Way back on 13 March 2014 I blogged the first excerpt from
an article featured in the book Under the
Queen’s Colours (Voices from the Forces 1952-2012) by Penny Legg (2012).
Rather belatedly, here is a second excerpt, which ties in nicely with more
recent blogs. That blog can be read here
As stated before, this
was written in 1969, shortly after the events, when I was twenty-one, a long
long time ago!
***
At just before 7am, I was woken up with a very welcome
cup of tea. Oddly, tea was expensive here.
After a shower
and breakfast, we were taken to Chaklala airport.
We didn’t wait
long. “Flight No. 618Y” was called at 9.20. We strolled out to our aircraft. It
was a Fokker Friendship F-27 and seated forty with room to spare for comfort.
Joining our plane
Again, massive
slabs of concrete dazzled us while the hills receded into a mauve blur, fringed
with emerald. The plane had two props, a black nose, the rest of it a scorching
white broken up by a green PIA dart running the length of the fuselage and
stringing the windows together.
This take-off
was more impressive than the Trident’s. My seat overlooked the wheels and, as
we sped down the runway, I felt the pull into my seat, and my stomach lurching
on lift-off. The props blared, the engine droned and the shell of the hull
vibrated steadily. Sun glinted on the wingtips.
Thin streamers
of low cloud curlicued past. Land was always in view. Everywhere was parched,
almost white, glaring, with patches of scrub, communities of flat rooftops, a
few roads, narrow gullies and dried-up streams. Distance was indistinct, no
verifiable horizon. Most of the area covered was flat, featureless. We passed a
particularly arid section, all canyons and thirsty riverbeds; huge chasms, the
earth cracked and baked, rent asunder and harshly beautiful.
Photographs
from the plane were not permitted. I wondered what there was to hide out here
in the wilderness.
Flying at
10,000 feet, we encountered air-turbulence when crossing the Vail of Peshawar,
a girdle of mountains in the shape of a Roman amphitheatre that encircled
Peshawar, the capital of the North West Frontier Province. We bounced quite
alarmingly.
Shortly after
leaving the Vail’s rugged tract, we lowered from the sky, circling, and I
imagined a bird of prey might soar like this.
On touching
down, we were greeted at the barrier by our guides, Bill and Dave, up-country
friends of our hosts. Bill had lived out here quite some time. His family had
recently returned to England, but he remained, fascinated by the place. He had
extensively studied the area, understood and loved the people. Dave was an
exiled Geordie who had worked out here for three years.
We were driven
to Bill’s bungalow and enjoyed tea and plums on the veranda overlooking his
magnificent garden. Crocus, jacaranda, forget-me-nots, gladioli, roses, tulips,
and daffodils. It seemed that here in the valley the climate was comparable to
Kew Gardens. A crate of ice-cold bottles of water and cans of beer were covered
by a wet blanket in the rear of the Escort. The Corsair led and we followed.
Dave’s personal cook and odd-jobs man jumped clear as gravel flew out from
under our tyres.
We drove
through the barren terrain outside Peshawar, and the Khyber hills loomed ever
nearer. Rifles and bandoliers abounded at the checkpoints – erected since
Martial Law was declared on deposing Ahyub Khan, though primarily used to deter
smugglers.
We were
rapidly leaving Peshawar behind. The city itself lolls near the left bank of
the Bara River, eleven miles from Jamrud at the entrance to the Khyber Pass.
The metre-gauge railway runs through, at this point some 1,600 miles northwest
of Calcutta. Here for many centuries the Providahs or Afghan travelling
merchants brought their caravans from Kabul, Bukhara and Samarkand every autumn,
bringing horses, wool, silks, dyes, gold thread, fruits, precious stones,
carpets and poshtins (sheepskin clothing).
The district
of Peshawar covers an area some 1,550 square miles with a population of around
900,000. Except on the southeast where the Indus flows, it’s encircled by
mountains inhabited by the Mohmand, Utman Khel and Afridi tribesmen – Pathans.
I’d heard of
these tribesmen from my father, who served in the army out here before the
Second World War. Altogther, the Pathans inhabit southeast Afghanistan and, in
Pakistan, the northern part of Baluchistan, plus the greater part of the North
West Frontier Province. Their language is a branch of the eastern Iranian
group, consisting of two main dialects. Bill knew both well. The north-eastern
form has its centre at Peshawar and is called Pakhtu. The south-eastern dialect
radiates from Kandahar. Pakhtu is harsh and guttural while the Kandahari
dialect, Pushtu, is soft and sibilant.
Bill explained
that the word “Pathan” is probably an Indian corruption of pakhtana, the
Pakhtu-speakers.
The Pathans
are Muslims, normally of the orthodox Sunni sect. Extremely fanatical and
superstitious, they abide by a code of honour, the pakhtunwali, which imposes
on them three obligations. To grant to all fugitives the right of asylum
(nanawatai); to proffer open-handed hospitality (melmastia) even to their
deadliest enemies; and to wipe out dishonour by the shedding of blood (badal).
The latter leads to blood feuds originating over disputes concerning money,
women and land. They seem perpetually at feud, tribe against tribe, clan vs.
clan, and family against family.
As an illustration, Bill told of one incident.
A criminal had escaped into the Khyber Pass. The police wouldn’t dare go in
after him as it was felt they’d trespass onto tribal land – a deadly offence in
the eyes of the tribes. The criminal was originally captured for murdering a
fellow tribesman and on escaping had subsequently sought asylum at the house of
that same tribesman. They were obliged to shelter him. But the head of the
house was also obliged to wipe out dishonour. When the police left, the first
obligation of asylum had been met; there remained the second obligation to be
settled. The criminal’s blood was shed.
Magic
place-names such as Kandahar, Kabul, Chitra, Gilgit are not far away. And
there, the Khyber hills, the Hindu Kush, spreading into the Karakorum Range and
Kashmir.
Old disused
stone hovels without roofs littered the roadside. Choking dust billowed up
behind us. At last the solitary road had a limit. A checkpoint.
The entrance
to the Khyber Pass. In the middle of nowhere, a couple of houses, and then to
right and left vast stretches of wadis, gullies and nothing. Tribesmen pedalled
through. The outpost guards checked off
our chits of authority. Strange, our friends called any piece of paper a chit,
even money, any denomination.
Pistols and
rifles flourished lazily and we were ushered through. Old Gatling guns perched
on top of the crenellated towers either side of the arch that spanned the road.
A potted history of the Khyber had been carved into the walls.
Khyber Gate
Just past the
archway, on our right, brooded Jamrud Fort, looking insipid with its colour
squeezed out, bleak and surrounded by desolation and dust. It seemed so much
like a ghostly edifice, nary a flicker through the tiny slits in the walls.
Parchment leaves of the few balding trees inside drooped. Wooden telegraph
poles peeked above the drab featureless walls, the only sign of our times.
“The variations
of climate and scene are extreme – a pass of biting cold and scorching heat,”
the carved rock warned us. “The average annual rainfall in the pass is about 14
inches with occasional snowfall.”
Snow was the
last thing we expected, as we drove the three miles to reach the actual opening
to the pass at Shadi Bagiar. Immediately, rock walls towered on either side,
dwarfing us. Hemmed in and separated by craggy peaks and ridges once seamed
with glaciers, now terminating in empty moraines. Above, long uneven sweeps of
patchy upland strewn with boulders; the sparse quilt-work of furze, a yellow,
grey or livid green, according to the sunlight’s mood. Fold upon fold, in
interminable succession, their bleak monotony only relieved by the infrequent
grace of wild flowers and mosses.
The road
snaked for mile on heavy mile, with a channel for the camels and one for
autobuses. Bill remarked that the overall length of the pass was about
thirty-three miles.
After a steep
ascent through cheerless, hard and craggy mountains near its mouth, the pass
rose gradually to the narrows of Ali Masjid.
All the way,
Bill had emphasised that we ought to remain on the road and not wander. Three
yards on either side of the road was considered no-man’s-land. Beyond that was
tribal territory; walking on this land meant the risk of being shot at.
On the entire
journey, it was the same: arid, with numerous little forts in seas of dust,
glowering atop islands of rock. The type of land and people on which Joseph
Kessel partly based The Horsemen. I could easily imagine Uroz the proud
young chopendoz riding his magnificent horse Jehol through the insufferable
mountain passes.
Casting a
glance back, I could see that the pass was barely a narrow defile winding
between cliffs of shale and limestone six hundred to a thousand feet on either
side, straining up to more lofty mountains behind.
No other pass
in the world has had such strategic importance or so many historic
associations. Constant punitive expeditions were undertaken by the Moguls and
the British against the tribesmen of these tortuous hills.
We didn’t stop
at Fort Ali Masjid – 3,174 feet up – as stopping was presumably prohibited for
security reasons.
Eventually, we
pulled in at the Khyber stream, a dismal little oasis, where we refreshed ourselves.
The sky was a
weak blue. Rugged rocks were all around, punctuated by masses of scree. The
shallow stream ran along the western wall, high and pitted, honeycombed with
caves. From these caves women would climb down to the stream and fill their urns
with water then commence the arduous return trek. Beyond a scree we spotted
another crag where an ancient fort glared darkly, resembling a wartime pillbox.
Strategically, it commanded an admirable and unassailable view.
There was
little vegetation for an oasis but more than we’d encountered up to now. The
few patches of emerald green contrasted strongly with the parched earth. Fresh
clear water bubbled and gurgled over the smooth rocks, the edges of the stream
a wet brown. Massive boulders partially protected a couple of solitary trees
from direct sunlight.
As we drank I
sensed eyes from the caves were watching us. A carrion crow dislodged a rock
high above and flew into another shadowy cleft.
My mind
flashed back, imagining a troop of British soldiers halting by the water’s
edge, the Lieutenant posting pickets to scour the pitted rock walls for any
sign of movement while the rest drank. The unbearable heat. Sore feet, chafed
arms, thighs and shoulders. The rattle of accoutrements. The startling crack of
many flintlock rifles. The dust spouting about their boots, tongues rasping in
suddenly dry mouths. Red tunics darkening with blood that leached into the
stream. Bloodcurdling yells, barked orders. Weapons reloaded. Cries from the
wounded. Volley after deadly volley…
We moved on.
To be concluded…
No comments:
Post a Comment