Kipling and war, p.11
Kipling and War, page 11
I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
’E lifted up my ’ead,
An’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water-green:
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;
’E’s chawin’ up the ground,
An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:
For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’
’E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
’E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ’e died,
‘I ’ope you liked your drink’, sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ’im later on
At the place where ’e is gone –
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;
’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
1 Bring water swiftly. 2 Mr. Atkins’s equivalent for ‘O brother.’ 3 Be quick. 4 Hit. 5 Water-skin. [These translations appear in texts approved by Kipling.]
[First published in the Scots Observer, 7 June 1890, and then collected in Ballads and Barrack-Room Ballads (1892).]
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The Third Anglo-Burmese War of November 1885 led to the demise of the Konbaung dynasty and the consolidation of British rule throughout Burma. It made a particular mark on Kipling in Lahore since Burma was absorbed into the Raj as a province of India.
The Taking of Lungtungpen
So we loosed a bloomin’ volley,
An’ we made the beggars cut,
An’ when our pouch was emptied out,
We used the bloomin’ butt.
Ho! My!
Don’t yer come anigh,
When Tommy is a-playin’ with the baynit an’ the butt.
Barrack Room Ballad
My friend Private Mulvaney told me this, sitting on the parapet of the road to Dagshai, when we were hunting butterflies together. He had theories about the Army, and coloured clay pipes perfectly. He said that the young soldier is the best to work with, ‘on account av the surpassing innocinse av the child.’
‘Now, listen!’ said Mulvaney, throwing himself full length on the wall in the sun. ‘I’m a born scutt av the barrick-room! The Army’s mate an’ dhrink to me, bekaze I’m wan av the few that can’t quit ut. I’ve put in sivinteen years, an’ the pipeclay’s in the marrow av me. Av I cud have kept out av wan big dhrink a month, I wud have been a Hon’ry Lift’nint by this time – a nuisince to my betthers, a laughin’-shtock to my equils, an’ a curse to meself. Bein’ fwhat I am, I’m Privit Mulvaney, wid no good-conduc’ pay an’ a devourin’ thirst. Always barrin’ me little frind Bobs Bahadur, I know as much about the Army as most men.’
I said something here.
‘Wolseley be shot! Betune you an’ me an’ that butterfly net, he’s a ramblin’, incoherint sort av a divil, wid wan oi on the Quane an’ the Coort, an’ the other on his blessed silf-everlastin’ly playing Saysar and Alexandrier rowled into a lump. Now Bobs is a sinsible little man. Wid Bobs an’ a few three-year-olds, I’d swape any army av the earth into a towel, an’ throw it away aftherwards. Faith, I’m not jokin’! ’Tis the bhoys – the raw bhoys – that don’t know fwat a bullut manes, an’ wudn’t care av they did – that dhu the work. They’re crammed wid bull-mate till they fairly ramps wid good livin’; and thin, av they don’t fight, they blow each other’s hids off. ’Tis the trut’ I’m tellin’ you. They shud be kept on water an’ rice in the hot weather; but there’d be a mut’ny av ’twas done.
‘Did ye iver hear how Privit Mulvaney tuk the town av Lungtungpen? I thought not! ’Twas the Lift’nint got the credit; but ’twas me planned the schame. A little before I was inviladed from Burma, me an’ four-an’-twenty young wans undher a Lift’nint Brazenose, was ruinin’ our dijeshins thryin’ to catch dacoits. An’ such double-ended divils I niver knew! ’Tis only a dah an’ a Snider that makes a dacoit. Widout thim, he’s a paceful cultivator, an’ felony for to shoot. We hunted, an’ we hunted, an’ tuk fever an’ elephints now an’ again; but no dacoits. Evenshually, we puckarowed wan man. “Trate him tinderly,” sez the Lift’nint. So I tuk him away into the jungle, wid the Burmese Interprut’r an’ my clanin’-rod. Sez I to the man, “My paceful squireen,” sez I, “you shquot on your hunkers an’ dimonstrate to my frind here, where your frinds are whin they’re at home?” Wid that I introjuced him to the clanin’-rod, an’ he comminst to jabber; the Interprut’r interprutin’ in betweens, an’ me helpin’ the Intilligince Departmint wid my clanin’-rod whin the man misremimbered.
‘Prisintly, I learn that, acrost the river, about nine miles away, was a town just dhrippin’ wid dahs, an’ bohs an’ arrows, an’ dacoits, an’ elephints, an’ jingles. “Good!” sez I; “this office will now close!”
‘That night I went to the Lift’nint an’ communicates my information. I never thought much of Lift’nint Brazenose till that night. He was shtiff wid books an’ the-ouries, an’ all manner av thrimmin’s no manner av use. “Town did ye say?” sez he. “Accordin’ to the the-ouries av War, we shud wait for reinforcements.” – “Faith!” thinks I, “we’d betther dig our graves thin”; for the nearest throops was up to their shtocks in the marshes out Mimbu way. “But,” says the Lift’nint, “since ’tis a speshil case, I’ll make an excepshin. We’ll visit this Lungtungpen tonight.”
‘The bhoys was fairly woild wid deloight whin I tould ’em; an’, by this an’ that, they wint through the jungle like buck-rabbits. About midnight we come to the shtrame which I had clane forgot to minshin to my orficer. I was on, ahead, wid four bhoys, an’ I thought that the Lift’nint might want to the-ourise. “Shtrip bhoys!” sez I. “Shtrip to the buff, an’ shwim in where glory waits!” – “But I can’t shwim!” sez two av thim. “To think I should live to hear that from a bhoy wid a board-school edukashin!” sez I. “Take a lump av timbher, an’ me an’ Conolly here will ferry ye over, ye young ladies!”
‘We got an ould tree-trunk, an’ pushed off wid the kits an’ the rifles on it. The night was chokin’ dhark, an’ just as we was fairly embarked, I heard the Lift’nint behind av me callin’ out. “There’s a bit av a nullah here, Sorr,” sez I, “but I can feel the bottom already.” So I cud, for I was not a yard from the bank.
‘“Bit av a nullah! Bit av an eshtury!” sez the Lift’nint. “Go on, ye mad Irishman! Shtrip bhoys!” I heard him laugh; an’ the bhoys begun shtrippin’ an’ rollin’ a log into the wather to put their kits on. So me an’ Conolly shtruck out through the warm wather wid our log, an’ the rest come on behind.
‘That shtrame was miles woide! Orth’ris, on the rear-rank log, whispers we had got into the Thames below Sheerness by mistake. “Kape on shwimmin’, ye little blayguard,” sez I, “an’ don’t go pokin’ your dirty jokes at the Irriwaddy.” – “Silince, men!” sings out the Lift’nint. So we shwum on into the black dhark, wid our chests on the logs, trustin’ in the Saints an’ the luck av the British Army.
Evenshually we hit ground – a bit av sand – an’ a man. I put my heel on the back av him. He skreeched an’ ran.
‘“Now we’ve done it!” sez Lift’nint Brazenose. “Where the Divil is Lungtungpen?” There was about a minute and a half to wait. The bhoys laid a hould av their rifles an’ some thried to put their belts on; we was marchin’ wid fixed baynits av coorse. Thin we knew where Lungtungpen was; for we had hit the river-wall av it in the dhark, an’ the whole town blazed wid thim messin’ jingles an’ Sniders like a cat’s back on a frosty night. They was firin’ all ways at wanst; but over our hids into the shtrame.
‘“Have you got your rifles?” sez Brazenose, “Got ’em!” sez Orth’ris. “I’ve got that thief Mulvaney’s for all my back-pay, an’ she’ll kick my heart sick wid that blunderin’ long shtock av hers” – “Go on!” yells Brazenose, whippin’ his sword out. “Go on an’ take the town! An’ the Lord have mercy on our sowls!”
‘Thin the bhoys gave wan devastatin’ howl, an’ pranced into the dhark, feelin’ for the town, an blindin’ and stiffin’ like Cavalry Ridin’ Masters whin the grass pricked their bare legs. I hammered wid the butt at some bamboo-thing that felt wake, an’ the rest come an’ hammered contagious, while the jingles was jingling, an’ feroshus yells from inside was shplittin’ our ears. We was too close under the wall for thim to hurt us.
‘Evenshually, the thing, whatever ut was, bruk; an’ the six-and-twinty av us tumbled, wan after the other, naked as we was borrun, into the town of Lungtungpen. There was a melly av a sumpshus kind for a whoile; but whether they tuk us, all white an’ wet, for a new breed av’ divll, or a new kind av dacoit, I don’t know. They ran as though we was both, an’ we wint into thim, baynit an’ butt, shriekin’ wid laughin’. There was torches in the shtreets, an’ I saw little Orth’ris rubbin’ his showlther ivry time he loosed my longshtock Martini; an’ Brazenose walkin’ into the gang wid his sword, like Diarmid av the Gowlden Collar – barring he hadn’t a stitch av clothin’ on him. We diskivered elephints wid dacoits under their bellies, an’, what wid wan thing an another, we was busy till mornin’ takin’ possession av the town of Lungtungpen.
‘Thin we halted an’ formed up, the wimmen howlin’ in the houses an’ Lift’nint Brazenose blushin’ pink in the light av the mornin’ sun. ’Twas the most ondasint p’rade I iver tuk a hand in. Foive-and-twenty privits an’ an orficer av the Line in review ordher, an’ not as much as wud dust a fife betune ’em all in the way of clothin’! Eight av us had their belts an’ pouches on; but the rest had gone in wid a handful of cartridges an’ the skin God gave thim. They was as naked as Vanus.
‘“Number off from the right!” sez the Lift’nint. “Odd numbers fall out to dress; even numbers pathrol the town till relieved by the dressing party.” Let me tell you, pathrollin’ a town wid nothing on is an expayrience. I pathrolled for tin minutes, an’ begad, before ’twas over, I blushed. The women laughed so. I niver blushed before or since; but I blushed all over my carkiss thin. Orth’ris didn’t pathrol. He sez only, “Portsmith Barricks an’ the ’Ard av a Sunday!” Thin he lay down an’ rowled any ways wid laughin’.
‘Whin we was all dhressed we counted the dead – sivinty-foive dacoits besides wounded. We tuk five elephints, a hunder’ an’ sivinty Sniders, two hunder’ dahs, and a lot av other burglarious thruck. Not a man av us was hurt – excep’ maybe the Lift’nint, an’ he from the shock to his dasincy.
‘The Headman av Lungtungpen, who surrinder’d himself, asked the Interprut’r – “Av the English fight like that wid their clo’es off, what in the wurruld do they do wid their clo’es on?” Orth’ris began rowlin’ his eyes an’ crackin’ his fingers an’ dancin’ a step-dance for to impress the Headman. He ran to his house; an’ we spint the rest av the day carryin’ the Lift’nint on our showlthers round the town, an’ playin’ wid the Burmese babies – fat, little, brown little divils, as pretty as picturs.
‘Whin I was inviladed for the dysent’ry to India, I sez to the Lift’nint, “Sorr,” sez I, “you’ve the makin’s in you av a great man; but, av you’ll let an ould sodger spake, you’re too fond of the-ourisin’.” He shuk hands wid me and sez, “Hit high, hit low, there’s no plasin’ you, Mulvaney. You’ve seen me waltzin’ through Luntungpen like a Red Injin widout the war-paint, any you say I’m too fond of the-ourisin’?” – “Sorr,” sez I, for I loved the bhoy, “I wud waltz wid you in that condishin through Hell, an’ so wud the rest av the men!” Thin I wint downshtrame in the flat an’ left him my blessin’. May the Saints carry ut where ut shud go, for he was a fine upstandin’ young orficer.
‘To reshume. Fwhat I’ve said jist shows the use av three-year-olds. Wud fifty seasoned sodgers have taken Lungtungpen in the dhark that way? No! They’d know the risk av fever and chill; let alone the shootin’. Two hundher’ might have done ut. But the three-year-olds know little an’ care less; an’ where there’s no fear there’s no danger. Catch thim young, feed thim high, an’ by the honour av that great, little man Bobs, behind a good orficer, ’tisn’t only dacoits they’d smash wid their clo’es off – ’tis Continental Ar-r-r-mies! They tuk Lungtungpen nakid; an’ they’d take St. Pethersburg in their dhrawers! Begad, they would that!
‘Here’s your pipe, Sorr. Shmoke her tinderly wid honey-dew, afther letting the reek av the Canteen plug die away. But ’tis no good, thanks to you all the same, fillin’ my pouch wid your chopped hay. Canteen baccy’s like the Army; it shpoils a man’s taste for moilder things.’
So saying, Mulvaney took up his butterfly-net, and returned to barracks.
[First published in the Civil and Military Gazette, 11 April 1887, and then collected in Plain Tales from the Hills (1888).]
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These lines were first published as an epigraph to a story of the same name in the book version of Plain Tales from the Hills in 1888.
The Rout of the White Hussars
It was not in the open fight
We threw away the sword,
But in the lonely watching
In the darkness by the ford.
The waters lapped, the night-wind blew,
Full-armed the Fear was born and grew,
And we were flying ere we knew
From panic in the night.
[First published in Plain Tales from the Hills (1888).]
RETURN TO ENGLAND
This is an early Barrack-Room Ballad which is sometimes said to have been based on the execution of Private Flaxman of the Leicestershire Regiment in Lucknow in 1887.
Danny Deever
‘What are the bugles blowin’ for?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘To turn you out, to turn you out’, the Colour-Sergeant said.
‘What makes you look so white, so white?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch’, the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The regiment’s in ’ollow square – they’re hangin’ him to-day;
They’ve taken of his buttons off an’ cut his stripes away,
An’ they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.
‘What makes the rear-rank breathe so ’ard?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘It’s bitter cold, it’s bitter cold’, the Colour-Sergeant said.
‘What makes that front-rank man fall down?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun’, the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’ of ’im round,
They ’ave ’alted Danny Deever by ’is coffin on the ground;
An’ ’e’ll swing in ’arf a minute for a sneakin’ shootin’ hound –
O they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!
‘’Is cot was right-’and cot to mine’, said Files-on-Parade.
‘’E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night’, the Colour-Sergeant said.
‘I’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times’, said Files-on-Parade.
‘’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone’, the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark ’im to ’is place,
For ’e shot a comrade sleepin’ – you must look ’im in the face;
Nine ’undred of ’is county an’ the regiment’s disgrace,
While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.
‘What’s that so black agin’ the sun?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘It’s Danny fightin’ ’ard for life’, the Colour-Sergeant said.
‘What’s that that whimpers over’ead?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now’, the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ’ear the quickstep play,
The regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’ us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want their beer to-day,
After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.
[First published in the Scots Observer, 22 February 1890.]
* * *
The screw-guns of this poem were muzzle-loaded field guns which, because of their size, were carried in two parts – the breach and chase, each weighing approximately 200 lbs (90 kgs), which were then screwed together. They were invented in the late 1870s and manufactured at the Armstrong company’s Elswick Ordnance Works on the River Tyne. Each gun was transported by a team of five mules and required a support team of nine men.
Screw-Guns
Smokin’ my pipe on the mountings, sniffin’ the mornin’ cool,
I walks in my old brown gaiters along o’ my old brown mule,
With seventy gunners be’ind me, an’ never a beggar forgets
It’s only the pick of the Army that handles the dear little pets – ’Tss! ’Tss!
