hugh Rose and the Central India Campaign, 1858 (Robson) 32 Sketch of the Services of the Bengal Native Army: To the Year 1895 (Cardew) 23 Small Wars (Callwell) 132, 147 – 8 Societies and Military Power: India and Its Armies (Rosen) 24 soldiers 85 – 99; amusement 96; betterment of 92; calibre of 89; degraded class of 88; diet of 90; entertainments for 86, 94; for holding 88; lack of refinement 89; mental capacities 90; moral and social 88, 97; needs 86; pastimes 87; recruits 88 – 92; reforms of the 1820s 92 – 6; regulated entertainments 92 – 6; sexual activities and drinking 94; into soldierly 92; spirituous liquors 93; unofficial pursuits 96 – 8 Soldiers of the Raj: The Indian Army, 1600 – 1947 (Guy and Boyden) 24 South Asia: colonialism, history of 5; colonial rule, expansion of 4; culture and conflict of 16;

mentalities of 3; WW II, impact of 15 South Asian society 6 Spectre of Violence: The 1857 Kanpur Massacres (Mukherjee) 28 Stadtler, Florian 258 – 74 Stanley, Peter 29 The State at War in South Asia (Barua) 24 The Story of the Guides (Younghusband) 23 strategic culture 7, 8, 64 – 81 Strategies of British India: Britain, Iran and Afghanistan, 1798 – 1850 (Yapp) 30 The Struggle for Asia, 1828 – 1914 (Gilliard) 30 Sultan, Tipu 27, 112 Takumo, Nishimura 196 Talking to India (Orwell) 259 Tamura, Hiroshi 202 Taylor, P.J.O. 23 Temple, Richard 131, 133, 140 – 1 theater: private theatricals 90 Thomas, H.P. 191, 202, 204, 205 Thomas, Nicholas 132 The Tiger and the Thistle: Tipu Sultan and the Scots in India, 1760 – 1800 (Buddle) 27 The Times (1785) 9 – 10, 65, 104, 106 – 9, 112 – 15, 117 – 19, 122 – 3, 222, 266, 271 Tochi Field Force 163, 167 Tommy Guns 186, 187 Tomoyuki, Yamashita 189 Townshend, Charles 34 Treaty of Versailles, 1919 215 Trevelyan, Charles 99 tribal culture 135; peculiarities of 141; specific notions of 147; specific understandings of 145; weaponizing of 140, 145 tribal populations 131 tribal territory 11, 132, 135 – 7, 139 – 42, 145 – 6; colonial ingression into 139; penetration into colonial archive 141 tribesmen 11 – 12, 134 – 41, 143, 159 – 61, 164 – 7; colonial power,

288 Index challenge performances of 135; colonial troops and 138; killed 134; military superiority over 141; opposing colonial advance 139 Tripodi, Christian 31 – 2 Troubled Days of Peace: Mountbatten and South East Asia Command, 1945 – 46 (Dennis) 35 Trouillot, Michael-Rolph 273 Trousdale, William 33 Truman, Harry S. 228 Tulsi Leaves and the Ganges Water (Bandyopadhyay) 28 Between Two Worlds: A Rajput Officer in the Indian Army, 1905 – 21, Based on the Diary of Amar Singh of Jaipur (Ellinwood) 33 University of Edinburgh 29 unofficial pursuits 96 – 8 uprising, 1897 11, 158 US Civil War 115 Viceroy’s Commissioned Officers (VCOs) 185, 187 Victorian Military Campaigns (Bond) 31 Wade, Claude Martine 73, 75 – 6 Wagner, Kim 29 Wald, Erica 8 – 9, 85 – 99 war 239 – 54 War, Culture and Society in Early Modern Asia, 1740 – 1849 (Roy) 36 War and Society in Colonial India, 1807 – 1945 (Roy) 24 Warfare and Empires: Contact and Conflict between European and Non-European Military and Maritime Forces and Cultures (Peers) 25 War in Afghanistan, 1879 – 80: The Personal; Diary of Major General

Sir Charles Metcalfe MacGregor (Trousdale) 33 The War in Malaya (Kirby) 229 War of No Pity: The Indian Mutiny and Victorian Trauma (Hibbert) 28 Warren, Alan 35, 183 Warrior Gentleman: Gurkhas in Western Imagination (Caplan) 29 Wavell, A.P. 204 Waverly (Scott) 94 Waziristan 11 – 12, 31, 131 – 48, 158, 163 – 4 Waziristan frontier 139, 141, 144; colonial troops return 141 Waziristan: The Faqir of Ipi and the Indian Army: The North West Frontier Revolt (Warren) 35 Weller, Jac 27 Wellesley, A. 9, 27 – 8, 90 – 1 Wellesley school 90 Wellington in India (Weller) 27 When God Made Hell: The British Invasion of Mesopotamia and the Creation of Iraq, 1914 – 21 (Townshend) 34 White, George 158 White Mutiny: British Military Culture in India, 1825 – 75 (Stanley) 29 Wickremesekera, Channa 26 William, Fort 50 – 1, 53 – 7; centralization of force 53; expanding Bengal Army 57; military dispositions 59 Williams, John 22 Wilson, Catherine 13, 212 – 31 Wood, Charles 115 Wilson, William 23 Wyatt, Christopher 31 Wylly, H.C. 131 – 48 Yapp, Malcolm 30 Younghusband, George 23 Younghusband, R.E. 173