The spirit of the Indian troops is splendid and soldierly. Above all, they value recompense for valour. The V.C., of course, is their highest ambition. They attach more importance to “Izzat”--their prestige--than to anything else in life. The bitterest blow that an Indian in the field can receive is to be passed over for promotion. I heard of a non-commissioned officer who had distinguished himself by a brilliant feat of gallantry, and was informed that the “General Sahib” proposed to reward him by a present of money. The havildar in question had already been recommended for decoration. “It is very kind of the _General Sahib_,” the man said, “to have thought of making me a present, but I would rather have the decoration.” Men of ancient fighting races, they esteem courage highly and count cowardice a disgrace. Praise of their gallant deeds is as music in their ears. Never are they so proud as when the _General Sahib_, Sir James Willcocks, commanding the Indian Corps, inspects them after a fight, and tells them in their own tongue, in plain martial language that they understand, that he is satisfied with them, that they have fought well. Their attitude towards the Germans is curious. They respect the enemy’s technical efficiency in war, but they do not believe that he is any match for the bayonet or the _kukri_ when it comes to in-fighting. “It is well!” said the Garhwalis, as they came out of some swift slaying at Neuve Chapelle. “We have killed many Germans! They are good fighters!” Kwaja Mohammed Khan, Sirdar Bahadur, one of the Indian _aides-de-camp_ to Sir James Willcocks, a magnificent figure of a man from the borders of Buner, in his uniform of Rissaldar of the Guides, with a hawk-like nose and fierce black eyes, said to me one day: “The Indians stand the weather well. Why shouldn’t they? If the Germans stand it, so can we! Huh!” They are fierce and terrible in the charge, the Indians. But they are merciful to their prisoners. Among the Indians there has been none of that slaying of prisoners that has eternally besmirched the German escutcheon. The Indians bring their prisoners in proudly--living booty, proud testimony to the prowess of their captors. I met some of the Westphalians we captured at Neuve Chapelle on their way down to the base to be shipped to England--fine, well-set-up, front-line troops they were, too. I well remember the eagerness with which they explained to me that resistance had been impossible. “_Auf einmal_,” they said in their clipped Westphalian speech, “_sahen wir uns von den Schwarzen umzingelt. Da müssten wir uns ergeben!_” And they sighed heavily.