Jack was unsure what to expect at Hoti Mardan, the headquarters of the famous Guides. His first view of the squat, star-shaped fort that sat on the Yusufzai Plain was not inspiring. Shimmering under the frontier heat, it was functional rather than dramatic. A score of Guides infantry drilled on the maidan in front of the gate, marching back and forth with their khaki smocks and pyjama trousers looking slightly shabby, while their khaki turbans were untidy. The jemadar in charge was screaming at them in Pushtu, the words very similar to those any British sergeant would use to a platoon of privates.
maidanThe infantry stepped aside to allow a patrol of cavalry to return from the hills, indigo-blue turbans bobbing above horses that seemed better cared for than the riders. The men were handy
