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[Pasting this iconic thread from dfi]
Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan; Indian Army Stories
- Thread starter 125mm_Smoothbore
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Op Vijay and the Feathered Battle Casualty
'Operation Vijay' had just started.
8 Mountain Division had been inducted in the Dras - Mushko sector. Part of the Division was still in the Valley.
The war in Kargil was crystallising and the logistic support was in its infancy. Everything was more of a rough and ready solution to universal problems. The scene was like the World War II movies; lots of beehive like activity with teeth-on-the-edge confusion. Unlike the movies, the pretty women resistance fighters were missing. The other difference was that Op Vijay soldiers shaved, had their baths and they did not eat out of mess tins with broken forks. They also did not sport faces hewn from the Rocky Mountain.
My General, the GOC 8 Mountain Division looked young [honest and no buttering!] and was as sophisticated as any Delhite could be. Providentially, he was not the nouveau riche variety that is found under every stone of Delhi, talking of their 'M'rutis' [Maruti – a popular small car] and 'Assteams' [Esteem – a bigger car] but the DPS {Delhi Public School} nose-in-the-air ones, talking of Frankfurt and Disneyland. Of course, the General did not have time to perk his nose in the air as also he was wise enough to know that was not good for his delicate nose as the air was cold, it being High Altitude and winter. He could have had got a red nose or chilblain ['chillybilly' as per the jawans]! He was determined to fight the war and not get a Wound Medal via a 'wounded' nose.
It had been a harrowing day [not only for me but for the General]. I had arrived from our Base where I was in charge of 'pushing' the non-existent supplies and equipment up to the front. I arrived when it was lunchtime.
The General was, at this critical moment, huddled in the pathetically pitched tent, masquerading as the Mess with his 'jungi' [warlike] lot, looking solemn and sombre, as any war would demand. Interestingly, their war weary looks belied the fact that till then none had the foggiest and all were probing in the dark! They looked as limp as any self respecting aspen leaf. In contrast, I was as buoyant as one could be, after half a day's helicopter 'ride' trying to organise the administrative 'tail'.
I was brought up on the bottle. A General or no General in attendance, high altitude or no high altitude, I required my high octane quota of two to three small gins. I was an old Kargil hand [something like the old India hand of the British Raj days]. I had served earlier under combat conditions in the same area where the General and his 'jungi' lot were making their abode and planning the war. So, I was more seasoned to the 'ill effects' that high altitude and Kargil can offer. The only ill effect I can remember from those days was that High Altitude bestows something that Kushwant Singh [a popular writer having no qualms about writing on intimate encounters] badly needs – a toned down libido. However, Kushwant's claim of nursing a hyperactive libido maybe residual effects of High Altitude hallucinations, but then I could be wrong! Therefore, two gins were no big deal and Kushwant 'Pecker' Singh would salute to it with no ill effect to his fantasising.
Lunch was served and the Jungi lot attacked their plates [they had no options]. The fare may have appeared on my plate too, but then my palate at the sight of the gruel could not be placated.
I stood away from the table and ordered and knocked another gin down to develop the courage that was necessary to even politely nibble at the Mess [any Officers' Mess] food. The unfortunate part was that I, as the Chairman of the Mess Committee, was technically responsible for the tripe passing off as food.
The chicken came. The General bowed his head and murmured something like the Grace said at school before a meal. I stood aloof. I was savouring the unique singularity of the Indian synthetic gin – absolutely free from such noxious and obnoxious substances like the juniper berry from which gin is supposed to be distilled.
The General dug his fork and the chicken somersaulted like an East European champion gymnast in the Olympics. A beauty 10 so to speak! It was as if all the guns from Tiger Hill and Tololing had exploded. At least that is what occurred in my heart. Quailing in my combat dress, I adopted the best defence in these types of crisis – the sheepish, asinine, dopey smile. It worked! The General melted but not as much as butter on a hot frying pan. But just about.
Dutch courage vitalised me to enquire like a steward of a second rate restaurant, 'A tough cock, sir?'
The General did not answer. He bowed his head like a pious shaven devout at Tirupati [an important temple all Indian VIPs visit regularly] and went through the murmuring ritual through clenched teeth as if he was the modern Osho [a Godman specialising in liberating the soul do what it wants including free sex]. I never knew the General to be sexy though.
'No, not really, Roy. It is as soft as a rhino's hide' said the General, all 32 showing with immense control as if I were a dentist inspecting his molar.
Curiosity got the cat. I could not but venture to query his sudden religious affliction, since he was no religious man; and, anyway I am wary of these religious blokes. I stood my ground and ventured with the maximum of déjà vu that I could muster.
'Sir, why did you say the Grace before your meal? Has the uncertainty of the War made you a trifle more dependent on God than before or have you turned a devout Christian?'
'No, not all old cove', replied the General. 'It is just that I have been taught as a child to respect those elder than me. That's why', he hissed like a lost adder in the deserts of Arizona or wherever these lost adders hiss.
Since I was older than he was, I was flattered. 'Thank you, sir, but there was no requirement; after all I am your junior in rank'. I beamed. Good old orthodox Indian upbringing. You could not fault the General for manners, both Indian and English. The bloke was sterling silver and better quality than the gold in Fort Knox. I was impressed that modernity or Delhi had not ruined the good old Indian ethos of the General, even though he was a Baywatch [he called it Body Watch] fan!
That got the General's goat.
'Who the Dickens [remember, he was from DPS and so he spoke with all these British 'uupah' class style of talk] was giving respect to you. I was only respecting the chicken. It is older than Mohanjodaro and Harrappa [ancient excavated undivided Indian towns] rolled in one, damn you!'
The silence was ominous.
I beat a hasty retreat, murmuring something about the heavy turbulence for the helicopter at this hour and safety requirements demanding that I left. The speed, with which I left, I am told, proved beyond doubt the veracity of what is known as the Venturi Effect. The silence and the vacuum were loud! There was no option. The General's mood was as hot as that of a Bofors Gun on heat!
The next day, the Mess got younger chicken and a new pressure cooker!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
'Operation Vijay' had just started.
8 Mountain Division had been inducted in the Dras - Mushko sector. Part of the Division was still in the Valley.
The war in Kargil was crystallising and the logistic support was in its infancy. Everything was more of a rough and ready solution to universal problems. The scene was like the World War II movies; lots of beehive like activity with teeth-on-the-edge confusion. Unlike the movies, the pretty women resistance fighters were missing. The other difference was that Op Vijay soldiers shaved, had their baths and they did not eat out of mess tins with broken forks. They also did not sport faces hewn from the Rocky Mountain.
My General, the GOC 8 Mountain Division looked young [honest and no buttering!] and was as sophisticated as any Delhite could be. Providentially, he was not the nouveau riche variety that is found under every stone of Delhi, talking of their 'M'rutis' [Maruti – a popular small car] and 'Assteams' [Esteem – a bigger car] but the DPS {Delhi Public School} nose-in-the-air ones, talking of Frankfurt and Disneyland. Of course, the General did not have time to perk his nose in the air as also he was wise enough to know that was not good for his delicate nose as the air was cold, it being High Altitude and winter. He could have had got a red nose or chilblain ['chillybilly' as per the jawans]! He was determined to fight the war and not get a Wound Medal via a 'wounded' nose.
It had been a harrowing day [not only for me but for the General]. I had arrived from our Base where I was in charge of 'pushing' the non-existent supplies and equipment up to the front. I arrived when it was lunchtime.
The General was, at this critical moment, huddled in the pathetically pitched tent, masquerading as the Mess with his 'jungi' [warlike] lot, looking solemn and sombre, as any war would demand. Interestingly, their war weary looks belied the fact that till then none had the foggiest and all were probing in the dark! They looked as limp as any self respecting aspen leaf. In contrast, I was as buoyant as one could be, after half a day's helicopter 'ride' trying to organise the administrative 'tail'.
I was brought up on the bottle. A General or no General in attendance, high altitude or no high altitude, I required my high octane quota of two to three small gins. I was an old Kargil hand [something like the old India hand of the British Raj days]. I had served earlier under combat conditions in the same area where the General and his 'jungi' lot were making their abode and planning the war. So, I was more seasoned to the 'ill effects' that high altitude and Kargil can offer. The only ill effect I can remember from those days was that High Altitude bestows something that Kushwant Singh [a popular writer having no qualms about writing on intimate encounters] badly needs – a toned down libido. However, Kushwant's claim of nursing a hyperactive libido maybe residual effects of High Altitude hallucinations, but then I could be wrong! Therefore, two gins were no big deal and Kushwant 'Pecker' Singh would salute to it with no ill effect to his fantasising.
Lunch was served and the Jungi lot attacked their plates [they had no options]. The fare may have appeared on my plate too, but then my palate at the sight of the gruel could not be placated.
I stood away from the table and ordered and knocked another gin down to develop the courage that was necessary to even politely nibble at the Mess [any Officers' Mess] food. The unfortunate part was that I, as the Chairman of the Mess Committee, was technically responsible for the tripe passing off as food.
The chicken came. The General bowed his head and murmured something like the Grace said at school before a meal. I stood aloof. I was savouring the unique singularity of the Indian synthetic gin – absolutely free from such noxious and obnoxious substances like the juniper berry from which gin is supposed to be distilled.
The General dug his fork and the chicken somersaulted like an East European champion gymnast in the Olympics. A beauty 10 so to speak! It was as if all the guns from Tiger Hill and Tololing had exploded. At least that is what occurred in my heart. Quailing in my combat dress, I adopted the best defence in these types of crisis – the sheepish, asinine, dopey smile. It worked! The General melted but not as much as butter on a hot frying pan. But just about.
Dutch courage vitalised me to enquire like a steward of a second rate restaurant, 'A tough cock, sir?'
The General did not answer. He bowed his head like a pious shaven devout at Tirupati [an important temple all Indian VIPs visit regularly] and went through the murmuring ritual through clenched teeth as if he was the modern Osho [a Godman specialising in liberating the soul do what it wants including free sex]. I never knew the General to be sexy though.
'No, not really, Roy. It is as soft as a rhino's hide' said the General, all 32 showing with immense control as if I were a dentist inspecting his molar.
Curiosity got the cat. I could not but venture to query his sudden religious affliction, since he was no religious man; and, anyway I am wary of these religious blokes. I stood my ground and ventured with the maximum of déjà vu that I could muster.
'Sir, why did you say the Grace before your meal? Has the uncertainty of the War made you a trifle more dependent on God than before or have you turned a devout Christian?'
'No, not all old cove', replied the General. 'It is just that I have been taught as a child to respect those elder than me. That's why', he hissed like a lost adder in the deserts of Arizona or wherever these lost adders hiss.
Since I was older than he was, I was flattered. 'Thank you, sir, but there was no requirement; after all I am your junior in rank'. I beamed. Good old orthodox Indian upbringing. You could not fault the General for manners, both Indian and English. The bloke was sterling silver and better quality than the gold in Fort Knox. I was impressed that modernity or Delhi had not ruined the good old Indian ethos of the General, even though he was a Baywatch [he called it Body Watch] fan!
That got the General's goat.
'Who the Dickens [remember, he was from DPS and so he spoke with all these British 'uupah' class style of talk] was giving respect to you. I was only respecting the chicken. It is older than Mohanjodaro and Harrappa [ancient excavated undivided Indian towns] rolled in one, damn you!'
The silence was ominous.
I beat a hasty retreat, murmuring something about the heavy turbulence for the helicopter at this hour and safety requirements demanding that I left. The speed, with which I left, I am told, proved beyond doubt the veracity of what is known as the Venturi Effect. The silence and the vacuum were loud! There was no option. The General's mood was as hot as that of a Bofors Gun on heat!
The next day, the Mess got younger chicken and a new pressure cooker!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
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Arms and the mule
D K Havanoor
| Feb 20, 2012, 12.00AM IST
Having been an infantry officer myself, i am aware of the infantry's ethos and philosophy, particularly the regiment i belonged to, the Sikh Light Infantry. Most interactions with the other arms and services within the army, whenever they do occur, become great learning experiences for all involved.
Back in the 1980s, while serving in the mountains of J&K as the Rifle Company Commander in my battalion, we had picketed on a hilltop. There wasn't any water source up there. So we were provided with mules to ferry water up from the 'water point' located below the mountain. I remember one particular incident when i was standing outside my bunker with another officer. I saw a jawan running a flame all around the body of a mule. I was confused, to say the least. Noticing this, the officer explained that the mule had just been given a haircut and the flame was being used to burn the remaining hair. I just hoped the local barber didn't try the same trick on us!
In spite of the fiery aftershave the mules receive, they are loyal animals. In the army, there are several stories of valour, loyalty and courage specifically involving mules. One story goes that a mule was captured by Pakistani troops during one of the wars. The enemy troops probably made the captured mule work for them, but not for too long. The patriotic mule escaped from enemy hands and returned to its parent unit - bringing along a load of rations for its own welcome back party!
There were detailed analyses by many armymen to understand the reasons for the mule's daring escape. Humans would escape and return to their country not only for patriotism but also to be back with their loved ones. But these army mules don't have family, so why did they return? It had to be loyalty.
A jawan once gave me the lowdown on mules in the army. There are three types of mules - there is one for general load carrying, General Service. The second is the sturdier type, used to carry dismantled artillery guns called the Mountain Arty. And the third variety is used for riding. Jawans who handle mules are called 'mule drivers' and each of them usually handles a pair. A point to note is that referring to them as "khachchar wale" is considered very offensive.
Whereas most mules are disciplined, some, called 'badmash mules', are not. These badmash mules toss any jawan who tries to get on their backs. But again, if an officer tries to ride them, they behave themselves! The indiscipline of the badmash mules seeps down to their movements too. Yet when the commanding officer (CO) of the Animal Transport Battalion comes around for inspection, they conduct themselves like the most disciplined soldier!
All mules recognise their CO; they probably sense authority, or recognise the officers' pips on the shoulders. Whatever the reason, the badmash mules behave themselves when the CO is around because they seem to know he has complete hold over all, man and mule. He rewards well-behaved mules and punishes the bad ones. If the CO has judicial powers of a magistrate for the men, he can also summarily dispose of 'disciplinary cases' involving mules.
A badmash mule is actually marched up to the CO in his court, for an act of indiscipline. After the latter hears the charge, he reads out the verdict of punishment, which invariably is pack parade for a few days. A pack parade is when a mule is strapped with heavy loads of bricks and sand (heavier than the normal load) and taken around for a long run. What is worse is that when the badmash mules are punished, other mules - who are tagged 'disciplined' - kick them! Clearly, be it man or beast, the army disciplines all.
Arms and the mule - The Times of India
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
D K Havanoor
| Feb 20, 2012, 12.00AM IST
Having been an infantry officer myself, i am aware of the infantry's ethos and philosophy, particularly the regiment i belonged to, the Sikh Light Infantry. Most interactions with the other arms and services within the army, whenever they do occur, become great learning experiences for all involved.
Back in the 1980s, while serving in the mountains of J&K as the Rifle Company Commander in my battalion, we had picketed on a hilltop. There wasn't any water source up there. So we were provided with mules to ferry water up from the 'water point' located below the mountain. I remember one particular incident when i was standing outside my bunker with another officer. I saw a jawan running a flame all around the body of a mule. I was confused, to say the least. Noticing this, the officer explained that the mule had just been given a haircut and the flame was being used to burn the remaining hair. I just hoped the local barber didn't try the same trick on us!
In spite of the fiery aftershave the mules receive, they are loyal animals. In the army, there are several stories of valour, loyalty and courage specifically involving mules. One story goes that a mule was captured by Pakistani troops during one of the wars. The enemy troops probably made the captured mule work for them, but not for too long. The patriotic mule escaped from enemy hands and returned to its parent unit - bringing along a load of rations for its own welcome back party!
There were detailed analyses by many armymen to understand the reasons for the mule's daring escape. Humans would escape and return to their country not only for patriotism but also to be back with their loved ones. But these army mules don't have family, so why did they return? It had to be loyalty.
A jawan once gave me the lowdown on mules in the army. There are three types of mules - there is one for general load carrying, General Service. The second is the sturdier type, used to carry dismantled artillery guns called the Mountain Arty. And the third variety is used for riding. Jawans who handle mules are called 'mule drivers' and each of them usually handles a pair. A point to note is that referring to them as "khachchar wale" is considered very offensive.
Whereas most mules are disciplined, some, called 'badmash mules', are not. These badmash mules toss any jawan who tries to get on their backs. But again, if an officer tries to ride them, they behave themselves! The indiscipline of the badmash mules seeps down to their movements too. Yet when the commanding officer (CO) of the Animal Transport Battalion comes around for inspection, they conduct themselves like the most disciplined soldier!
All mules recognise their CO; they probably sense authority, or recognise the officers' pips on the shoulders. Whatever the reason, the badmash mules behave themselves when the CO is around because they seem to know he has complete hold over all, man and mule. He rewards well-behaved mules and punishes the bad ones. If the CO has judicial powers of a magistrate for the men, he can also summarily dispose of 'disciplinary cases' involving mules.
A badmash mule is actually marched up to the CO in his court, for an act of indiscipline. After the latter hears the charge, he reads out the verdict of punishment, which invariably is pack parade for a few days. A pack parade is when a mule is strapped with heavy loads of bricks and sand (heavier than the normal load) and taken around for a long run. What is worse is that when the badmash mules are punished, other mules - who are tagged 'disciplined' - kick them! Clearly, be it man or beast, the army disciplines all.
Arms and the mule - The Times of India
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
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Samne Dekh (Eyes Front)
I had just joined the Army and had been posted to my battalion. After a few months, the unit went out for its Annual Training Camp. It was my first touch of the "real army". I was excited as any greenhorn would be. We were exercising and training in an area called Shankargarh, near Allahabad. We were all under canvas and there appeared to have been some flap regarding the field commodes and so the junior officers had to use the Deep Trench Latrines (DTL) with no sidewalls or flaps for cover! Not a pleasant experience, but then who cared? We were in the initial stages of setting up the Camp and so there was whole lot of hustle and bustle with no regular schedule. Life was fine and we were getting used to the regimen and it was but a few days more to go before the real 'show' started. Hence, one did not have to wake up before dawn to get cracking. So, instead of awaking before the sun and then going through the morning ablution, it could be done at a leisurely pace without any pressure of a formalised schedule.
One day, I was a bit late for the "morning routine".I sauntered to the DTL, and without a worry in the world, sat down to perform. The breeze wafted gently and the birds chirped on the trees just above. It was heavenly.
The only thing that worried me was that no bird dropping should fall on me. The birds had to show some decorum after all, since an officer was performing and it was not correct to perform together, no matter how high they were above me! I could see in the distance that soldiers were going about their duty for the various chores assigned to set up the camp. They were in the far distance! It was nice, as a greenhorn, to observe the ways of the Army – all efficiency personified!
Then suddenly footsteps seem to approach in the distance. Even before one could say "Jack Robinson" or "Ram Bharose", a column of soldiers, with pick axes and shovels, emerged from the left from behind the bushes. They were marching across, ahead of where I was "performing". I was stark naked to the world and as all could observe, the world was at peace! Lest one forgets, there were no flaps or sidewalls to the DTL to cover my "modesty". I was nonplussed. I did not know what to do. I could not get up, nor could I cover my nakedness. And yet, as per the teaching, officers had to be 'on parade' at all times, especially if troops were anywhere in the vicinity.
It was a serious quandary! I sat mesmerised. I braced up all the dignity that an officer can muster in total nakedness. I hoped like hell that the column would pass without observing me. But no, the column commander suddenly observed me. Without batting an eyelid, he puffed up his chest in the best of NCO training, smartly yelled, "Party, Dahine Dekh (eyes right!)" and executed the smartest of salutes! The whole column executed "eye right" with total parade ground precision. I sat frozen!
I squirmed but maintained the required officer like stoic. I wished the earth would open up and swallow me whole. But nothing of the sort happened. True to military training and reflexes, I found that I had stood up!
All I could do was yell, "Samne Dekh (eyes front)" as per the laid down drill. My military training had got the better of me and maybe that saved the day. I could not salute. I was bareheaded! The moment passed. The military preciseness may have been upheld, but not the Langar gup. It was said that they had caught an officer pants down!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
I had just joined the Army and had been posted to my battalion. After a few months, the unit went out for its Annual Training Camp. It was my first touch of the "real army". I was excited as any greenhorn would be. We were exercising and training in an area called Shankargarh, near Allahabad. We were all under canvas and there appeared to have been some flap regarding the field commodes and so the junior officers had to use the Deep Trench Latrines (DTL) with no sidewalls or flaps for cover! Not a pleasant experience, but then who cared? We were in the initial stages of setting up the Camp and so there was whole lot of hustle and bustle with no regular schedule. Life was fine and we were getting used to the regimen and it was but a few days more to go before the real 'show' started. Hence, one did not have to wake up before dawn to get cracking. So, instead of awaking before the sun and then going through the morning ablution, it could be done at a leisurely pace without any pressure of a formalised schedule.
One day, I was a bit late for the "morning routine".I sauntered to the DTL, and without a worry in the world, sat down to perform. The breeze wafted gently and the birds chirped on the trees just above. It was heavenly.
The only thing that worried me was that no bird dropping should fall on me. The birds had to show some decorum after all, since an officer was performing and it was not correct to perform together, no matter how high they were above me! I could see in the distance that soldiers were going about their duty for the various chores assigned to set up the camp. They were in the far distance! It was nice, as a greenhorn, to observe the ways of the Army – all efficiency personified!
Then suddenly footsteps seem to approach in the distance. Even before one could say "Jack Robinson" or "Ram Bharose", a column of soldiers, with pick axes and shovels, emerged from the left from behind the bushes. They were marching across, ahead of where I was "performing". I was stark naked to the world and as all could observe, the world was at peace! Lest one forgets, there were no flaps or sidewalls to the DTL to cover my "modesty". I was nonplussed. I did not know what to do. I could not get up, nor could I cover my nakedness. And yet, as per the teaching, officers had to be 'on parade' at all times, especially if troops were anywhere in the vicinity.
It was a serious quandary! I sat mesmerised. I braced up all the dignity that an officer can muster in total nakedness. I hoped like hell that the column would pass without observing me. But no, the column commander suddenly observed me. Without batting an eyelid, he puffed up his chest in the best of NCO training, smartly yelled, "Party, Dahine Dekh (eyes right!)" and executed the smartest of salutes! The whole column executed "eye right" with total parade ground precision. I sat frozen!
I squirmed but maintained the required officer like stoic. I wished the earth would open up and swallow me whole. But nothing of the sort happened. True to military training and reflexes, I found that I had stood up!
All I could do was yell, "Samne Dekh (eyes front)" as per the laid down drill. My military training had got the better of me and maybe that saved the day. I could not salute. I was bareheaded! The moment passed. The military preciseness may have been upheld, but not the Langar gup. It was said that they had caught an officer pants down!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
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Kargil !
The Sikh regiment was climbing a hill in the Kargil sector during the war when suddenly from the direction of the summit the Pakistani regiment opened fire on them. The Sikh regiment took cover behind boulders and started to return the firing. The firing continued for a long time and no progress was made so the Sikh regiment's captain thought that since the names of almost all the pakistani soldiers are like yusuf iqbal mustafa etc. he'll call out their names and the moment they react to the call we'll shoot them.
So he started calling out-"Yusuf" four hands shot up and they were gunned down. Then the captain called out-"iqbal" three hands shot up and they were gunned down this continued for a few more minutes till the Pakistani's got wise and stopped responding.
The Pakistani captain then thought that at this rate all his men would be killed so he adopted the strategy of the Sikh captain and thought that all Sikhs have names rhyming with Inder like Sukhwinder, Devender, Jaswinder etc.
So the Pakistani captain started calling out "Sukhwinder" no hands shot up from the Indian side. The Pakistani captain again called out-"Sukhwinder" still no hands shot up.
The Pakistani captain called out the same name twice again when instantly came the reply that-
"Oye Sukhwinder nu kaun yaad kar-riya si?" (who is remembering Sukhwinder?).
The Pakistani commander immediately shot up his hand and said- "Main" (me) and BANG he was shot dead.
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Iamanidiot]
The Sikh regiment was climbing a hill in the Kargil sector during the war when suddenly from the direction of the summit the Pakistani regiment opened fire on them. The Sikh regiment took cover behind boulders and started to return the firing. The firing continued for a long time and no progress was made so the Sikh regiment's captain thought that since the names of almost all the pakistani soldiers are like yusuf iqbal mustafa etc. he'll call out their names and the moment they react to the call we'll shoot them.
So he started calling out-"Yusuf" four hands shot up and they were gunned down. Then the captain called out-"iqbal" three hands shot up and they were gunned down this continued for a few more minutes till the Pakistani's got wise and stopped responding.
The Pakistani captain then thought that at this rate all his men would be killed so he adopted the strategy of the Sikh captain and thought that all Sikhs have names rhyming with Inder like Sukhwinder, Devender, Jaswinder etc.
So the Pakistani captain started calling out "Sukhwinder" no hands shot up from the Indian side. The Pakistani captain again called out-"Sukhwinder" still no hands shot up.
The Pakistani captain called out the same name twice again when instantly came the reply that-
"Oye Sukhwinder nu kaun yaad kar-riya si?" (who is remembering Sukhwinder?).
The Pakistani commander immediately shot up his hand and said- "Main" (me) and BANG he was shot dead.
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Iamanidiot]
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THE MOVING MEDICAL MIRACLES
I had gone to Bhopal on a short stint of leave.
The Corps HQ was located in Bhopal. The Corps Commander knew me and so he called me over to his office for a cup of tea and chat.
At the appointed hour, I was ushered into the hallowed chambers of the Corps Commander. I was quite apprehensive, not because he was a very senior officer, but because he had a very odd and cutting sense of humour. Therefore, while I may have been delighted to have the Corps Commander calling me for just a chat, as his Colonel Military Secretary put it, I was a trifle apprehensive that this chat would be an exercise in dripping sarcasm of some omission or commission that I may have inadvertently done or not done in my official or unofficial capacity.
The Corps Commander was most cordial. Coffee was served and he actually was doing small talk about life in general including a gentle reminder of the dinner my wife and I were to attend at his place at 8 PM Indian Standard Time and not Indian Stretchable Time. He continued to chat with the serenity and deadpan of a Chinese Buddha. The emotions of the Indian Buddha, in comparison, could at least be discerned. Therefore, it was difficult to gauge the Corps Commander's thought or his physical state.
As I was trying to gauge the Corps Commander, he gave a deep sigh. It was as if he was immensely tired and that the onerous task of heading the large Corps was wearing him down. It was surprising since nothing could ever wear him down. He was reputed to be the coolest cat amongst senior officers because he sincerely believed in one theory i.e. if you don't have wings, then why flap ?
Thus, the deep sigh, was extraordinary; and that too coming from such a person who could go off to sleep during moments of serious business and when asked if he was sleeping, he could calmly state that he was merely meditating, the soft snore being only a metaphysical clash of temple bells with the wail of a conch shell in the truest tradition of the Indian Puja rituals.
Therefore, I was forced to venture, "Not feeling well, sir?"
"How did you guess it?"
"I didn't guess it, sir. You don't look under the weather and so I am surprised that you proffered such a deep sigh".Â
"Thank God it was only a sigh. Air can pass through many orifices. By the way Roy, do you know why most of the Major Generals who have just relinquished command like your Divisional Commander [GOC] will become Lieutenant Generals next year?"
This was a real extraordinary bit of news. Even though I was rather fond of my erstwhile GOC, Major General SP, but such a quick promotion was hierarchically extraordinary. And anyway, the rapid promotion of my GOC had not the remotest connection with any illness of the Corps Commander even if the Corps Commander was not at his pinkest best in health.
My brows had wrinkled querulously.
The Corps Commander continued, "I reckon the quick promotion is the order of the day. After all, all Corps Commanders are moving medical miracles and should actually be medically boarded out and be shown the door".
I was aghast.
If all Corps Commanders were medically unfit and sick, then why have they been promoted? Also, how come all the present Corps Commanders were a sick bunch? It was indeed a most unusual coincidence!
"If I may ask, sir, how come that all the Corps Commanders are a sick lot?"
"Roy, it is like this. Not only are the present Corps Commanders a sick lot, all Corps Commanders, Army Commanders and Chiefs throughout history, like all in high offices in all facets of professional life are or were a sick lot".
Now, the musing of the Corps Commander was indeed getting amusingly crazier. Ramblings of a genius on the thin red line of sanity?
"Extraordinary. Would you care to amplify, sir?" Remember, one cannot ask senior officers to explain. They only 'amplified' after the junior made a "submission".
"It is like this, Roy. All Corps Commanders, like all senior officers in government service, have no spine. Further, they have no guts. Their hearts are similar to that of the chicken and thus chicken hearted, but what is just not acceptable is that they suffer from meningitis".
Meningitis? Collective meningitis?
"Meningitis, sir?"
"Yes, Roy, they all have swollen heads!"
That really floored me.
You can't beat the General in macabre wit!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]
I had gone to Bhopal on a short stint of leave.
The Corps HQ was located in Bhopal. The Corps Commander knew me and so he called me over to his office for a cup of tea and chat.
At the appointed hour, I was ushered into the hallowed chambers of the Corps Commander. I was quite apprehensive, not because he was a very senior officer, but because he had a very odd and cutting sense of humour. Therefore, while I may have been delighted to have the Corps Commander calling me for just a chat, as his Colonel Military Secretary put it, I was a trifle apprehensive that this chat would be an exercise in dripping sarcasm of some omission or commission that I may have inadvertently done or not done in my official or unofficial capacity.
The Corps Commander was most cordial. Coffee was served and he actually was doing small talk about life in general including a gentle reminder of the dinner my wife and I were to attend at his place at 8 PM Indian Standard Time and not Indian Stretchable Time. He continued to chat with the serenity and deadpan of a Chinese Buddha. The emotions of the Indian Buddha, in comparison, could at least be discerned. Therefore, it was difficult to gauge the Corps Commander's thought or his physical state.
As I was trying to gauge the Corps Commander, he gave a deep sigh. It was as if he was immensely tired and that the onerous task of heading the large Corps was wearing him down. It was surprising since nothing could ever wear him down. He was reputed to be the coolest cat amongst senior officers because he sincerely believed in one theory i.e. if you don't have wings, then why flap ?
Thus, the deep sigh, was extraordinary; and that too coming from such a person who could go off to sleep during moments of serious business and when asked if he was sleeping, he could calmly state that he was merely meditating, the soft snore being only a metaphysical clash of temple bells with the wail of a conch shell in the truest tradition of the Indian Puja rituals.
Therefore, I was forced to venture, "Not feeling well, sir?"
"How did you guess it?"
"I didn't guess it, sir. You don't look under the weather and so I am surprised that you proffered such a deep sigh".Â
"Thank God it was only a sigh. Air can pass through many orifices. By the way Roy, do you know why most of the Major Generals who have just relinquished command like your Divisional Commander [GOC] will become Lieutenant Generals next year?"
This was a real extraordinary bit of news. Even though I was rather fond of my erstwhile GOC, Major General SP, but such a quick promotion was hierarchically extraordinary. And anyway, the rapid promotion of my GOC had not the remotest connection with any illness of the Corps Commander even if the Corps Commander was not at his pinkest best in health.
My brows had wrinkled querulously.
The Corps Commander continued, "I reckon the quick promotion is the order of the day. After all, all Corps Commanders are moving medical miracles and should actually be medically boarded out and be shown the door".
I was aghast.
If all Corps Commanders were medically unfit and sick, then why have they been promoted? Also, how come all the present Corps Commanders were a sick bunch? It was indeed a most unusual coincidence!
"If I may ask, sir, how come that all the Corps Commanders are a sick lot?"
"Roy, it is like this. Not only are the present Corps Commanders a sick lot, all Corps Commanders, Army Commanders and Chiefs throughout history, like all in high offices in all facets of professional life are or were a sick lot".
Now, the musing of the Corps Commander was indeed getting amusingly crazier. Ramblings of a genius on the thin red line of sanity?
"Extraordinary. Would you care to amplify, sir?" Remember, one cannot ask senior officers to explain. They only 'amplified' after the junior made a "submission".
"It is like this, Roy. All Corps Commanders, like all senior officers in government service, have no spine. Further, they have no guts. Their hearts are similar to that of the chicken and thus chicken hearted, but what is just not acceptable is that they suffer from meningitis".
Meningitis? Collective meningitis?
"Meningitis, sir?"
"Yes, Roy, they all have swollen heads!"
That really floored me.
You can't beat the General in macabre wit!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]
- Joined
- Jun 30, 2024
- Messages
- 1,163
- Likes
- 2,178
THE QUARTERMASTER AND THE BONDAS (Indian Savoury)
This story was told to me when I joined the unit that I commanded.
The unit was located in Naushera in J&K and was deployed on the hill sector along the Line of Control.
The Corps Commander was visiting the unit. This was not a normal event since Corps Commanders are very senior officers and three levels above the unit level.
Army, being over-reactive about their hierarchical pecking order, such events traumatised the protocol infrastructure and each level of command took hyperactive personal interest in ensuring that the visit went off flawless. None wanted their heads to roll. Each level of the hierarchy ensured so by checking, re-checking and re-rechecking ad infinitum right down to the ground level that all contingencies had been catered for and nothing was overlooked. In short, such visits were a torment to those being visited. Interestingly, Parkinson’s Law always, without fail, did not fail to apply itself during such visits!
On the momentous day, every aspect of the visit of the Corps Commander to the unit was picture perfect. However, Parkinson's Law, right as rain, applied itself. The Corps Commander, who was to arrive at the unit Tactical HQ by helicopter, could not do so as the weather was foul. Hence, he landed at the Divisional HQ and was driving down to the unit. The drive would take about two hours and so there was ample time to react.
Everything had been catered for. However, what supposing the Corps Commander wanted to 'wash his hands', after the two hour journey, at the unit Base before commencing the ride up the hill to the Tactical HQ?
The Commanding Officer {CO} was a man of details and this aspect was bothering him intensely. He was a person who liked preciseness. He wasn't at all comfortable or happy about the departure from the set-piece programme of the Corps Commander with this driving down instead of landing by helicopter at the unit Tactical HQ.
The Quartermaster {QM} was at the Base. He was a pleasant, happy go lucky, rotund young officer with a bagful of initiative and a 'never say die' attitude. The CO rang him up and told him to ensure that the Officers' Mess, at the Base, was shipshape, the toilet spankingly clean and to keep a safaiwala [janitor] ready at a moment's notice in the vicinity. And of course, some light refreshments were to be at hand that could be served so that the Corps Commander knew that the unit was 'on the ball'. Having ordered so, the CO went back to the practising of his Briefing for the 189th time!
Parkinson's Law didn't apply this time. The Corps Commander stopped at the Base to 'wash his hands'. There was the usual hustle and bustle of his personal staff, the Divisional and Brigade HQs staff who were accompanying and the Mess staff including the QM. They followed the Corps Commander towards the Mess as if being pulled by the vacuum created in his wake! It is only in the Army that a VIP relieving himself by answering nature's call is given the reverence normally associated with an event of national importance!
The Corps Commander entered the Mess. He looked at the QM and gave a shake of the leg as if shaking a boisterous housefly off the trouser. Bending at 80 degrees to the perpendicular, the Corps Commander wiggled his little finger of the left hand as if seized by an involuntary twitch and said "Which a-way to the Loo, old boy?"
The QM had never ever had the good fortune of a Corps Commander speaking to him. He was awe struck! He thought that he too had to answer in a fancy way and so he said,"That a-way sir" and before he could copy the Corps Commander's leg shake which he thought would be appropriate, the Corps Commander, fortunately for all, was on his way.
The Divisional Commander [next in the hierarchy] was taken aback by what he thought was the cheek of this junior officer to copy the Corps Commander's syntax. He would have been hopping wild had he realised that the QM had attempted the Corps Commander's leg shake. To him it appeared as if the QM had slipped on the water that had by then settled on the linoleum from the clothes of the various personalities [who were wet from the light drizzle] crowding the alley leading to the 'Men's'.
The Corps Commander had moved into the 'Men's'. The Divisional Commander decided to have another 'dekko' at the arrangements. He stood aghast as his eyes laid on the savouries to be offered to the Corps Commander
"Bondas?" he asked querulously and fixed a horribly immobile stare on the QM, who was beaming with delight that the Divisional Commander had observed the savoury that he had had prepared for them.
"Bondas?" echoed the Brigade Commander peevishly on cue as did any other officer worth his salt. All were aghast and all spoke in unison, so much so, the statement resounded like the Onida Bass Surround TV. It was a different matter that they did not understand why the Divisional Commander was horrified and grouchy at the sight of Bondas.
"Are you aware that the Corps Commander is an Armoured Corps chap? and you have the temerity to offer Indian savouries and that too the type that would be found in a cheap halwai's [sweetmeat vendor] shop?", bellowed the Divisional Commander, a decibel lower than what would reach the 'Men's' where the Corps Commander apparently had nestled.
"Yes sir. I know that the Corps Commander is an Armoured Corps officer and they are reputed to prefer crumpets and strawberry in cream with their tea. However, sir, I don't know how to make them and also, sir, what could be better than hot hot bondas on a rainy day like today?" the QM said with a radiant smile that annoyed the Divisional Commander no end and even more, the Brigade Commander.
"Bakwaas [Tommy rot]. You village bumpkin. You are the biggest idiot I have seen. A rum ball with a hot rum punch would have fitted the occasion and the weather; not these stupid, smelly, oily [he was spluttering in anger and had apparently run out of adjectives] bondas. Have you seen the size of the bondas? They are as fat and big as you are. How can he put them ever so gently in the mouth? You have no sophistication. You are a real rustic!" the Divisional Commander thundered. He, it appeared, was by now immensely inflamed and frothing at the mouth.
The QM cringed. However, Divine intervention saved him from a further berating. The Corps Commander had emerged from the 'Loo' and was looking definitely much relieved. He seemed to be in the best of moods and was genially smiling as he emerged.
His eyes fell on the Bondas. The Divisional Commander and his 'faithful echoes' froze!
The Corps Commander took two steps towards the Bondas and stopped abruptly, practically screeching to a halt! A cold shiver went down the spine of the Divisional Commander.
"Ah, sir" and whatever the Divisional Commander wanted to say was drowned in the shriek that emanated from the Corps Commander. All froze with fear, waiting anxiously for the Corps Commander's inevitable indignation that was expected at this spread.
The Corps Commander pounced towards the table in what appeared a leap, swiped the largest Bonda, bit a massive chunk and literally gloated, more like a cat which had filched a platter of milk.
"What a capital idea! Hot hot Bondas on a rainy day. Well done and well thought of, old boy", the Corps Commander was definitely rapturous as his gaze twinkled towards the QM.
The Divisional Commander and his gang emulated the Corps Commander's leap, swiped the Bondas, and echoed, "A wonderful idea indeed, sir". They too beamed but definitely not towards the QM.
The broadest smile was on the QM's face.
He had had the last laugh and damn the strawberries, cream, and crumpets!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]
This story was told to me when I joined the unit that I commanded.
The unit was located in Naushera in J&K and was deployed on the hill sector along the Line of Control.
The Corps Commander was visiting the unit. This was not a normal event since Corps Commanders are very senior officers and three levels above the unit level.
Army, being over-reactive about their hierarchical pecking order, such events traumatised the protocol infrastructure and each level of command took hyperactive personal interest in ensuring that the visit went off flawless. None wanted their heads to roll. Each level of the hierarchy ensured so by checking, re-checking and re-rechecking ad infinitum right down to the ground level that all contingencies had been catered for and nothing was overlooked. In short, such visits were a torment to those being visited. Interestingly, Parkinson’s Law always, without fail, did not fail to apply itself during such visits!
On the momentous day, every aspect of the visit of the Corps Commander to the unit was picture perfect. However, Parkinson's Law, right as rain, applied itself. The Corps Commander, who was to arrive at the unit Tactical HQ by helicopter, could not do so as the weather was foul. Hence, he landed at the Divisional HQ and was driving down to the unit. The drive would take about two hours and so there was ample time to react.
Everything had been catered for. However, what supposing the Corps Commander wanted to 'wash his hands', after the two hour journey, at the unit Base before commencing the ride up the hill to the Tactical HQ?
The Commanding Officer {CO} was a man of details and this aspect was bothering him intensely. He was a person who liked preciseness. He wasn't at all comfortable or happy about the departure from the set-piece programme of the Corps Commander with this driving down instead of landing by helicopter at the unit Tactical HQ.
The Quartermaster {QM} was at the Base. He was a pleasant, happy go lucky, rotund young officer with a bagful of initiative and a 'never say die' attitude. The CO rang him up and told him to ensure that the Officers' Mess, at the Base, was shipshape, the toilet spankingly clean and to keep a safaiwala [janitor] ready at a moment's notice in the vicinity. And of course, some light refreshments were to be at hand that could be served so that the Corps Commander knew that the unit was 'on the ball'. Having ordered so, the CO went back to the practising of his Briefing for the 189th time!
Parkinson's Law didn't apply this time. The Corps Commander stopped at the Base to 'wash his hands'. There was the usual hustle and bustle of his personal staff, the Divisional and Brigade HQs staff who were accompanying and the Mess staff including the QM. They followed the Corps Commander towards the Mess as if being pulled by the vacuum created in his wake! It is only in the Army that a VIP relieving himself by answering nature's call is given the reverence normally associated with an event of national importance!
The Corps Commander entered the Mess. He looked at the QM and gave a shake of the leg as if shaking a boisterous housefly off the trouser. Bending at 80 degrees to the perpendicular, the Corps Commander wiggled his little finger of the left hand as if seized by an involuntary twitch and said "Which a-way to the Loo, old boy?"
The QM had never ever had the good fortune of a Corps Commander speaking to him. He was awe struck! He thought that he too had to answer in a fancy way and so he said,"That a-way sir" and before he could copy the Corps Commander's leg shake which he thought would be appropriate, the Corps Commander, fortunately for all, was on his way.
The Divisional Commander [next in the hierarchy] was taken aback by what he thought was the cheek of this junior officer to copy the Corps Commander's syntax. He would have been hopping wild had he realised that the QM had attempted the Corps Commander's leg shake. To him it appeared as if the QM had slipped on the water that had by then settled on the linoleum from the clothes of the various personalities [who were wet from the light drizzle] crowding the alley leading to the 'Men's'.
The Corps Commander had moved into the 'Men's'. The Divisional Commander decided to have another 'dekko' at the arrangements. He stood aghast as his eyes laid on the savouries to be offered to the Corps Commander
"Bondas?" he asked querulously and fixed a horribly immobile stare on the QM, who was beaming with delight that the Divisional Commander had observed the savoury that he had had prepared for them.
"Bondas?" echoed the Brigade Commander peevishly on cue as did any other officer worth his salt. All were aghast and all spoke in unison, so much so, the statement resounded like the Onida Bass Surround TV. It was a different matter that they did not understand why the Divisional Commander was horrified and grouchy at the sight of Bondas.
"Are you aware that the Corps Commander is an Armoured Corps chap? and you have the temerity to offer Indian savouries and that too the type that would be found in a cheap halwai's [sweetmeat vendor] shop?", bellowed the Divisional Commander, a decibel lower than what would reach the 'Men's' where the Corps Commander apparently had nestled.
"Yes sir. I know that the Corps Commander is an Armoured Corps officer and they are reputed to prefer crumpets and strawberry in cream with their tea. However, sir, I don't know how to make them and also, sir, what could be better than hot hot bondas on a rainy day like today?" the QM said with a radiant smile that annoyed the Divisional Commander no end and even more, the Brigade Commander.
"Bakwaas [Tommy rot]. You village bumpkin. You are the biggest idiot I have seen. A rum ball with a hot rum punch would have fitted the occasion and the weather; not these stupid, smelly, oily [he was spluttering in anger and had apparently run out of adjectives] bondas. Have you seen the size of the bondas? They are as fat and big as you are. How can he put them ever so gently in the mouth? You have no sophistication. You are a real rustic!" the Divisional Commander thundered. He, it appeared, was by now immensely inflamed and frothing at the mouth.
The QM cringed. However, Divine intervention saved him from a further berating. The Corps Commander had emerged from the 'Loo' and was looking definitely much relieved. He seemed to be in the best of moods and was genially smiling as he emerged.
His eyes fell on the Bondas. The Divisional Commander and his 'faithful echoes' froze!
The Corps Commander took two steps towards the Bondas and stopped abruptly, practically screeching to a halt! A cold shiver went down the spine of the Divisional Commander.
"Ah, sir" and whatever the Divisional Commander wanted to say was drowned in the shriek that emanated from the Corps Commander. All froze with fear, waiting anxiously for the Corps Commander's inevitable indignation that was expected at this spread.
The Corps Commander pounced towards the table in what appeared a leap, swiped the largest Bonda, bit a massive chunk and literally gloated, more like a cat which had filched a platter of milk.
"What a capital idea! Hot hot Bondas on a rainy day. Well done and well thought of, old boy", the Corps Commander was definitely rapturous as his gaze twinkled towards the QM.
The Divisional Commander and his gang emulated the Corps Commander's leap, swiped the Bondas, and echoed, "A wonderful idea indeed, sir". They too beamed but definitely not towards the QM.
The broadest smile was on the QM's face.
He had had the last laugh and damn the strawberries, cream, and crumpets!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]
- Joined
- Jun 30, 2024
- Messages
- 1,163
- Likes
- 2,178
MY FIRST DAY IN THE NDA
THE ENTRY INTO DALDA SQUADRON
This story is about the first day of my military career when I joined the National Defence Academy [NDA] – the nursery of the Indian Army. World War II veterans mistook NDA to be Stalag 17 [POW Camp 17] and Solzenytsyn took inspiration from it when he wrote on the evils of the Soviet empire.
All momentous and landmark events of my life started on 5th of January. Interestingly, each one contributed in a change in my life, but each one was a dirge. Extraordinarily, each one bestowed me with all the honours that any soldier would feel proud of. Mysteries of God, I reckon.
My army life has been tumultuous. It couldn't be anything else. The day I was selected at the 19th Service Selection Board at Allahabad in October 1962, China attacked India! So, not unusually, my whole life has been one of interesting battles of [or is it, 'for'] life.
I joined the NDA on 5th January 1963. I wanted to join earlier. Nonetheless, John Mukherjee of my school, in whose care my father boarded me on the train and who was a final termer and a Divisional Cadet Captain, strongly discouraged this. Instead, he told me to join my relatives in Bombay and join NDA only on the assigned date. I was most unhappy, but this turned out to be a most valuable advice. When I joined the NDA on the assigned date, I realised the meaning what was meant by 'dead meat'! Apparently, 1st termers personified the same. By the end of the day, they also were equally malodorous – but that did not discourage the 'butchers' that other cadets apparently turned out be.
On the assigned date of joining, the 'Deccan Queen' regally steamed us into Poona, right into the arms of an officer and some over zealous jawans forming the Reception Committee. The rickety military Studebaker truck rattled us past the majestic Deccan plateau and into Khadakvasla.
The first glimpse of the NDA, was awesome. Vast miles and miles of lush forestry and verdant greenery swamped us into a sublime ecstasy. Majestic buildings unobtrusively dotted the green expanse. The signature dome of pink sandstone, of what we later learnt, was the Sudan Block rose upwards in salute as if in gratitude to the money that had been donated by Sudan for the services during World War II by the Indian Army. The bountiful silence of the forestry calmed us into a pleasant security of a world at peace and order.
We disembarked; more appropriate would be disembowelled, at the Cadets Mess – an imposing one storey building. We were convinced that there could be no better profession than being a soldier. Our chests puffed up. I am sure we had the cocky glint of the German General, Rommel. Then, amidst the confusion that can only be whipped up by new eager beaver cadets, we, with a flourish, produced our papers to the officer in charge. It was heartbreaking that the officer was not as enthused as us. He was the only discordant item in the joyous, excitement charged environs.
I was assigned to 'Dalda' Squadron. That was my first shock. Imagine, Dalda – hydrogenated oil! I confess that my mother had worked for Dalda with Mrs Ninen as her boss. I distinctly remember Mrs Ninen was not too enthusiastic that Dalda was a good thing for health. So, Dalda did not please me at all. But Tennyson run in my ears – it's not to reason why"¦and all that blah blah and more blah blah.
I had a huge army trunk and a bedroll as luggage. A civilian bearer picked this up and cockily led me to my 'officers' quarters [as I had imagined], walking down the slope to 'A' Battalion.
Lo and behold, hardly had I entered 'A' Battalion when a chap in khaki half pants with spindly legs halted me. Like a jagirdar talking to his serfs, he ceremoniously told me to carry my trunk – all of its six feet length - on my head! Bloody cheek I thought, especially since he looked more of a village bumpkin. His accent was so unintelligibly dreadful that it took time to understand him. I was from La Martiniere, a reputed public school in India and France and the only school with Battle Honours and here I was to hear some foreign gibberish akin to English! Peter Sellers would have been closer to English than this bloke!
I was thoroughly baffled, perplexed and odd at ease.
To the diktat of my carrying the trunk on my noggin, I flatly refused. However, with the start of a menacing growl emanating from this rustic, like a pit terrier, I realised that this was not the time to show valour. I tried to carry the trunk, but being the 90 lb weakling, I crumpled like an aspen leaf under the weight.
The rustic who told me to pick up the trunk compressed with laughter and I was allowed to wend my way beyond. I felt like a worm.
A few moments later I reached the portals of 'Dalda' Squadron. By then I was quite deflated. I was ashamed of myself that I had wilted.
At the portals of this magnificent squadron I met Cadet Sergeant Major Chauhan. If I can digress, I call the squadron magnificent because it hardened me to take all the nonsense that was doled out during my service in the name of discipline and things 'not done'. Thus, it was magnificent – a magnificent delusion.
CSM Chauhan was all sugar and honey and he spoke in Bengali! It was music to the ears [You must remember that one silly bloke at A Squadron had shaken me totally and so anything familiar was great; fie on me to be parochial!]. Under normal circumstances, we from La Martininere don't converse in the vernacular, but then these were not normal circumstances. These were abnormal hours, to say the least. Notwithstanding the Bengali welcome, I poured my heart out in clipped English. The CSM was impressed but excused himself as he was going for lunch.
There I was in front of this magnificent stone edifice called the Dalda Squadron. I entered the Squadron to be met by the most hairy thing that I ever saw in my whole life – Corporal Avtar Singh! He was indeed huge and hairy. In fact, it took time to realise that through all that hair, there were eyes peering at you.
"What are you?" said this matchless thing, which I had mistaken for some exotic South Pacific tropical tree. In a clear voice I replied "SK Raychaudhuri". Three times did he ask, as Anthony had asked of Caesar, and three times I replied the same!
This 'tree' turned pinker than his natural pink. At least he was turning pink in the areas that could be discerned. "Are you a Bhangi?" asked Corporal Avatar Singh. Now, while I knew passable Hindi that I used at home to talk to the retainers, I was not endowed with such technical Hindi. Naturally, I was confused. However, enlightenment dawned on me.
I was getting used to the fact that these blokes in the NDA had a problem with their English accent. Therefore, I surmised that most probably he was trying to say 'Bengi' as the Anglo Indians in my school called us Bengalis.
With a radiant smile I proudly said, "Yes".
Avatar Singh recoiled as if he had seen the ghost of Caesar. He was incredulous! Keeping a safe distance, thrice [it was his habit of repeating himself thrice in the best of North Indian English] he asked the same question and thrice and I answered the same – thrice.
"Are you sure you know the meaning of Bhangi?" asked Avtar totally disbelieving.
"Why not? I presume you mean a 'Bengali'," said I.
Avatar Singh buckled with the mirth of a steam engine chugging away from a station and the wheels sipping on the rails. His belly fat quivered like Pompeii about to spew.
As his amusement faded like a wailing banshee, he bellowed, "Silly man Charlie bai [boy]. It's not a Bengali, Bhangi means a scavenger. A sweeper. Are you a sweeper?"
THE ENTRY INTO DALDA SQUADRON
This story is about the first day of my military career when I joined the National Defence Academy [NDA] – the nursery of the Indian Army. World War II veterans mistook NDA to be Stalag 17 [POW Camp 17] and Solzenytsyn took inspiration from it when he wrote on the evils of the Soviet empire.
All momentous and landmark events of my life started on 5th of January. Interestingly, each one contributed in a change in my life, but each one was a dirge. Extraordinarily, each one bestowed me with all the honours that any soldier would feel proud of. Mysteries of God, I reckon.
My army life has been tumultuous. It couldn't be anything else. The day I was selected at the 19th Service Selection Board at Allahabad in October 1962, China attacked India! So, not unusually, my whole life has been one of interesting battles of [or is it, 'for'] life.
I joined the NDA on 5th January 1963. I wanted to join earlier. Nonetheless, John Mukherjee of my school, in whose care my father boarded me on the train and who was a final termer and a Divisional Cadet Captain, strongly discouraged this. Instead, he told me to join my relatives in Bombay and join NDA only on the assigned date. I was most unhappy, but this turned out to be a most valuable advice. When I joined the NDA on the assigned date, I realised the meaning what was meant by 'dead meat'! Apparently, 1st termers personified the same. By the end of the day, they also were equally malodorous – but that did not discourage the 'butchers' that other cadets apparently turned out be.
On the assigned date of joining, the 'Deccan Queen' regally steamed us into Poona, right into the arms of an officer and some over zealous jawans forming the Reception Committee. The rickety military Studebaker truck rattled us past the majestic Deccan plateau and into Khadakvasla.
The first glimpse of the NDA, was awesome. Vast miles and miles of lush forestry and verdant greenery swamped us into a sublime ecstasy. Majestic buildings unobtrusively dotted the green expanse. The signature dome of pink sandstone, of what we later learnt, was the Sudan Block rose upwards in salute as if in gratitude to the money that had been donated by Sudan for the services during World War II by the Indian Army. The bountiful silence of the forestry calmed us into a pleasant security of a world at peace and order.
We disembarked; more appropriate would be disembowelled, at the Cadets Mess – an imposing one storey building. We were convinced that there could be no better profession than being a soldier. Our chests puffed up. I am sure we had the cocky glint of the German General, Rommel. Then, amidst the confusion that can only be whipped up by new eager beaver cadets, we, with a flourish, produced our papers to the officer in charge. It was heartbreaking that the officer was not as enthused as us. He was the only discordant item in the joyous, excitement charged environs.
I was assigned to 'Dalda' Squadron. That was my first shock. Imagine, Dalda – hydrogenated oil! I confess that my mother had worked for Dalda with Mrs Ninen as her boss. I distinctly remember Mrs Ninen was not too enthusiastic that Dalda was a good thing for health. So, Dalda did not please me at all. But Tennyson run in my ears – it's not to reason why"¦and all that blah blah and more blah blah.
I had a huge army trunk and a bedroll as luggage. A civilian bearer picked this up and cockily led me to my 'officers' quarters [as I had imagined], walking down the slope to 'A' Battalion.
Lo and behold, hardly had I entered 'A' Battalion when a chap in khaki half pants with spindly legs halted me. Like a jagirdar talking to his serfs, he ceremoniously told me to carry my trunk – all of its six feet length - on my head! Bloody cheek I thought, especially since he looked more of a village bumpkin. His accent was so unintelligibly dreadful that it took time to understand him. I was from La Martiniere, a reputed public school in India and France and the only school with Battle Honours and here I was to hear some foreign gibberish akin to English! Peter Sellers would have been closer to English than this bloke!
I was thoroughly baffled, perplexed and odd at ease.
To the diktat of my carrying the trunk on my noggin, I flatly refused. However, with the start of a menacing growl emanating from this rustic, like a pit terrier, I realised that this was not the time to show valour. I tried to carry the trunk, but being the 90 lb weakling, I crumpled like an aspen leaf under the weight.
The rustic who told me to pick up the trunk compressed with laughter and I was allowed to wend my way beyond. I felt like a worm.
A few moments later I reached the portals of 'Dalda' Squadron. By then I was quite deflated. I was ashamed of myself that I had wilted.
At the portals of this magnificent squadron I met Cadet Sergeant Major Chauhan. If I can digress, I call the squadron magnificent because it hardened me to take all the nonsense that was doled out during my service in the name of discipline and things 'not done'. Thus, it was magnificent – a magnificent delusion.
CSM Chauhan was all sugar and honey and he spoke in Bengali! It was music to the ears [You must remember that one silly bloke at A Squadron had shaken me totally and so anything familiar was great; fie on me to be parochial!]. Under normal circumstances, we from La Martininere don't converse in the vernacular, but then these were not normal circumstances. These were abnormal hours, to say the least. Notwithstanding the Bengali welcome, I poured my heart out in clipped English. The CSM was impressed but excused himself as he was going for lunch.
There I was in front of this magnificent stone edifice called the Dalda Squadron. I entered the Squadron to be met by the most hairy thing that I ever saw in my whole life – Corporal Avtar Singh! He was indeed huge and hairy. In fact, it took time to realise that through all that hair, there were eyes peering at you.
"What are you?" said this matchless thing, which I had mistaken for some exotic South Pacific tropical tree. In a clear voice I replied "SK Raychaudhuri". Three times did he ask, as Anthony had asked of Caesar, and three times I replied the same!
This 'tree' turned pinker than his natural pink. At least he was turning pink in the areas that could be discerned. "Are you a Bhangi?" asked Corporal Avatar Singh. Now, while I knew passable Hindi that I used at home to talk to the retainers, I was not endowed with such technical Hindi. Naturally, I was confused. However, enlightenment dawned on me.
I was getting used to the fact that these blokes in the NDA had a problem with their English accent. Therefore, I surmised that most probably he was trying to say 'Bengi' as the Anglo Indians in my school called us Bengalis.
With a radiant smile I proudly said, "Yes".
Avatar Singh recoiled as if he had seen the ghost of Caesar. He was incredulous! Keeping a safe distance, thrice [it was his habit of repeating himself thrice in the best of North Indian English] he asked the same question and thrice and I answered the same – thrice.
"Are you sure you know the meaning of Bhangi?" asked Avtar totally disbelieving.
"Why not? I presume you mean a 'Bengali'," said I.
Avatar Singh buckled with the mirth of a steam engine chugging away from a station and the wheels sipping on the rails. His belly fat quivered like Pompeii about to spew.
As his amusement faded like a wailing banshee, he bellowed, "Silly man Charlie bai [boy]. It's not a Bengali, Bhangi means a scavenger. A sweeper. Are you a sweeper?"
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(Continued due to word limit)
Hardly had I entered my cabin and put down my things when Avtar Singh surfaced. I was hauled off to his 'kebin'. I was finding the North Indian English accent odd and they were finding my accent odder and hence I was becoming an object d' art. In Avtar Singh's cabin I found Cadets AS Jamwal and Rathore [both my coursemates] were already there. They were convoluted in the 'murga' position [squatting on one's haunches and putting one's hands under the knees and holding the ears!]. I was awfully amused. The NDA was indeed an exciting place where they could convert normal human beings into gymnasts of the highest order and yet Indians never won in the Olympics!
I was asked if I could sing. I could. Avtar Singh beamed. He barked that I should sing 'Do hanso ka jora, bichar gaye re'. Funny guy, this Avtar Singh. I told him that I could only sing Elvis and Pat Boone
"Bone? No picking of Bone. You sing. You bladi mane". I could never fathom even till the time Avtar passed out of the NDA as to why he ended all his sentences with 'Bladi Mane' [Bloody Man]. Even 'good morning' had this appendage
Seeing my consternation, he relented. I could sing in English. He was dissatisfied with my effort because he found my rendition of Jailhouse Rock as very noisy. Imagine a Sardar finding Jailhouse rock noisy! I wonder if he had heard the Punjabi song 'Main choot bolia koina, something kufartoliya koina, balle balle "¦.broooooo. Surely that is not melody, it was pure, unmitigated roar of an avalanche in the Himalayas ! In fact, it was sheer cacophony! The temerity to call Jailhouse Rock noise
By this time, Rathore and Jamwal were allowed to resume the vertical position and were in boisterous unison singing Avtar's favourite – Do hanso"¦., even though both these boys were more like wet murgis by then; forget about being hans [swan]
After inane questions on our sex life and other mundane nonsense, we were allowed to go. We peeked out and seeing the coast clear tried to scamper to our 'kebins'. But whom do you find waiting? It was none other than Mahender Singh Ruhil. We didn't know his name then but later he was as indelible in the memory as Hitler is to the Jews
We walked into Ruhil's metaphoric embrace but then it's another story.
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]
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MY FIRST DAY IN THE NDA
GERMAN UNDERWEARS
Corporal AS had been regaled with Do hanso ke jora and Jailhouse Rock. We (Cadets J, R and me) came out of his 'kebin' [cabin]. We peeked out and seeing the coast clear tried to scamper to our 'kebins'. But whom do you find waiting? It was none other than MSR. We did not know the name of this horror then.
He resembled the figure that symbolises 'Death' with the scythe. Such immobile eyes and that too with the shades of slate upon a background of pale white! His face was a motionless wonder. He resembled an upright, wiry corpse. His complexion was as white as chalk. His demeanour discouraged any meeting by day, let alone in a pitch-dark night. Fortunately, the sun was still up even if the day looked bleak
He beckoned us to follow him; and near his cabin, he said, "Anter"[Enter].
We shuffled into his cabin, crazed with fear.
"Lags up. Hends don" [Legs Up. Hands down], said this stereotype of the Lubinka gas chamber attendant. I was about to cry out, "Sir, I am not a Jew, a gypsy or a Communist", but his glass eye stare choked me in a worse way than that which gas can do.
So, there we were the three of us, in this ridiculous position with our legs on his cupboard and hands on the floor. And the cupboard was high!
"What's my naem [name]?" There was tomblike silence. Actually, none cared what his name was. He was just another bum like the rest of the seniors. Yet, not knowing the name of this 'great soul' holding us hostage, bestowed on us the 'privilege' of a press up with each syllable of his name as he spelt it out. Extraordinarily, this 'soul' [since he was from the nether world] sincerely felt it was an honour that he was bestowing us!
I reached 'Mahen"¦.' (part expansion of his first initial) and my legs fell off the cupboard"¦"¦my arms had given way. J stoically reached the end of this wondrous name and R, the toughest of us, pressed along gamely till 'Singh' (MSR's second expanded initial). He too gave in to nature and gravity thereafter.
Actually I benefited being the weakest. I had collapsed the earliest and had to wait till the others carried on. R suffered the most. It was only after he dropped that we had to repeat the process over and over again. We built muscles along the way since the biceps has swollen up and indicated no inclination to maintain status quo ante. Did we experience pain? We had crossed the Rubicon in the feeling of pain!
MSR got bored. All sadists do. Ask the Jews in the Holocaust. His eyes suddenly glowed like the embers of a totally dead fire. A brainwave had struck him.
"What be size my underbear?" No, even though I thought NDA was a Zoo, no bear had assailed it as yet or at least we did not know. He was not talking about any pet bear under him either because we didn't see any. It was just that that is how the North Indians pronounced – 'underwear'. I was getting used to the North Indian accent and thus understood some of their 'English'.
I was at my physical end. I was fed up. I had enough of this silly NDA. I didn't want to be an officer if being an officer meant this insane stupidity. Before others could answer, I snapped in clipped English, "if one goes by your behaviour, I don't think, sir, you wear any underwear. You actually must be using a gunny bag! And by Jove, Sir, I did not have the privilege to be a coolie at the railway siding unloading sugar and so I just don't know".
Ruhil was thunderstruck. He was livid. He spluttered and spittle sprayed out like a hesitant fountain. 'I'll show you what I wear', he thundered in an evil menacing way. He did not show us what he wore below. He showed us things which were even more forebearing!
Our life for the next hour was hell. All forms of physical punishments ruled the day and boy, was he not a sadist! I am quite sure Ruhil must have held Hitler's hand as Hitler committed suicide. Ms Eva Braun would have been only the second best in Hitler's heart.
After an hour of most 'imaginative' punishment, we staggered out. It was not that Ruhil had a change of heart – it was that he required going to the toilet for a pressing anatomical obligation.
It was my desire to observe his underwear and measure the same, lest he punished me again on this burning issue of the century"¦"¦. but then I reckoned that it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.
Thus, God had intervened.
Ruhil's requirement to release natural pressures, released the pressures he conjured on us!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]
GERMAN UNDERWEARS
Corporal AS had been regaled with Do hanso ke jora and Jailhouse Rock. We (Cadets J, R and me) came out of his 'kebin' [cabin]. We peeked out and seeing the coast clear tried to scamper to our 'kebins'. But whom do you find waiting? It was none other than MSR. We did not know the name of this horror then.
He resembled the figure that symbolises 'Death' with the scythe. Such immobile eyes and that too with the shades of slate upon a background of pale white! His face was a motionless wonder. He resembled an upright, wiry corpse. His complexion was as white as chalk. His demeanour discouraged any meeting by day, let alone in a pitch-dark night. Fortunately, the sun was still up even if the day looked bleak
He beckoned us to follow him; and near his cabin, he said, "Anter"[Enter].
We shuffled into his cabin, crazed with fear.
"Lags up. Hends don" [Legs Up. Hands down], said this stereotype of the Lubinka gas chamber attendant. I was about to cry out, "Sir, I am not a Jew, a gypsy or a Communist", but his glass eye stare choked me in a worse way than that which gas can do.
So, there we were the three of us, in this ridiculous position with our legs on his cupboard and hands on the floor. And the cupboard was high!
"What's my naem [name]?" There was tomblike silence. Actually, none cared what his name was. He was just another bum like the rest of the seniors. Yet, not knowing the name of this 'great soul' holding us hostage, bestowed on us the 'privilege' of a press up with each syllable of his name as he spelt it out. Extraordinarily, this 'soul' [since he was from the nether world] sincerely felt it was an honour that he was bestowing us!
I reached 'Mahen"¦.' (part expansion of his first initial) and my legs fell off the cupboard"¦"¦my arms had given way. J stoically reached the end of this wondrous name and R, the toughest of us, pressed along gamely till 'Singh' (MSR's second expanded initial). He too gave in to nature and gravity thereafter.
Actually I benefited being the weakest. I had collapsed the earliest and had to wait till the others carried on. R suffered the most. It was only after he dropped that we had to repeat the process over and over again. We built muscles along the way since the biceps has swollen up and indicated no inclination to maintain status quo ante. Did we experience pain? We had crossed the Rubicon in the feeling of pain!
MSR got bored. All sadists do. Ask the Jews in the Holocaust. His eyes suddenly glowed like the embers of a totally dead fire. A brainwave had struck him.
"What be size my underbear?" No, even though I thought NDA was a Zoo, no bear had assailed it as yet or at least we did not know. He was not talking about any pet bear under him either because we didn't see any. It was just that that is how the North Indians pronounced – 'underwear'. I was getting used to the North Indian accent and thus understood some of their 'English'.
I was at my physical end. I was fed up. I had enough of this silly NDA. I didn't want to be an officer if being an officer meant this insane stupidity. Before others could answer, I snapped in clipped English, "if one goes by your behaviour, I don't think, sir, you wear any underwear. You actually must be using a gunny bag! And by Jove, Sir, I did not have the privilege to be a coolie at the railway siding unloading sugar and so I just don't know".
Ruhil was thunderstruck. He was livid. He spluttered and spittle sprayed out like a hesitant fountain. 'I'll show you what I wear', he thundered in an evil menacing way. He did not show us what he wore below. He showed us things which were even more forebearing!
Our life for the next hour was hell. All forms of physical punishments ruled the day and boy, was he not a sadist! I am quite sure Ruhil must have held Hitler's hand as Hitler committed suicide. Ms Eva Braun would have been only the second best in Hitler's heart.
After an hour of most 'imaginative' punishment, we staggered out. It was not that Ruhil had a change of heart – it was that he required going to the toilet for a pressing anatomical obligation.
It was my desire to observe his underwear and measure the same, lest he punished me again on this burning issue of the century"¦"¦. but then I reckoned that it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.
Thus, God had intervened.
Ruhil's requirement to release natural pressures, released the pressures he conjured on us!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]
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FOREWORD
Many would pick up this book for its queer title â€" Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan [Harmonica]!
The title is indeed thought provoking. However, the rationale lies in the fact that the Armoured Corps or the Tank boys, the world over, are the ‘glamour boys’ of the Army. They are associated with Wine, Women and Song. We, the poor bloody Infantrymen [PBI] as we are called, are on the other extreme side of the social and worldly spectrum. We have to make good with just Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan [naturally, in a metaphoric way]. And, I am an Infantryman! Thus, the title of the book.
I have had a chequered career in the Indian Army. There can be no better a profession, or, as I would like to remember, a calling. The Army is a fabulous organisation. It works 24 hours of the day. Yet, we can squeeze in a round of golf [the senior ones] or a game of basketball with the troops [the younger lot] in between. That not being all, we have to be still our chirpy best when doing the rounds of a social evening; or when going through the dreaded regimen of a dinner night, where one can hardly eat lest the clatter of the cutlery ordains a hoofed out exit as it would be blasphemous to the protocols of the voodoo rites involved in a dinner night that was bequeathed to us by the pagans of the dreary, wet and foggy island of Rani Liz, nestling between the spud eaters [Irish] and the frogs [French].
There is a misconception that being disciplined is to be in a straightjacket. The Army is not a lunatic asylum. It is merely a gathering of intelligent folks, brainwashed into believing that the senior [Boss?] is ALWAYS RIGHT. I say that with authority since I have a rather long innings in this organisation. There is also an Archie’s poster that, with mathematical logic, analysis and precision, concludes that the Boss is but only the human orifice that is used daily every morning to emit bodily waste. There maybe truism of this adage. The Army Bosses, however, don’t think so. And, in the rank that I retired, I qualified as a Boss. However, I reckon all Bosses in all fields of life would agree with the Army Bosses, since they too qualify hook, line and sinker. Ask any subordinate.
I have a funny bone. An eye and a penchant for the ludicrous is my forte. That’s why I have this ‘affinity’ for the Bosses of the Army. My Bosses have not always appreciated this ‘affinity’. Therefore, it is not surprising they feature more regularly in this book. Lest I forget, I must mention that this Book is a collection of the funny side of the Army, as I saw it. I have enjoyed its funny environment where all are kept on a tight leash by hilarious principles of ‘I am the Lord of Tartary’ and ‘Sir Oracle’ lent a hand by the funniest law of the century called the Army Act where a person can be dismissed just because the President is ‘displeased’ and no reasons assigned why he took umbrage! Lest the reader misunderstands, I have retired honourably and claim the rare privilege and possibly the only one in the Army to claim that in all ranks I saw combat in some form or the other!
These stories are true stories. The names have been changed. It is not to protect the identity of the characters involved, but to protect myself from their wrath. Can’t face the wrath of the enraged. Remember, we can’t let them have the last laugh with their invoking the funniest of law of the century, the Army Act, can we? After all, the senior is always right.
The senior is always right. This, in itself, is weird. Biologically, the brain cells wither, as one grows old. However, in the Army, the brains cells grow with age to such an extent that civilians associate this phenomenon as ‘fat head’ with a touch of meningitis [swollen cranium].
To the Army reader, I tender my apologies in case some of the detailed explanations of army’s pagan rituals, customs and drill encourage a yawn. These are for the general public who will be regaled with our rites that make the Klu Klux Klan customs appear Kindergarten material. Remember, they also serve who stand and wait…..for the next War to be shown on the TV! Remember Kargil?
I thank all those who have helped me with this book, especially the characters in the stories and Bill Gates for his Microsoft office. But for them, this Book would not have happened. I also thank my parents [for not counselling me on other professions that I could have undertaken and thereby losing out on a better hilarious platform than the circus or the IAS [Indian Administrative Service or ‘I am Sorry’ Service] or the best platform â€" politics!], my wife [for not nagging], my children [for not being pains and keeping me busy with their homework and thereby making me not see the humorous side of life] and the Indian Army itself. Without them, I would have been a ‘nobody’. I also thank my countless juniors who were subjected to read my stories under duress and also the publisher for his courage to extend Bush’s war on terrorism! I thank you, my reader, for glancing through this book without buying and my gratitude to those who have actually bought this book with their hard earned money!
I wish you, my reader, Happy reading. Tighten your seat belt and watch your stomach. Either you will throw up or your stomach would be wobbling like jelly custard with mirth!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY]
Many would pick up this book for its queer title â€" Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan [Harmonica]!
The title is indeed thought provoking. However, the rationale lies in the fact that the Armoured Corps or the Tank boys, the world over, are the ‘glamour boys’ of the Army. They are associated with Wine, Women and Song. We, the poor bloody Infantrymen [PBI] as we are called, are on the other extreme side of the social and worldly spectrum. We have to make good with just Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan [naturally, in a metaphoric way]. And, I am an Infantryman! Thus, the title of the book.
I have had a chequered career in the Indian Army. There can be no better a profession, or, as I would like to remember, a calling. The Army is a fabulous organisation. It works 24 hours of the day. Yet, we can squeeze in a round of golf [the senior ones] or a game of basketball with the troops [the younger lot] in between. That not being all, we have to be still our chirpy best when doing the rounds of a social evening; or when going through the dreaded regimen of a dinner night, where one can hardly eat lest the clatter of the cutlery ordains a hoofed out exit as it would be blasphemous to the protocols of the voodoo rites involved in a dinner night that was bequeathed to us by the pagans of the dreary, wet and foggy island of Rani Liz, nestling between the spud eaters [Irish] and the frogs [French].
There is a misconception that being disciplined is to be in a straightjacket. The Army is not a lunatic asylum. It is merely a gathering of intelligent folks, brainwashed into believing that the senior [Boss?] is ALWAYS RIGHT. I say that with authority since I have a rather long innings in this organisation. There is also an Archie’s poster that, with mathematical logic, analysis and precision, concludes that the Boss is but only the human orifice that is used daily every morning to emit bodily waste. There maybe truism of this adage. The Army Bosses, however, don’t think so. And, in the rank that I retired, I qualified as a Boss. However, I reckon all Bosses in all fields of life would agree with the Army Bosses, since they too qualify hook, line and sinker. Ask any subordinate.
I have a funny bone. An eye and a penchant for the ludicrous is my forte. That’s why I have this ‘affinity’ for the Bosses of the Army. My Bosses have not always appreciated this ‘affinity’. Therefore, it is not surprising they feature more regularly in this book. Lest I forget, I must mention that this Book is a collection of the funny side of the Army, as I saw it. I have enjoyed its funny environment where all are kept on a tight leash by hilarious principles of ‘I am the Lord of Tartary’ and ‘Sir Oracle’ lent a hand by the funniest law of the century called the Army Act where a person can be dismissed just because the President is ‘displeased’ and no reasons assigned why he took umbrage! Lest the reader misunderstands, I have retired honourably and claim the rare privilege and possibly the only one in the Army to claim that in all ranks I saw combat in some form or the other!
These stories are true stories. The names have been changed. It is not to protect the identity of the characters involved, but to protect myself from their wrath. Can’t face the wrath of the enraged. Remember, we can’t let them have the last laugh with their invoking the funniest of law of the century, the Army Act, can we? After all, the senior is always right.
The senior is always right. This, in itself, is weird. Biologically, the brain cells wither, as one grows old. However, in the Army, the brains cells grow with age to such an extent that civilians associate this phenomenon as ‘fat head’ with a touch of meningitis [swollen cranium].
To the Army reader, I tender my apologies in case some of the detailed explanations of army’s pagan rituals, customs and drill encourage a yawn. These are for the general public who will be regaled with our rites that make the Klu Klux Klan customs appear Kindergarten material. Remember, they also serve who stand and wait…..for the next War to be shown on the TV! Remember Kargil?
I thank all those who have helped me with this book, especially the characters in the stories and Bill Gates for his Microsoft office. But for them, this Book would not have happened. I also thank my parents [for not counselling me on other professions that I could have undertaken and thereby losing out on a better hilarious platform than the circus or the IAS [Indian Administrative Service or ‘I am Sorry’ Service] or the best platform â€" politics!], my wife [for not nagging], my children [for not being pains and keeping me busy with their homework and thereby making me not see the humorous side of life] and the Indian Army itself. Without them, I would have been a ‘nobody’. I also thank my countless juniors who were subjected to read my stories under duress and also the publisher for his courage to extend Bush’s war on terrorism! I thank you, my reader, for glancing through this book without buying and my gratitude to those who have actually bought this book with their hard earned money!
I wish you, my reader, Happy reading. Tighten your seat belt and watch your stomach. Either you will throw up or your stomach would be wobbling like jelly custard with mirth!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY]
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THE QUARTERMASTER AND THE BONDAS (Indian Savoury)
This story was told to me when I joined the unit that I commanded.
The unit was located in Naushera in J&K and was deployed on the hill sector along the Line of Control.
The Corps Commander was visiting the unit. This was not a normal event since Corps Commanders are very senior officers and three levels above the unit level.
Army, being over-reactive about their hierarchical pecking order, such events ‘traumatised’ the protocol infrastructure and each level of command took hyperactive personal interest in ensuring that the visit went off flawless. None wanted their heads to roll. Each level of the hierarchy ensured so by checking, re-checking and re-rechecking ad inifitum right down to the ground level that all contingencies had been catered for and nothing was overlooked. In short, such visits were a torment to those being visited. Interestingly, Parkinson’s Law always, without fail, did not fail to apply itself during such visits!
On the momentous day, every aspect of the visit of the Corps Commander to the unit was picture perfect. However, Parkinson’s Law, right as rain, applied itself. The Corps Commander, who was to arrive at the unit Tactical HQ by helicopter, could not do so as the weather was foul. Hence, he landed at the Divisional HQ and was driving down to the unit. The drive would take about two hours and so there was ample time to react.
Everything had been catered for. However, what supposing the Corps Commander wanted to ‘wash his hands’, after the two hour journey, at the unit Base before commencing the ride up the hill to the Tactical HQ?
The Commanding Officer {CO} was a man of details and this aspect was bothering him intensely. He was a person who liked preciseness. He wasn’t at all comfortable or happy about the departure from the set-piece programme of the Corps Commander with this driving down instead of landing by helicopter at the unit Tactical HQ.
The Quartermaster {QM} was at the Base. He was a pleasant, happy go lucky, rotund young officer with a bagful of initiative and a ‘never say die’ attitude. The CO rang him up and told him to ensure that the Officers’ Mess, at the Base, was shipshape, the toilet spankingly clean and to keep a safaiwala [janitor] ready at a moment’s notice in the vicinity. And of course, some light refreshments were to be at hand that could be served so that the Corps Commander knew that the unit was ‘on the ball’. Having ordered so, the CO went back to the practising of his Briefing for the 189th time!
Parkinson’s Law didn’t apply this time. The Corps Commander stopped at the Base to ‘wash his hands’. There was the usual hustle and bustle of his personal staff, the Divisional and Brigade HQs staff who were accompanying and the Mess staff including the QM. They followed the Corps Commander towards the Mess as if being pulled by the vacuum created in his wake! It is only in the Army that a VIP relieving himself by answering nature’s call is given the reverence normally associated with an event of national importance!
The Corps Commander entered the Mess. He looked at the QM and gave a shake of the leg as if shaking a boisterous housefly off the trouser. Bending at 80 degrees to the perpendicular, the Corps Commander wiggled his little finger of the left hand as if seized by an involuntary twitch and said “Which a-way to the Loo, old boy?â€Â
The QM had never ever had the good fortune of a Corps Commander speaking to him. He was awe struck! He thought that he too had to answer in a fancy way and so he said, “That a-way sir’ and before he could copy the Corps Commander’s leg shake which he thought would be appropriate, the Corps Commander, fortunately for all, was on his way.
The Divisional Commander [next in the hierarchy] was taken aback by what he thought was the cheek of this junior officer to copy the Corps Commander’s syntax. He would have been hopping wild had he realised that the QM had attempted the Corps Commander’s leg shake. To him it appeared as if the QM had slipped on the water that had by then settled on the linoleum from the clothes of the various personalities [who were wet from the light drizzle] crowding the alley leading to the ‘Men’s’.
The Corps Commander had moved into the ‘Men’s’. The Divisional Commander decided to have another ‘dekko’ at the arrangements. He stood aghast as his eyes laid on the savouries to be offered to the Corps Commander.
“Bondas?†he asked querulously and fixed a horribly immobile stare on the QM, who was beaming with delight that the Divisional Commander had observed the savoury that he had had prepared for them.
“Bondas?†echoed the Brigade Commander peevishly on cue as did any other officer worth his salt. All were aghast and all spoke in unison, so much so, the statement resounded like the Onida Bass Surround TV. It was a different matter that they did not understand why the Divisional Commander was horrified and grouchy at the sight of Bondas.
“Are you aware that the Corps Commander is an Armoured Corps chap? ……and you have the temerity to offer Indian savouries and that too the type that would be found in a cheap halwai’s [sweetmeat vendor] shop?â€Â, bellowed the Divisional Commander, a decibel lower that what would reach the ‘Men’s’ where the Corps Commander apparently had nestled.
“Yes sir. I know that the Corps Commander is an Armoured Corps officer and they are reputed to prefer crumpets and strawberry in cream with their tea. However, sir, I don’t know how to make them and also, sir, what could be better than hot hot bondas on a rainy day like today?†the QM said with a radiant smile that annoyed the Divisional Commander no end and even more, the Brigade Commander.
“Bakwaas [Tommy rot]. You village bumkin. You are the biggest idiot I have seen. A rum ball with a hot rum punch would have fitted the occasion and the weather; not these stupid, smelly, oily [he was spluttering in anger and had apparently run out of adjectives] bondas. Have you seen the size of the bondas? They are as fat and big as you are. How can he put them ever so gently in the mouth? You have no sophistication. You are a real rustic!†the Divisional Commander thundered. He, it appeared, was by now immensely inflamed and frothing at the mouth.
The QM cringed. However, Divine intervention saved him from a further berating. The Corps Commander had emerged from the ‘Loo’ and was looking definitely much relieved. He seemed to be in the best of moods and was genially smiling as he emerged.
His eyes fell on the Bondas. The Divisional Commander and his ‘faithful echoes’ froze!
The Corps Commander took two steps towards the Bondas and stopped abruptly, practically screeching to a halt! A cold shiver went down the spine of the Divisional Commander.
“Ah, sir…….†and whatever the Divisional Commander wanted to say was drowned in the shriek that emanated from the Corps Commander. All froze with fear â€" waiting anxiously for the Corps Commander’s inevitable indignation that was expected at this spread.
The Corps Commander pounced towards the table in what appeared a leap…. swiped the largest Bonda……. bit a massive chunk….. and literally gloated, more like a cat which had filched a platter of milk.
“What a capital idea! Hot hot Bondas on a rainy day. Well done and well thought of, old boyâ€Â, the Corps Commander was definitely rapturous as his gaze twinkled towards the QM.
The Divisional Commander and his gang emulated the Corps Commander’s leap, swiped the Bondas, and echoed, “A wonderful idea indeed, sirâ€Â. They too beamed but definitely not towards the QM.
The broadest smile was on the QM’s face.
He had had the last laugh and damn the strawberries, cream, and crumpets!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY]
This story was told to me when I joined the unit that I commanded.
The unit was located in Naushera in J&K and was deployed on the hill sector along the Line of Control.
The Corps Commander was visiting the unit. This was not a normal event since Corps Commanders are very senior officers and three levels above the unit level.
Army, being over-reactive about their hierarchical pecking order, such events ‘traumatised’ the protocol infrastructure and each level of command took hyperactive personal interest in ensuring that the visit went off flawless. None wanted their heads to roll. Each level of the hierarchy ensured so by checking, re-checking and re-rechecking ad inifitum right down to the ground level that all contingencies had been catered for and nothing was overlooked. In short, such visits were a torment to those being visited. Interestingly, Parkinson’s Law always, without fail, did not fail to apply itself during such visits!
On the momentous day, every aspect of the visit of the Corps Commander to the unit was picture perfect. However, Parkinson’s Law, right as rain, applied itself. The Corps Commander, who was to arrive at the unit Tactical HQ by helicopter, could not do so as the weather was foul. Hence, he landed at the Divisional HQ and was driving down to the unit. The drive would take about two hours and so there was ample time to react.
Everything had been catered for. However, what supposing the Corps Commander wanted to ‘wash his hands’, after the two hour journey, at the unit Base before commencing the ride up the hill to the Tactical HQ?
The Commanding Officer {CO} was a man of details and this aspect was bothering him intensely. He was a person who liked preciseness. He wasn’t at all comfortable or happy about the departure from the set-piece programme of the Corps Commander with this driving down instead of landing by helicopter at the unit Tactical HQ.
The Quartermaster {QM} was at the Base. He was a pleasant, happy go lucky, rotund young officer with a bagful of initiative and a ‘never say die’ attitude. The CO rang him up and told him to ensure that the Officers’ Mess, at the Base, was shipshape, the toilet spankingly clean and to keep a safaiwala [janitor] ready at a moment’s notice in the vicinity. And of course, some light refreshments were to be at hand that could be served so that the Corps Commander knew that the unit was ‘on the ball’. Having ordered so, the CO went back to the practising of his Briefing for the 189th time!
Parkinson’s Law didn’t apply this time. The Corps Commander stopped at the Base to ‘wash his hands’. There was the usual hustle and bustle of his personal staff, the Divisional and Brigade HQs staff who were accompanying and the Mess staff including the QM. They followed the Corps Commander towards the Mess as if being pulled by the vacuum created in his wake! It is only in the Army that a VIP relieving himself by answering nature’s call is given the reverence normally associated with an event of national importance!
The Corps Commander entered the Mess. He looked at the QM and gave a shake of the leg as if shaking a boisterous housefly off the trouser. Bending at 80 degrees to the perpendicular, the Corps Commander wiggled his little finger of the left hand as if seized by an involuntary twitch and said “Which a-way to the Loo, old boy?â€Â
The QM had never ever had the good fortune of a Corps Commander speaking to him. He was awe struck! He thought that he too had to answer in a fancy way and so he said, “That a-way sir’ and before he could copy the Corps Commander’s leg shake which he thought would be appropriate, the Corps Commander, fortunately for all, was on his way.
The Divisional Commander [next in the hierarchy] was taken aback by what he thought was the cheek of this junior officer to copy the Corps Commander’s syntax. He would have been hopping wild had he realised that the QM had attempted the Corps Commander’s leg shake. To him it appeared as if the QM had slipped on the water that had by then settled on the linoleum from the clothes of the various personalities [who were wet from the light drizzle] crowding the alley leading to the ‘Men’s’.
The Corps Commander had moved into the ‘Men’s’. The Divisional Commander decided to have another ‘dekko’ at the arrangements. He stood aghast as his eyes laid on the savouries to be offered to the Corps Commander.
“Bondas?†he asked querulously and fixed a horribly immobile stare on the QM, who was beaming with delight that the Divisional Commander had observed the savoury that he had had prepared for them.
“Bondas?†echoed the Brigade Commander peevishly on cue as did any other officer worth his salt. All were aghast and all spoke in unison, so much so, the statement resounded like the Onida Bass Surround TV. It was a different matter that they did not understand why the Divisional Commander was horrified and grouchy at the sight of Bondas.
“Are you aware that the Corps Commander is an Armoured Corps chap? ……and you have the temerity to offer Indian savouries and that too the type that would be found in a cheap halwai’s [sweetmeat vendor] shop?â€Â, bellowed the Divisional Commander, a decibel lower that what would reach the ‘Men’s’ where the Corps Commander apparently had nestled.
“Yes sir. I know that the Corps Commander is an Armoured Corps officer and they are reputed to prefer crumpets and strawberry in cream with their tea. However, sir, I don’t know how to make them and also, sir, what could be better than hot hot bondas on a rainy day like today?†the QM said with a radiant smile that annoyed the Divisional Commander no end and even more, the Brigade Commander.
“Bakwaas [Tommy rot]. You village bumkin. You are the biggest idiot I have seen. A rum ball with a hot rum punch would have fitted the occasion and the weather; not these stupid, smelly, oily [he was spluttering in anger and had apparently run out of adjectives] bondas. Have you seen the size of the bondas? They are as fat and big as you are. How can he put them ever so gently in the mouth? You have no sophistication. You are a real rustic!†the Divisional Commander thundered. He, it appeared, was by now immensely inflamed and frothing at the mouth.
The QM cringed. However, Divine intervention saved him from a further berating. The Corps Commander had emerged from the ‘Loo’ and was looking definitely much relieved. He seemed to be in the best of moods and was genially smiling as he emerged.
His eyes fell on the Bondas. The Divisional Commander and his ‘faithful echoes’ froze!
The Corps Commander took two steps towards the Bondas and stopped abruptly, practically screeching to a halt! A cold shiver went down the spine of the Divisional Commander.
“Ah, sir…….†and whatever the Divisional Commander wanted to say was drowned in the shriek that emanated from the Corps Commander. All froze with fear â€" waiting anxiously for the Corps Commander’s inevitable indignation that was expected at this spread.
The Corps Commander pounced towards the table in what appeared a leap…. swiped the largest Bonda……. bit a massive chunk….. and literally gloated, more like a cat which had filched a platter of milk.
“What a capital idea! Hot hot Bondas on a rainy day. Well done and well thought of, old boyâ€Â, the Corps Commander was definitely rapturous as his gaze twinkled towards the QM.
The Divisional Commander and his gang emulated the Corps Commander’s leap, swiped the Bondas, and echoed, “A wonderful idea indeed, sirâ€Â. They too beamed but definitely not towards the QM.
The broadest smile was on the QM’s face.
He had had the last laugh and damn the strawberries, cream, and crumpets!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY]
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THE CORPS COMMANDER AND THE GASPING FISH
The Corps Commander had come from his HQ in Bhopal to be ‘in situ’ for the Army Commander, who was visiting our Division, for the first time.
As per the custom, a cocktail was organised in the Divisional Officers’ Mess to host the Army Commander and his wife. The Divisional Officers had been called and about 40 odd individuals and their wives were ‘gracing’ the occasion.
The Corps Commander arrived about five minutes before the Army Commander since protocol expected that he arrived before the Army Commander, who was, as per the Army pecking order, senior.
We received him and the General Officer Commanding {GOC} asked me to escort him to the lawn where the remainder guests were. I was the second senior most officer of the Division and so I was expected to ‘look after’ him. The Corps Commander had not come with his wife since she was away in Pune.
I got him a Campa Cola since he did not drink, which he immediately put it on a side table. It was a most unusual action. Observing my unease, the Corps Commander informed that he had put the Cola ‘off the automatic’ ’.
A Cola off the automatic? How crazier can the world get?
“Didn’t get that?†the Corps Commander queried. Not waiting for a reply he continued, “It’s the Ali Baba ‘khulja sim sim ’ (Open Sesame) syndrome that afflicts my Colas whenever I finish it in a hurry! No sooner I have finished one, another one appears with the waiter. How many Colas can I drink in an evening?†That was true. There is always a waiter who looks after the VIPs and an officer is always most obtrusively around to ensure that their glasses are always ‘charged’.
The Corps Commander’s attention was engaged by the many officers who surrounded him. I, therefore, moved off to see that the other guests were also being looked after, since I was also the ex officio Chairman of the Mess Committee and hence the organiser of the ‘show’.
After some time, having seen that the others were being looked after, I returned to see how the Corps Commander was faring. His Campa Cola still adorned the side table some distance away from where he was surrounded by his ‘fans’. They were talking while the Corps Commander, who was a man of few words, listened with his characteristic deadpan sage-like expression.
Seeing me, he beamed. It was the same dazzling beam as would Rapunzel, locked up in the tower, on seeing the Prince, who had come to rescue her, have beamed.
“Roy, just come here.†Obviously I went.
“You know chapsâ€Â, he told the rest of the gathering around him, “Roy is the guy who has ensured that all offices in the Divisional HQ have an aquarium. His GOC was giving me some theory of Japan that Roy must have confused him with â€" that it relieved stress because of the mobility of fish in the water and things like that.â€Â
I felt uncomfortable with what he was saying. The Corps Commander had a weird sense of humour. It was always ‘loaded’ with ‘inner’ and not often comfortable meanings. Therefore, my tentacles were up.
I listened more carefully.
“I, too, like fish, but not to relieve the stress that seems to build up in this Divisionâ€Â, the Corps Commander continued….. “I like the fish because they keep opening their mouth and closing them.â€Â
“Really. Sir?†chimed the coterie around him in total awe, as if the Corps Commander had cast pearls before swine.
“Yes. They are my favourite……..because the gasping fish are the only unusual creatures amongst God’s Creations including humans and Army officers. They are the only ones who open and close their mouth………… and don’t ask for either a favour or for money!â€Â
That really left the fawning fans around him gasping…… not unlike the fish in the aquarium!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY]
The Corps Commander had come from his HQ in Bhopal to be ‘in situ’ for the Army Commander, who was visiting our Division, for the first time.
As per the custom, a cocktail was organised in the Divisional Officers’ Mess to host the Army Commander and his wife. The Divisional Officers had been called and about 40 odd individuals and their wives were ‘gracing’ the occasion.
The Corps Commander arrived about five minutes before the Army Commander since protocol expected that he arrived before the Army Commander, who was, as per the Army pecking order, senior.
We received him and the General Officer Commanding {GOC} asked me to escort him to the lawn where the remainder guests were. I was the second senior most officer of the Division and so I was expected to ‘look after’ him. The Corps Commander had not come with his wife since she was away in Pune.
I got him a Campa Cola since he did not drink, which he immediately put it on a side table. It was a most unusual action. Observing my unease, the Corps Commander informed that he had put the Cola ‘off the automatic’ ’.
A Cola off the automatic? How crazier can the world get?
“Didn’t get that?†the Corps Commander queried. Not waiting for a reply he continued, “It’s the Ali Baba ‘khulja sim sim ’ (Open Sesame) syndrome that afflicts my Colas whenever I finish it in a hurry! No sooner I have finished one, another one appears with the waiter. How many Colas can I drink in an evening?†That was true. There is always a waiter who looks after the VIPs and an officer is always most obtrusively around to ensure that their glasses are always ‘charged’.
The Corps Commander’s attention was engaged by the many officers who surrounded him. I, therefore, moved off to see that the other guests were also being looked after, since I was also the ex officio Chairman of the Mess Committee and hence the organiser of the ‘show’.
After some time, having seen that the others were being looked after, I returned to see how the Corps Commander was faring. His Campa Cola still adorned the side table some distance away from where he was surrounded by his ‘fans’. They were talking while the Corps Commander, who was a man of few words, listened with his characteristic deadpan sage-like expression.
Seeing me, he beamed. It was the same dazzling beam as would Rapunzel, locked up in the tower, on seeing the Prince, who had come to rescue her, have beamed.
“Roy, just come here.†Obviously I went.
“You know chapsâ€Â, he told the rest of the gathering around him, “Roy is the guy who has ensured that all offices in the Divisional HQ have an aquarium. His GOC was giving me some theory of Japan that Roy must have confused him with â€" that it relieved stress because of the mobility of fish in the water and things like that.â€Â
I felt uncomfortable with what he was saying. The Corps Commander had a weird sense of humour. It was always ‘loaded’ with ‘inner’ and not often comfortable meanings. Therefore, my tentacles were up.
I listened more carefully.
“I, too, like fish, but not to relieve the stress that seems to build up in this Divisionâ€Â, the Corps Commander continued….. “I like the fish because they keep opening their mouth and closing them.â€Â
“Really. Sir?†chimed the coterie around him in total awe, as if the Corps Commander had cast pearls before swine.
“Yes. They are my favourite……..because the gasping fish are the only unusual creatures amongst God’s Creations including humans and Army officers. They are the only ones who open and close their mouth………… and don’t ask for either a favour or for money!â€Â
That really left the fawning fans around him gasping…… not unlike the fish in the aquarium!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY]
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"i guess the letters are corrupted let me check from my scrapped data "
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"Skipping stories with corrupted letters and words"
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COLONEL K AND THE PARTRIDGE SHOOT
Those were the days when Maneka Gandhi, the energetic Indian animal activist, was unknown.
Hunting was encouraged in the Army as stalking of prey taught stealth, survival, use of ground and jungle craft. These were qualities that guaranteed survival and thus success in battle! A faux pas at a 'shoot' meant, at best, a 'Last Post', the three volleys and a two inch paid obituary in the Press. The sad part of shikar was that a Tiger did not
comprehend that a General was poor quality meat – old and decaying, and guaranteed to be boneless! A unique process called age that guaranteed bodily decay and vanishing bones including the spine!
Major General KS, our Division Commander, was a keen shikari especially since he was a minor North Indian squire. Shikar was a propensity deemed necessary for Squires to exhibit their God gifted macho-ness, even if one was frail and withered, which the General was. However, his devotion at shikar restricted itself to partridge and small game since small game like partridges could only increase the pulse rate but not stop it! In addition, a partridge tasted better than a Tiger.
It happened in May 1982. We were out for our annual three-month Collective Training camp at Oda Nala near Rewa. Brigadier MML, our Brigade Commander, was supervising the training for war. We were doing magnificently.
Then, the Word came officially over the wireless (radio) that the Division Commander would arrive in the next two days for a 'surprise visit' to check if the training was as per the directive! It was a bolt from the blue. It is a universal fact that all bosses are 'pains' in the ungodly part of
the anatomy. Major General KS was no exception. He was more so since he was an artilleryman - a sect of the army, which excel themselves in being awkward to the point of being obnoxious. Adding to the agony, it was mentioned that Major General KS was to stay with us for three days even though we all knew that one day was adequate for the inspection!
It was decided unanimously that the General had to be kept 'on the hop'.
What could be better than pandering to his macho fad of partridge shooting?
Paratroopers are a resourceful lot. However, they are a type of folks who are expected to be untamed and yet to be forgiven for their idiosyncrasies. Fortunately, the Brigade had a Parachute battalion. The Commanding Officer [CO] was Lieutenant Colonel K.
K was tasked by the Brigade Commander to keep the General 'busy' for one complete day with a 'shoot'! Others would have thrown up their hands in despair at this task, but not K. As his unit too would be under inspection he could not spare all officers. Therefore, he wanted assistance from other units. The Brigadier readily agreed to this and since I was also a 'wild' category, even though not a Paratrooper, I was more than willingly 'donated' by my own Commanding Officer. This act of my CO puts paid to the theory that there is brotherhood in the Army! My own CO threw me to the wolves, so to say! Being thrown to the Paratroopers is worse!
Without a rehearsal, nothing is done in the Army. Therefore, the rehearsal for the 'shoot' was organised. The scenario was that the General would be 'guided' to a 'spot' 'abundant with game' by the 'expert' shikari, Colonel K and thereafter action would start.
The action went something like this.
With military precision, a whistle would be blown by the Regimental Police Havildar to indicate the commencement of the 'shoot'. It would also indicate that the General was at the correct 'spot'. My task, along with two paratroopers, from deep inside the woods full of brambles, would be to release four partridge and three rabbits from a basket at that precise sound! These animals were to be scurried off in the direction of the 'spot' where the General would be obliged to halt by Colonel K, the 'expert' shikari, who it was claimed, could 'smell' game. The partridges and the rabbits would then 'spring' towards the General and his team. The General and his team would then fire their 12 bores and get the birds 'on
the wing' and thereafter swivel and get the rabbits as they scampered past!
A great picture postcard shoot it would be.
That was not all! What if the General missed?
That, too, was catered for.
I was also to carry three partridges and two rabbits, which were previously shot with the same 12 bore the General would use. These would be then 'discovered' by the bush beating party as they beat through the bush! Efficiency was the second name for the Army after all!
Major G, the second in command of the Parachute Battalion, emphasised repeatedly ad nauseum to us that action was to take place only after we heard the whistle. Anything otherwise, would have been premature or too late. He warned that any error on our part would adversely affect our career and our health! It was an ominous warning since all those who were detailed including me were ambitious and also keen to be in the 'pinkest of health'.
Then, came the day of the shoot.
We were positioned six hours before the General was to arrive at the 'spot'. The spot was miserable. It was swampy. The mosquitoes and insects were making life miserable. The partridges and the rabbit too were uncomfortable and waking up the dead. Foolish things. They did not know stealth was the watchword for shikar; be it for the hunted or the hunter.
Time ticked. Mosquitoes buzzed and bit. The stink of the swamp burned the nostrils. Yet the General had not arrived 'at the spot'. There was no whistle from the Regimental Police Havildar. The time for the arrival was well past! It was agonising. What was up?
There was no sign of the General or his shikar party. This was getting ridiculous. I was in a state of panic and so were my helpers. The mosquitoes were no longer on my mind even though they were having a field day!
Suddenly, in the distance, we saw Major G shooting in as if he had seen a ghost! Pushing the bramble, bruised like badly loaded tomatoes, he came panting, in a state of total chaos, collapse and consternation.
'Release the birds you idiot', he choked and raved, repeating the same like a deranged and hallucinating lost toad.
'Release, sir? But, we haven't heard the whistle'.
'Don't be an idiot. I order you to release the %*** birds and other muck"¦.. Immediately"¦"¦ This instant"¦"¦"¦ You stupid posterior of a donkey'.
Catch me being a posterior of a donkey! I didn't like this one bit; but you don't argue with a deranged Sikh in a forest, talking of posteriors. The consequence could be very dangerous. And so, I released the 'muck'.
The partridges took off like George Bush's mouth. There was no sense of direction. The rabbit released from the stings of the mosquitoes jumped up like Blair and took off into the blue. One rabbit bit the nose of a jawan. He yelped.
Major G froze"¦"¦.
The yell of the jawan would give away the game! The man had totally violated Army Act Section 63 of maintaining 'good order and military discipline' in that he was not to make noise!
However, the yelp was drowned for, at that very instant guns boomed, in all direction.
The effect was better than Kargil.
Scowling at the jawan, Major G, with total presence of mind, snatched the dead partridges and the rabbit from the cage and followed like the rabbits into the blue!
We waited as per the orders till the second whistle blew after three quarters of an hour to declare 'all clear'.
We thereafter returned to our respective units.
None knew how the shoot went. Junior officers are not supposed to know these higher directions of war. I didn't venture to ask also because of the fiasco. It would invite trouble. Discretion is the better part of valour and all that.
It was only after a week that I came to know how the shoot went.
I had, per chance, met the Regimental Police Havildar. I queried him as to why he had failed to blow the whistle to indicate that the General had arrived.
The story is sad and typical of all army actions the world over. At that critical moment, the poor man had gone to answer nature call since he felt that was more important than a General!
He will never do it again. He his learnt his lesson – he had lost his stripes because of this faux pas.
A General's arrival is more important even if it means wetting your pants – which anyway you do!
[ORIGNALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
Those were the days when Maneka Gandhi, the energetic Indian animal activist, was unknown.
Hunting was encouraged in the Army as stalking of prey taught stealth, survival, use of ground and jungle craft. These were qualities that guaranteed survival and thus success in battle! A faux pas at a 'shoot' meant, at best, a 'Last Post', the three volleys and a two inch paid obituary in the Press. The sad part of shikar was that a Tiger did not
comprehend that a General was poor quality meat – old and decaying, and guaranteed to be boneless! A unique process called age that guaranteed bodily decay and vanishing bones including the spine!
Major General KS, our Division Commander, was a keen shikari especially since he was a minor North Indian squire. Shikar was a propensity deemed necessary for Squires to exhibit their God gifted macho-ness, even if one was frail and withered, which the General was. However, his devotion at shikar restricted itself to partridge and small game since small game like partridges could only increase the pulse rate but not stop it! In addition, a partridge tasted better than a Tiger.
It happened in May 1982. We were out for our annual three-month Collective Training camp at Oda Nala near Rewa. Brigadier MML, our Brigade Commander, was supervising the training for war. We were doing magnificently.
Then, the Word came officially over the wireless (radio) that the Division Commander would arrive in the next two days for a 'surprise visit' to check if the training was as per the directive! It was a bolt from the blue. It is a universal fact that all bosses are 'pains' in the ungodly part of
the anatomy. Major General KS was no exception. He was more so since he was an artilleryman - a sect of the army, which excel themselves in being awkward to the point of being obnoxious. Adding to the agony, it was mentioned that Major General KS was to stay with us for three days even though we all knew that one day was adequate for the inspection!
It was decided unanimously that the General had to be kept 'on the hop'.
What could be better than pandering to his macho fad of partridge shooting?
Paratroopers are a resourceful lot. However, they are a type of folks who are expected to be untamed and yet to be forgiven for their idiosyncrasies. Fortunately, the Brigade had a Parachute battalion. The Commanding Officer [CO] was Lieutenant Colonel K.
K was tasked by the Brigade Commander to keep the General 'busy' for one complete day with a 'shoot'! Others would have thrown up their hands in despair at this task, but not K. As his unit too would be under inspection he could not spare all officers. Therefore, he wanted assistance from other units. The Brigadier readily agreed to this and since I was also a 'wild' category, even though not a Paratrooper, I was more than willingly 'donated' by my own Commanding Officer. This act of my CO puts paid to the theory that there is brotherhood in the Army! My own CO threw me to the wolves, so to say! Being thrown to the Paratroopers is worse!
Without a rehearsal, nothing is done in the Army. Therefore, the rehearsal for the 'shoot' was organised. The scenario was that the General would be 'guided' to a 'spot' 'abundant with game' by the 'expert' shikari, Colonel K and thereafter action would start.
The action went something like this.
With military precision, a whistle would be blown by the Regimental Police Havildar to indicate the commencement of the 'shoot'. It would also indicate that the General was at the correct 'spot'. My task, along with two paratroopers, from deep inside the woods full of brambles, would be to release four partridge and three rabbits from a basket at that precise sound! These animals were to be scurried off in the direction of the 'spot' where the General would be obliged to halt by Colonel K, the 'expert' shikari, who it was claimed, could 'smell' game. The partridges and the rabbits would then 'spring' towards the General and his team. The General and his team would then fire their 12 bores and get the birds 'on
the wing' and thereafter swivel and get the rabbits as they scampered past!
A great picture postcard shoot it would be.
That was not all! What if the General missed?
That, too, was catered for.
I was also to carry three partridges and two rabbits, which were previously shot with the same 12 bore the General would use. These would be then 'discovered' by the bush beating party as they beat through the bush! Efficiency was the second name for the Army after all!
Major G, the second in command of the Parachute Battalion, emphasised repeatedly ad nauseum to us that action was to take place only after we heard the whistle. Anything otherwise, would have been premature or too late. He warned that any error on our part would adversely affect our career and our health! It was an ominous warning since all those who were detailed including me were ambitious and also keen to be in the 'pinkest of health'.
Then, came the day of the shoot.
We were positioned six hours before the General was to arrive at the 'spot'. The spot was miserable. It was swampy. The mosquitoes and insects were making life miserable. The partridges and the rabbit too were uncomfortable and waking up the dead. Foolish things. They did not know stealth was the watchword for shikar; be it for the hunted or the hunter.
Time ticked. Mosquitoes buzzed and bit. The stink of the swamp burned the nostrils. Yet the General had not arrived 'at the spot'. There was no whistle from the Regimental Police Havildar. The time for the arrival was well past! It was agonising. What was up?
There was no sign of the General or his shikar party. This was getting ridiculous. I was in a state of panic and so were my helpers. The mosquitoes were no longer on my mind even though they were having a field day!
Suddenly, in the distance, we saw Major G shooting in as if he had seen a ghost! Pushing the bramble, bruised like badly loaded tomatoes, he came panting, in a state of total chaos, collapse and consternation.
'Release the birds you idiot', he choked and raved, repeating the same like a deranged and hallucinating lost toad.
'Release, sir? But, we haven't heard the whistle'.
'Don't be an idiot. I order you to release the %*** birds and other muck"¦.. Immediately"¦"¦ This instant"¦"¦"¦ You stupid posterior of a donkey'.
Catch me being a posterior of a donkey! I didn't like this one bit; but you don't argue with a deranged Sikh in a forest, talking of posteriors. The consequence could be very dangerous. And so, I released the 'muck'.
The partridges took off like George Bush's mouth. There was no sense of direction. The rabbit released from the stings of the mosquitoes jumped up like Blair and took off into the blue. One rabbit bit the nose of a jawan. He yelped.
Major G froze"¦"¦.
The yell of the jawan would give away the game! The man had totally violated Army Act Section 63 of maintaining 'good order and military discipline' in that he was not to make noise!
However, the yelp was drowned for, at that very instant guns boomed, in all direction.
The effect was better than Kargil.
Scowling at the jawan, Major G, with total presence of mind, snatched the dead partridges and the rabbit from the cage and followed like the rabbits into the blue!
We waited as per the orders till the second whistle blew after three quarters of an hour to declare 'all clear'.
We thereafter returned to our respective units.
None knew how the shoot went. Junior officers are not supposed to know these higher directions of war. I didn't venture to ask also because of the fiasco. It would invite trouble. Discretion is the better part of valour and all that.
It was only after a week that I came to know how the shoot went.
I had, per chance, met the Regimental Police Havildar. I queried him as to why he had failed to blow the whistle to indicate that the General had arrived.
The story is sad and typical of all army actions the world over. At that critical moment, the poor man had gone to answer nature call since he felt that was more important than a General!
He will never do it again. He his learnt his lesson – he had lost his stripes because of this faux pas.
A General's arrival is more important even if it means wetting your pants – which anyway you do!
[ORIGNALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
- Joined
- Jun 30, 2024
- Messages
- 1,163
- Likes
- 2,178
FICTION WRITERS
The champagne and caviar chatterati may find it an oxymoron, but the Army officers do excel in fiction writing.
It is totally a different matter that the Nobel and Bookers Prize give them the go by The truth is that the Army officers cold shoulder all prizes, since nothing is beyond politics in the contemporary world. And Army officers are apolitical, and so would not touch it with a 10 foot barge pole!
Absurd a claim that Army officers are great fiction writers, is it? Not if you see reality and facts can be stranger than fiction!
I am not asking you to take my word. Why don't you ask Musharraf?
That cove wrote a masterpiece. Oozing with blood and gory, Fame and Honour, he sketched his Kargil Operation Plan. Dripping with stealth, surprise and stoic, he etched the backdrop in a scenario on a blanket of deep snow, along trackless heights that kissed the sky, with men of steel ready to steal real estate for the sake of patriotism, religion and God, almost in the genre of God for Harry, England and St George! If only he could have thrown in sex, it would have been ideal for a runaway success in fiction! But then, he was a religious man or so he wanted all to believe!
Having launched this fiction, Musharraf was struck with amnesia. He thought it was the Mujhahideens who were the prime actors, but then the Northern Light Infantry had stolen the thunder! He lost interest trying to find the thread of his story, when his neighbours, the Indian Army took over his tome. They added death and gory to make it exciting and anti climaxed it with a resounding defeat to the hordes! A more brilliant, gripping story none had sketched before and Tom Clancy turned green with envy!
But then, this is confusing. Musharraf was the author and so why did the climax be left to the Indians? Napoleon rolled over in his grave. He had the answer. The Army marched on it stomach i.e. no replenishment in arms, ammunition, rations and medical evacuation, you conjure a scenario of defeat and little glory, religion notwithstanding!
Musharraf imagined he was a Rommel, Guderian and Patton rolled in one, of course without the tanks. And that is what all military men think when they are on the Sand Models, TEWT , wargames and exercises. So, he is not an exception. And on these formats is the professional acumen gauged based on the vociferous, verbal callisthenics that one exhibits to excel over the others, till the real McCoy war differentiate the wheat from the chaff!
Now, how come such people are not found out earlier?
That is because of the annual appraisals. Those who are empowered to write them think they are Nobel and Bookers Prize material. They write pure fictions with total ambivalence and employ the well tested English adage – Discretion is the better part of valour! Why rock the boat and why get involved and waste time justifying the truth, since complaints against the remarks were bound to erupt with the vengeance of Mount Etna and Krakatoa, all rolled in one! After all, all think they are cats' whiskers!
I, too, was one of the fiction writers in my time.
It was one winter when I was busy at my desk at home. Home is the best place for peace where one can think.. No chaos, no time bound hassles, no seniors to be pleased! And the wife is too busy with her chores. The tea and snacks arrive on time as the mind boils over!
I was busy with some office work and who do you think should walk in? A Divisional Commander! He always visited us when he was in town, to satiate his palette with Bengali cuisine for which my wife was famous for. Lest you think I am a sycophant, let me assure you that he was not my Divisional Commander.
My orderly announced him.
I was his junior being only a Brigadier and so I had to dress up appropriate to receive the General!
I was not least bit pleased that I had been disturbed with some serious work at hand that required thought and dexterity in the English language. His appearing at my home, without prior intimation, did upset me. But, you don't say so to a General! In fact, as a gentleman, you can't say to anyone for that matter! All one can do is grin, chin up and bear the inevitable!
I went downstairs to the living room where he was waiting. It took time since I lived in a mansion that befitting my appointment as the Station Commander, all with a guard and all the other cosmetic paraphernalia of military pomp and grandeur!
The General, was not one of the stuffed shirts that General as normally wont to be.
"Hi Roy, busy?"
Catch me tell him that he had ruined my afternoon!
"No, sir, it's great to see you. Are you here for some official stuff with the Command HQ?"
"Yes, but the Army Commander seems to be busy and so I thought what could be better than having lunch with you. Don't bother; I will have whatever in the house."
I had the staff to whip up a lunch for him, but I knew that Lunch meant Bengali food. Catch my non Bengali staff whipping up some Bengali food! And my wife was away with some Other Ranks Family Meet!
He wanted 'whatever in the house'.
Great, but I did not know "what was in the house'. All I knew is that we had biscuits and I knew that is not what was on his mind under the heading, "Lunch".
Fortunately, my wife arrived and after the usual polite small talk, she went hotfoot to the kitchen and saved me from losing weight through sweating as the boxers do to reduce weight and be in the category to win. At this moment, I required weight to win and not lose!
While he kept nursing his soft drink, I kept him busy with small talk and kept imbibing beer!
"Hey Roy, did I disturb you from something important? You don't look comfortable."
"Not really, sir, I was merely writing some Annual Confidential Reports.
"Ah yes", said the Divisional Commander, "One of our burdens of office."
He paused and I waited with bated breath since he was known to be a sarcastic man.
"The annual fiction writing!" he finally said, with a deep sigh!
So, now you know how people claw up the ladder – because their seniors don't want to rock the boat!
Great fiction they write annually!
So, why blame Musharaff 's seniors?
Musharraf is cat's whiskers as you and I!
Only thing is he is smarter.
Unlike you and me, he is a President, having toppled his Boss and sent him packing!
[ORIGNALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
The champagne and caviar chatterati may find it an oxymoron, but the Army officers do excel in fiction writing.
It is totally a different matter that the Nobel and Bookers Prize give them the go by The truth is that the Army officers cold shoulder all prizes, since nothing is beyond politics in the contemporary world. And Army officers are apolitical, and so would not touch it with a 10 foot barge pole!
Absurd a claim that Army officers are great fiction writers, is it? Not if you see reality and facts can be stranger than fiction!
I am not asking you to take my word. Why don't you ask Musharraf?
That cove wrote a masterpiece. Oozing with blood and gory, Fame and Honour, he sketched his Kargil Operation Plan. Dripping with stealth, surprise and stoic, he etched the backdrop in a scenario on a blanket of deep snow, along trackless heights that kissed the sky, with men of steel ready to steal real estate for the sake of patriotism, religion and God, almost in the genre of God for Harry, England and St George! If only he could have thrown in sex, it would have been ideal for a runaway success in fiction! But then, he was a religious man or so he wanted all to believe!
Having launched this fiction, Musharraf was struck with amnesia. He thought it was the Mujhahideens who were the prime actors, but then the Northern Light Infantry had stolen the thunder! He lost interest trying to find the thread of his story, when his neighbours, the Indian Army took over his tome. They added death and gory to make it exciting and anti climaxed it with a resounding defeat to the hordes! A more brilliant, gripping story none had sketched before and Tom Clancy turned green with envy!
But then, this is confusing. Musharraf was the author and so why did the climax be left to the Indians? Napoleon rolled over in his grave. He had the answer. The Army marched on it stomach i.e. no replenishment in arms, ammunition, rations and medical evacuation, you conjure a scenario of defeat and little glory, religion notwithstanding!
Musharraf imagined he was a Rommel, Guderian and Patton rolled in one, of course without the tanks. And that is what all military men think when they are on the Sand Models, TEWT , wargames and exercises. So, he is not an exception. And on these formats is the professional acumen gauged based on the vociferous, verbal callisthenics that one exhibits to excel over the others, till the real McCoy war differentiate the wheat from the chaff!
Now, how come such people are not found out earlier?
That is because of the annual appraisals. Those who are empowered to write them think they are Nobel and Bookers Prize material. They write pure fictions with total ambivalence and employ the well tested English adage – Discretion is the better part of valour! Why rock the boat and why get involved and waste time justifying the truth, since complaints against the remarks were bound to erupt with the vengeance of Mount Etna and Krakatoa, all rolled in one! After all, all think they are cats' whiskers!
I, too, was one of the fiction writers in my time.
It was one winter when I was busy at my desk at home. Home is the best place for peace where one can think.. No chaos, no time bound hassles, no seniors to be pleased! And the wife is too busy with her chores. The tea and snacks arrive on time as the mind boils over!
I was busy with some office work and who do you think should walk in? A Divisional Commander! He always visited us when he was in town, to satiate his palette with Bengali cuisine for which my wife was famous for. Lest you think I am a sycophant, let me assure you that he was not my Divisional Commander.
My orderly announced him.
I was his junior being only a Brigadier and so I had to dress up appropriate to receive the General!
I was not least bit pleased that I had been disturbed with some serious work at hand that required thought and dexterity in the English language. His appearing at my home, without prior intimation, did upset me. But, you don't say so to a General! In fact, as a gentleman, you can't say to anyone for that matter! All one can do is grin, chin up and bear the inevitable!
I went downstairs to the living room where he was waiting. It took time since I lived in a mansion that befitting my appointment as the Station Commander, all with a guard and all the other cosmetic paraphernalia of military pomp and grandeur!
The General, was not one of the stuffed shirts that General as normally wont to be.
"Hi Roy, busy?"
Catch me tell him that he had ruined my afternoon!
"No, sir, it's great to see you. Are you here for some official stuff with the Command HQ?"
"Yes, but the Army Commander seems to be busy and so I thought what could be better than having lunch with you. Don't bother; I will have whatever in the house."
I had the staff to whip up a lunch for him, but I knew that Lunch meant Bengali food. Catch my non Bengali staff whipping up some Bengali food! And my wife was away with some Other Ranks Family Meet!
He wanted 'whatever in the house'.
Great, but I did not know "what was in the house'. All I knew is that we had biscuits and I knew that is not what was on his mind under the heading, "Lunch".
Fortunately, my wife arrived and after the usual polite small talk, she went hotfoot to the kitchen and saved me from losing weight through sweating as the boxers do to reduce weight and be in the category to win. At this moment, I required weight to win and not lose!
While he kept nursing his soft drink, I kept him busy with small talk and kept imbibing beer!
"Hey Roy, did I disturb you from something important? You don't look comfortable."
"Not really, sir, I was merely writing some Annual Confidential Reports.
"Ah yes", said the Divisional Commander, "One of our burdens of office."
He paused and I waited with bated breath since he was known to be a sarcastic man.
"The annual fiction writing!" he finally said, with a deep sigh!
So, now you know how people claw up the ladder – because their seniors don't want to rock the boat!
Great fiction they write annually!
So, why blame Musharaff 's seniors?
Musharraf is cat's whiskers as you and I!
Only thing is he is smarter.
Unlike you and me, he is a President, having toppled his Boss and sent him packing!
[ORIGNALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
- Joined
- Jun 30, 2024
- Messages
- 1,163
- Likes
- 2,178
THE COLONEL, THE BATTALION HAVILDAR MAJOR AND THE COLONEL OF THE REGIMENT
We were in the Balnoi Base in the Bhimbergali Sector of J&K.
Lt Col KSM was commanding our battalion. He was "British' as British could be. He knew what was best for desi Indian kalus , namely us and other hapless Indians, who may cross his path. Major S, one of our officers, always wondered if the British in 1947 had forgotten him somewhere between the Gateway of India and the Taj Hotel when they were boarding the troopship taking them home!
Captain 'Mahdo', however, opined that the CO had himself volunteered to remain behind in India and carry on with the White man's burden on behalf of his cousin, the Queen of England!
The only person who lamented Colonel KSM's decision to remain behind in India was, Major L, the battalion second in command (one of our 2ICs – but that's another story as to how we had two 2ICs). Major L's distress was only at dinnertime. While KSM only ate 'English' dinner, Major L was the desi ghee type. The latter was always upto some subterfuge to satiate his urge every dinner time.
That, in very brief, was what the environment in which we found ourselves to be in – a happy coexistence between the sanity and the ludicrous! In that environment, the Colonel of the Regiment decided to visit the unit.
Our BHM (Battalion Havildar Major), Uttam, typified the folks who composed our unit of those days. He was a fine and efficient chap, but even with him, one had to go with the Regiment Work Code ethics (not found in the Standing Orders of War or Peace) of 'Order, Check, Recheck and Finally Do It Yourself'.
As far as the Colonel of the Regiment, a combination of Hop Along Cassidy and Lord of Tartary is a more than adequate description.
That being the background knowledge of the principle actors, we move on with the events.
The Colonel of the Regiment was "heli-dashing" somewhere or the other. It mattered not to us as to where. In those days, we all were well contended to charter our career to the next day only, unlike today's youngsters who are more alive and smart and rather career savvy.
Notwithstanding, the Colonel of the Regiment was 'air dashing'. His role and profile demanded this 'sacrifice'. He was, after all, the Regiment personified and it was "Après moi, le déluge"
Being astute and savvy, the Colonel of the Regiment decided to make a detour to our unit, just to be 'with the boys'. Obviously, for us mortals, it was to be a Red Letter Day and hence everything had to be 'taped up'.
A long distance telephone call to the ADC over the notoriously troublesome military lines brought only desolate news. The Colonel of the Regiment, the ADC informed us had barely time to even munch a Digestive biscuit, let alone partake in any elaborate Japanese Tea Ceremony! And to imagine, my "British" CO wanted Huntley and Palmer Cream Crackers to be given and that too in back of nowhere, Balnoi!
I informed the CO what the ADC had said, adding that our Colonel of the Regiment was a 'man of action' and had little time for such mundane routine as having tea and biscuits. However, KSM being KSM, with disdain overruled the Colonel of the Regiment, even so, I believed every word what the ADC had said since the Colonel of the Regiment was reputed to be more in the air than on the ground and being in the stratified air makes one less hungry.
To us youngsters, the Colonel of the Regiment's visit was a red-letter day. There was a lot of hul chul as we dubbed hyperactive ceremonial chores. But that was not so for our dear Colonel KSM. He was cool as a cucumber, even though cucumber never grew in Balnoi. Our CO was a man who went by his own ideas and damn the others, whatever the rank. He cared two hoots for who vini, vidi-ed and vici-ed (saw, came and conquered or onked out{!}). The rule as far as KSM was concerned was that so long KSM was happy, 'Mogambo was khus' .
The Colonel of the Regiment's visit was important to us. Amongst the youngsters, I was selected to 'organise' the 'visit'. While the dismal, dank and dark living and administrative bunkers were being whitewashed from the inside under the supervision of Major GSS and the flowerbeds were planted by Major S with fresh overgrown plants that had bloomed, I was sent hotfoot to the helipad.
The whitewashing the inside of bunkers, we thought, were a waste of time for a man who hardly had the time to sniff a peanut, let alone eat or sniff it. Peanuts alone were the munching delight of the hip-hop dignitaries in those days unlike today where cashew, almonds, chilguzas apparently are the metabolic delights!
Anyway, I was despatched to the helipad. The Battalion Havildar Major (BHM) trotted obediently behind me. It was a different matter that, like all senior NCOs detailed to work under youngsters, he, too, wore a scornful and disdain look, a little short of total contempt of officers still green behind the ears.
The BHM and I walked to the helipad. The area was so huge. We got busy removing the loose stones and pebbles and gave the boundary stones and the 'H' another coat of fresh lime wash. A Company worth, in the meanwhile, got busy and sashayed with their talwars manicuring the wild grass to give the impression of an operational area lawn! Efficiency had visited our unit!
I 'selected' the spot where the shamiyana was to be pitched as also the mandatory toilets – separate for the General and separate for the lowly mortals, like the aircrew and us.
I could never figure out the rationale for separate toilets. As a youngster, I always thought that the procedure to relieve oneself was the same for all. However, Major GSS informed me that it was different for the Flag Rank and different for others. There were orders to that effect I was told.
The siting of the shamiyana was no problem. The site was the same ever since the 1947 War. Yet, the military mind insisted on a song and a dance every time without fail to move the shamiyana six centimetres this way or that way. Maybe it was done to prove that the military mind was fertile and innovative. I did not let the Army down in this pagan mumbo jumbo of the 'six centimetres dancing ritual'. In addition, I added a few flags along the way as a bonus, apart from the mandatory flag that indicates Toilets. In the Army, we have flags denoting various activities!
The CO had to be given his due. He was dead serious about being actually innovative about siting the urinal and the commode ['combode' as per our safaiman as if it were some sort of an abode!]. KSM's idea of siting the commode was unique and way futuristic, almost like Muslim emperor who moved his capital down South. KSM was a military genius. He gave us precise instructions on the subject since it had been honed into a fine art in the unit he was previously. The BHM and I followed this art to the letter and I must say I am now a great toilet site-r even to this day and rank!
As per the innovative toilet erection technique, the BHM and I spent the next six hours in the General's toilet tent. We checked and rechecked the wind direction every 15 minutes and recording the same on a clipboard. We were not disturbed in this serious activity even as the painter furiously hand-painted the commode's wooden structure. What really got my goat was that the painter painted the brand new enamel chamber pot also! I queried him on this unique procedure. He was amazed that I did not know that before a VIP visit everything had to be whitewashed and painted – the vintage and state of disrepair immaterial.
I informed the 2IC of the unit, of the painter's unique 'innovation' and guess what? He said that the painter was right! Wonders never ceased in this topsy-turvy military world.
The wind record taken, we marched off to the CO to present our earth shaking scientific discovery. The wind direction was true to the adage – fickle as the wind or was a woman supposed to be fickle? The recorded degrees touched all the points, sub points and sub sub points of the compass!
KSM perused it like the sage Agastya Muni . He put his head between his palms, took deep breaths and his chest heaved up and down like Mumtaz cleavage (they do this during the dance sequence in Hindi films). Suddenly, KSM's eyes sparkled like the Pole Star at night.
We were in the Balnoi Base in the Bhimbergali Sector of J&K.
Lt Col KSM was commanding our battalion. He was "British' as British could be. He knew what was best for desi Indian kalus , namely us and other hapless Indians, who may cross his path. Major S, one of our officers, always wondered if the British in 1947 had forgotten him somewhere between the Gateway of India and the Taj Hotel when they were boarding the troopship taking them home!
Captain 'Mahdo', however, opined that the CO had himself volunteered to remain behind in India and carry on with the White man's burden on behalf of his cousin, the Queen of England!
The only person who lamented Colonel KSM's decision to remain behind in India was, Major L, the battalion second in command (one of our 2ICs – but that's another story as to how we had two 2ICs). Major L's distress was only at dinnertime. While KSM only ate 'English' dinner, Major L was the desi ghee type. The latter was always upto some subterfuge to satiate his urge every dinner time.
That, in very brief, was what the environment in which we found ourselves to be in – a happy coexistence between the sanity and the ludicrous! In that environment, the Colonel of the Regiment decided to visit the unit.
Our BHM (Battalion Havildar Major), Uttam, typified the folks who composed our unit of those days. He was a fine and efficient chap, but even with him, one had to go with the Regiment Work Code ethics (not found in the Standing Orders of War or Peace) of 'Order, Check, Recheck and Finally Do It Yourself'.
As far as the Colonel of the Regiment, a combination of Hop Along Cassidy and Lord of Tartary is a more than adequate description.
That being the background knowledge of the principle actors, we move on with the events.
The Colonel of the Regiment was "heli-dashing" somewhere or the other. It mattered not to us as to where. In those days, we all were well contended to charter our career to the next day only, unlike today's youngsters who are more alive and smart and rather career savvy.
Notwithstanding, the Colonel of the Regiment was 'air dashing'. His role and profile demanded this 'sacrifice'. He was, after all, the Regiment personified and it was "Après moi, le déluge"
Being astute and savvy, the Colonel of the Regiment decided to make a detour to our unit, just to be 'with the boys'. Obviously, for us mortals, it was to be a Red Letter Day and hence everything had to be 'taped up'.
A long distance telephone call to the ADC over the notoriously troublesome military lines brought only desolate news. The Colonel of the Regiment, the ADC informed us had barely time to even munch a Digestive biscuit, let alone partake in any elaborate Japanese Tea Ceremony! And to imagine, my "British" CO wanted Huntley and Palmer Cream Crackers to be given and that too in back of nowhere, Balnoi!
I informed the CO what the ADC had said, adding that our Colonel of the Regiment was a 'man of action' and had little time for such mundane routine as having tea and biscuits. However, KSM being KSM, with disdain overruled the Colonel of the Regiment, even so, I believed every word what the ADC had said since the Colonel of the Regiment was reputed to be more in the air than on the ground and being in the stratified air makes one less hungry.
To us youngsters, the Colonel of the Regiment's visit was a red-letter day. There was a lot of hul chul as we dubbed hyperactive ceremonial chores. But that was not so for our dear Colonel KSM. He was cool as a cucumber, even though cucumber never grew in Balnoi. Our CO was a man who went by his own ideas and damn the others, whatever the rank. He cared two hoots for who vini, vidi-ed and vici-ed (saw, came and conquered or onked out{!}). The rule as far as KSM was concerned was that so long KSM was happy, 'Mogambo was khus' .
The Colonel of the Regiment's visit was important to us. Amongst the youngsters, I was selected to 'organise' the 'visit'. While the dismal, dank and dark living and administrative bunkers were being whitewashed from the inside under the supervision of Major GSS and the flowerbeds were planted by Major S with fresh overgrown plants that had bloomed, I was sent hotfoot to the helipad.
The whitewashing the inside of bunkers, we thought, were a waste of time for a man who hardly had the time to sniff a peanut, let alone eat or sniff it. Peanuts alone were the munching delight of the hip-hop dignitaries in those days unlike today where cashew, almonds, chilguzas apparently are the metabolic delights!
Anyway, I was despatched to the helipad. The Battalion Havildar Major (BHM) trotted obediently behind me. It was a different matter that, like all senior NCOs detailed to work under youngsters, he, too, wore a scornful and disdain look, a little short of total contempt of officers still green behind the ears.
The BHM and I walked to the helipad. The area was so huge. We got busy removing the loose stones and pebbles and gave the boundary stones and the 'H' another coat of fresh lime wash. A Company worth, in the meanwhile, got busy and sashayed with their talwars manicuring the wild grass to give the impression of an operational area lawn! Efficiency had visited our unit!
I 'selected' the spot where the shamiyana was to be pitched as also the mandatory toilets – separate for the General and separate for the lowly mortals, like the aircrew and us.
I could never figure out the rationale for separate toilets. As a youngster, I always thought that the procedure to relieve oneself was the same for all. However, Major GSS informed me that it was different for the Flag Rank and different for others. There were orders to that effect I was told.
The siting of the shamiyana was no problem. The site was the same ever since the 1947 War. Yet, the military mind insisted on a song and a dance every time without fail to move the shamiyana six centimetres this way or that way. Maybe it was done to prove that the military mind was fertile and innovative. I did not let the Army down in this pagan mumbo jumbo of the 'six centimetres dancing ritual'. In addition, I added a few flags along the way as a bonus, apart from the mandatory flag that indicates Toilets. In the Army, we have flags denoting various activities!
The CO had to be given his due. He was dead serious about being actually innovative about siting the urinal and the commode ['combode' as per our safaiman as if it were some sort of an abode!]. KSM's idea of siting the commode was unique and way futuristic, almost like Muslim emperor who moved his capital down South. KSM was a military genius. He gave us precise instructions on the subject since it had been honed into a fine art in the unit he was previously. The BHM and I followed this art to the letter and I must say I am now a great toilet site-r even to this day and rank!
As per the innovative toilet erection technique, the BHM and I spent the next six hours in the General's toilet tent. We checked and rechecked the wind direction every 15 minutes and recording the same on a clipboard. We were not disturbed in this serious activity even as the painter furiously hand-painted the commode's wooden structure. What really got my goat was that the painter painted the brand new enamel chamber pot also! I queried him on this unique procedure. He was amazed that I did not know that before a VIP visit everything had to be whitewashed and painted – the vintage and state of disrepair immaterial.
I informed the 2IC of the unit, of the painter's unique 'innovation' and guess what? He said that the painter was right! Wonders never ceased in this topsy-turvy military world.
The wind record taken, we marched off to the CO to present our earth shaking scientific discovery. The wind direction was true to the adage – fickle as the wind or was a woman supposed to be fickle? The recorded degrees touched all the points, sub points and sub sub points of the compass!
KSM perused it like the sage Agastya Muni . He put his head between his palms, took deep breaths and his chest heaved up and down like Mumtaz cleavage (they do this during the dance sequence in Hindi films). Suddenly, KSM's eyes sparkled like the Pole Star at night.
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[continued]
"North by Northwest", KSM barked into space, as if mesmerised like Archimedes, when he jumped out of the bath naked and yelled through the roads 'Eureka, eureka'.
'North by Northwest' was a unique suspense film by Hitchcock but I could not fathom the connection with the wind records. However, one did not argue with KSM
"Marvellous film, sir", I said in the form the Punjabis say yeh bhi wah wah, ta bhi wah wah i.e. non-committal lest I faced the wrong end of the stick.
"Film? What film, old tyke? Don't be a freak, young man. You will site the commode in the North Northwest direction, so that the General doesn't soil his clothes in a hurry nor have his nostril offended by the odour."
Great musings, I must say and what an eye for detail! I was in raptures to learn that a General's relief was offensive to the nostrils, like most. They were also human!!!!
'Trot off now. And by the way, don't forget to put magazines in the shamiyana lest he wishes to read.'
I ordered the BHM to have a whole lot of magazines organised in the shamiyana for the General's reading pleasure and comfort, even if he did not have time to sniff a peanut!
The BHM and I jogged off to the helipad to recheck the arrangements. All appeared to be well. It was still four hours for the arrival of the Colonel of the Regiment. We returned to the Base to relax.
Doubts still nagged me. The military mind can never lie still. It was still 30 minutes to time, when the Colonel of the Regiment would arrive.
I couldn't take the tension any more. I meandered to the helipad in a controlled 'casual way' as if I was taking a walk to breathe in the bracing air!. After all, I could not show that I was flapping. In fact, it would be silly to flap in front of the troops, especially when I had no wings to flap!
Horrors of Horror!!!!!
Neatly, in the shamiyana, on the table, there were magazines of all type – not the pornographic ones that would have ruffled my feathers, but there were, in all its glory and well shone ------------ pistol magazines, sten magazines, rifle magazines, LMG magazines and a belt of MMG ammunition thrown in for 'bull'!!!!!!!
How the right magazines arrived before the Colonel of the Regiment arrived is another story, but then it proved the then popular adage of my Regiment – Order, Check, Recheck and finally DO it YOURSELF.
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]
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THE CO-CK IS TOUGH
The unit was deployed on the posts in the Mendher Sector on the Line of Control in Kashmir.
It was usual for the Commanding Officer to visit the posts every now and then.
Capt SKC was commanding a post in absence of his Company Commander.
He was a very conscientious and a hard working officer, but as is common with most of us, not very versatile with the English Language.
On the other hand, our CO was not versatile with the vernacular or so he gave the impression.
As per the CO's visit programme, Capt SKC's post was to be visited and Lunch would be partaken there.
For a youngster, the CO's visit was a momentous occasion. He had to do everything that would make the visit comfortable as also a resounding success.
He practised his briefing for the 'nth' time. He checked that his men knew their arcs of fire and all the other aspects and rehearsed them till the cows came home!
He was pleased as Punch!
Then it struck him that the CO was to have lunch and the CO was very particular on this aspect! He also knew that the CO only preferred "light English food". Neither Capt SKC nor the langar cook knew a sausage about English food! It is a different matter that they also don't know about Indian food either!
Capt SKC, however, knew that the CO, a fitness freak, preferred chicken to mutton!
He sent hotfoot his flunkeys to the nearest village to purchase the most tender of chicken available.
That done, he breathed a sigh of relief and with great glee wiped his brow!
The red letter day came!
The CO and the entourage, after a hard slog over the mountains, arrived quite exhausted.
After a brief interlude and having had bracing hot tea, Capt SKC took them to the Vantage point and gave a fantastic, well rehearsed briefing and answered issues that were posed to him, admirably. Capt SKC was mightily pleased with himself. It was not easy to keep the CO happy!
After some small talk and chilled beer (even though the weather was chilly, it is fashionable in India to have "chilled beer"), lunch was served.
It was an Indian lunch.
The salad, dal (lentil) and vegetables having been eaten, the chicken was served!
The CO was delighted since all the ghas poos was not his forte. He was a "strict non vegetarian"!
He dug his fork into the chicken with all the fervour of a famished one!
The chicken piece shot out like a bullet, hit the 2IC sitting opposite on the field table and bounced off in the direction of the elated dog that is there in all posts!
There was thundering silence and total embarrassment!
Not so with Capt SKC, pleased at Punch that he had passed the briefing with colours!
"Sir, so sorry. Was your c-ock that tough?"
That brought the house down, but none dared laugh!
Capt SKC, thereafter, learnt that tough cocks don't go too well with the niceties of the English language and we learnt the charms of "soft cocks"!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]
The unit was deployed on the posts in the Mendher Sector on the Line of Control in Kashmir.
It was usual for the Commanding Officer to visit the posts every now and then.
Capt SKC was commanding a post in absence of his Company Commander.
He was a very conscientious and a hard working officer, but as is common with most of us, not very versatile with the English Language.
On the other hand, our CO was not versatile with the vernacular or so he gave the impression.
As per the CO's visit programme, Capt SKC's post was to be visited and Lunch would be partaken there.
For a youngster, the CO's visit was a momentous occasion. He had to do everything that would make the visit comfortable as also a resounding success.
He practised his briefing for the 'nth' time. He checked that his men knew their arcs of fire and all the other aspects and rehearsed them till the cows came home!
He was pleased as Punch!
Then it struck him that the CO was to have lunch and the CO was very particular on this aspect! He also knew that the CO only preferred "light English food". Neither Capt SKC nor the langar cook knew a sausage about English food! It is a different matter that they also don't know about Indian food either!
Capt SKC, however, knew that the CO, a fitness freak, preferred chicken to mutton!
He sent hotfoot his flunkeys to the nearest village to purchase the most tender of chicken available.
That done, he breathed a sigh of relief and with great glee wiped his brow!
The red letter day came!
The CO and the entourage, after a hard slog over the mountains, arrived quite exhausted.
After a brief interlude and having had bracing hot tea, Capt SKC took them to the Vantage point and gave a fantastic, well rehearsed briefing and answered issues that were posed to him, admirably. Capt SKC was mightily pleased with himself. It was not easy to keep the CO happy!
After some small talk and chilled beer (even though the weather was chilly, it is fashionable in India to have "chilled beer"), lunch was served.
It was an Indian lunch.
The salad, dal (lentil) and vegetables having been eaten, the chicken was served!
The CO was delighted since all the ghas poos was not his forte. He was a "strict non vegetarian"!
He dug his fork into the chicken with all the fervour of a famished one!
The chicken piece shot out like a bullet, hit the 2IC sitting opposite on the field table and bounced off in the direction of the elated dog that is there in all posts!
There was thundering silence and total embarrassment!
Not so with Capt SKC, pleased at Punch that he had passed the briefing with colours!
"Sir, so sorry. Was your c-ock that tough?"
That brought the house down, but none dared laugh!
Capt SKC, thereafter, learnt that tough cocks don't go too well with the niceties of the English language and we learnt the charms of "soft cocks"!
[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]
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