Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan; Indian Army Stories

[125mm_Smoothbore]

ONLY PLAYED THE DAMROO (Rattle to make monkeys dance)

I had returned to my unit after a stint at the Army Headquarters.

The unit had a new Commanding Officer (CO). He was a cute chap with a cherubic face and was from some Rajkumar College, which he repeatedly told us was a premier school in Gujarat and to which only the Princes of India went. Unfortunately, none of us had heard of it. The CO had forgotten that the Indian Kings were near bred to the dodos and the school apparently had vanished into history. It was not listed in the Yellow Pages. Anyway, how did it matter? I was from a school that had the rare privilege of having a Battle Honour!

Notwithstanding, the CO was an excellent motivator and what, now a days, is called a 'theme event manager'. No important activity in the unit was routine. Everything had to be a 'tara fickling' . It meant not only a super affair, but also, one loaded with startling gimmicks!

Therefore, the unit's Raising Day, one of the grand events of each year, had to be a new and different 'tara fickling' affair every year.

One Raising Day had a 'wall' that separated the guests in the cocktail area from the dining area. At the appropriate time, after the cocktail hour, with a shrill whistle that startled, the extraordinary happened! The wall 'moved' and vanished into the night! The waiters with the soup, till then out of view, charged in like infantrymen in an attack, almost on the trot, towards the guests. They, then, fanned out like a flower, slowly blooming; and the soup was served individually to the mesmerised and stupefied guests.

A while later, the food wriggled in as a 'dragon'. You guessed it right – the food was Chinese. The 'dragon' was a jeep pulling many trailers, duly decorated as a 'dragon'; as authentic as the Chinese New Year dancing dragons.

The next year's Raising Day had stalls with food of all cuisines. The servers were all in the dress of the country of origin of the cuisine. The 'show' also included a paan shop that had all the typical adornments that such shops have. The after dessert fruits defied nature. They 'sprouted' on the banyan trees of the Officers' Mess!

Hands were washed, not under taps, but from a central fountain with rose smell.

The bar was a 'Jungle Bar', the barmen were as Tarzan. It was of logs and placed below a Peepul tree. Toy monkeys hung from the branches; and extraordinarily the peepul tree had banyan tree roots hanging from its branches with leaves from some other exotic trees! The area so landscaped that it gave a jungle look. Fortunately the jungle trail to the Bar was not too tricky to find! It was the novelty that year.

The man was imagination at its best.

The CO had another 'astounding' quality - he was pleasantly sarcastic.

There was this tall young handsome officer called Captain AP , who was deputed by the second in command, Major T, as the Liaison Officer for the Centre Commandant, who was to visit us. CO did not like the idea. The more Major T insisted, the more the CO demurred. The CO's logic was that Captain AP was God fearing!

It intrigued us as to why God Fearing was a negative qualification to being a Liaison Officer. And anyway, we thought that the CO, having come from another unit, had no clue that Captain AP Far from being a God fearing chap, was actually a chap who never missed an opportunity to savour life in all respects. Thus, if Captain AP was God fearing, then the CO was a monkey's uncle!

No amount of discussion budged the CO from the deduction that AP was God fearing.

The CO got impatient. To cut the discussion short and to show who the Boss is, he said, "Captain AP is God Fearing. Finito [he liked to think he was an Italian or some such thing]."

"How come, sir?" we all chimed in wanting the CO to eat crow since he was obviously wrong about AP.

"Well, AP is a good chap but he leaves everything to God" the CO said. Seeing the disbelief on our faces, the CO continued, "If he is the Liaison Officer, he will leave even the receiving of the Centre Commandant at the Railway Station to God!"

That indeed cut us short, because it was a truism that Captain AP was mighty bindaas chap.

Such was the prowess of our CO – a real imaginative chap. Great event manager and a man with great imagination to boot - declaring Captain AP a God Fearing cove!

Whatever may have been the CO's excellent qualities, owing to a misinformed gossip that I was a 'panga (cocking the snoot) specialist', the CO was apprehensive of me. He had once told me that if anyone saw a snake and a Bengali , it would be rational to kill the Bengali first. This was under the belt since I was a Bengali. I queried his rationale. Calmly he told me that not all snakes were poisonous, while on the other hand, all Bengalis spat venom!

And so the unit rolled along merrily under the command of this CO.


The CO's command tenure over, it was time for the CO to leave the unit. He had had a successful command, too. He called a conference to thank us all for the cooperation and all the usual inane stuff that outgoing COs state with emotion choked voices and a hint of a tear in their eyes. He thanked us and as he left the room, I rushed after him.

"Sir, don't mind my being frank. Actually, you were successful not because of any great stuff that you did. It was because with your diplomacy. You actually made monkeys out of us!"

"Come on, Eskay. You are attributing too much to me. I am a simple soul from a nondescript school as you feel. And, who said I made monkeys out of you guys?"

He gave a pregnant pause and said, "All I did was play the damroo"

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

THE FRENCH DELICACY, 'BURNTE MOUTTONE'


It was the days when there was no entitled ration. Hard cash and it did not go a long way either. My pay was a princely sum of Rs 400, not a penny more, not a penny less! It was 1967 if my mind does not hallucinate.

I was the Officers' Mess Food Member.

Having newly arrived in Allahabad, we were hosting a dinner for the first time for the rest of the Brigade.

The atmosphere was palpable with anticipation. The best foot forward and all that pip pip!

Deep Chand was our civilian cook. He claimed that he was Mountbatten's cook when the latter was the Viceroy. This he emphasised with vehemence, especially when in his cups. He was a highly reputed and ardent devotee of Bacchus .

Notwithstanding Deep Chand's partiality to tipple, he was a good cook. The menu for the evening was continental and the kitchen was humming with activity right from the morning.

After lunch, I went over to kitchen to see the progress of the meal. There was pandemonium. Deep Chand had toppled or is it tippled in his cups. That was not all, he had burnt the mutton! The mutton had a distinct smell that only burnt mutton can have. In fact, it was disgustingly foul.

The market had closed for the afternoon and it would only open in the evening. By then, it would be too late to buy mutton (with my own money) and prepare the dish in time for dinner for such a large gathering that was expected.

Cold sweat flooded my humble brow. The seniors were an unforgiving lot. It was no use to explain the situation to them. Therefore, the only way was to get into the act – pronto, jaldi or chop chop, the choice of language was not material at this moment.

I went over to the shelves of the larder surveying the exotic sauces on display. I was no cook and so salvation dawned on each of the sauces or so I thought. I grabbed the whole lot, tucking some under the armpit as the hands were full. I got to work with the frenzy that Kingfisher - NDTV's 'Gourmet Chef' would envy.

And so the dinner was 'fixed'. Deep Chand snored into pink clouds as black cloud circled my being!

The evening was a stupendous success. There was much revelry and everyone was in a mood for the grand finale – the Dinner. Deep Chand's culinary skills were famed and all looked forward to the same with great anticipation.

This was the moment I dreaded; and it had come!

The people attacked the tables with delighted anticipation.

Their anticipation turned to disbelief and grief.

"What the hell is this?" the Brigadier angrily hissed to my Commanding Officer (CO).

Some hushed and animated conversation between them ensued, and then, between the CO and the Mess Secretary.

The inevitable happened. I was summoned. Explanation given to my CO, I was sent to the Brigadier.

"What the hell is this, Food member sahib?" the Brigadier hissed like a python revolting over the calf that he had swallowed. The 'sahib' (though an honorific form address in Hindi or Urdu) was dripping in sarcasm. Or was it oozing with the viscosity of a leaking treacle jar?

"I knew that this would happen, sir" I said with feigned disgust, as if talking to some village oaf.

The Brigadier was incensed at the condescending tone. He could not believe a Second Lieutenant being condescending to a Brigadier!! He nearly jumped out of his Dinner Jacket!

"What do you mean by 'you knew this would happen'? Obviously it would happen, you freak", the Brigadier thundered and spluttered, forgetting the sophistication of his 'hissing python' voice.

"Obviously it would happen, idiot. You have served burnt mutton, you Godforsaken toad."

"Begging your pardon, sir" I said and paused for effect as Jeeves would have done. The Brigadier was incredulous at my calm cockiness. He had turned pink.

"Begging your pardon, sir", I repeated. More pause. Then, having incensed him further, I continued, bringing the Menu Card. "This dish, sir, as the sophisticated would know, is a French delicacy. It is called 'Burnte Mouttone'. It is cooked over a slow charcoal fire with assorted sauces and the outer skin is a trifle singed to bring out the tenderness of lamb with the sophisticated lingering of smoke. The vindication of the culinary skills lies in the mutton being slightly singed with a hint of charcoal smell lingering within the mutton to titillate the taste buds and challenge the olfactory sensitiveness. In short it is tribute to the five senses of man!"

I prolonged, "I told the cook not to try this since most have not gone to Europe, let alone beyond Bombay, but he insisted on it since it was a favourite of Lord Mountbatten. Sadly, my gut feeling has been proved correct. I knew that most of the officers would never appreciate. However, I knew that you alone would appreciate having relatives abroad and would have had this dish in France during your Europe tour".

I omitted the fact that he himself had said it was burnt and that I knew he had neither relative aboard nor had he been to France.

In those days, relatives being abroad were not so common except for the community he was from i.e. Sikh and they were proud that they alone were the pace-setters.

The Brigadiers chest expanded with pride. His face glowed.

Turning to the CO, he said, "Paaji (he was so delighted that the natural vernacular overtook him), I knew that it was a delicacy. I was just testing you. Indeed, I had this dish in Moulin Rouge in Rome". That indicated his grasp of facts and restaurants locales of Europe!

He turned to me and said most charitably, "My compliments to the cook. However, one advice I have, son". Great! From a 'freak' I had now transformed to 'son' and he had an advice!!!

"Don't try these delicacies in the Mess. Most of the officers won't like it".

Pausing for this 'gem' of an advice to sink in, he continued........... "Most of the officers are silly village bumpkins".

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

DISCIPLINED LOGIC

The Monsoon had descended on Sevoke Road, where I was stationed.

It was still in the teasing caressing mode, the full fury still being a month away. The pitter patter of the rain beating on the window pane lulled the senses and beckoned a further tête-à -tête with sleep.

The steaming cup of bed tea nestled on the bedside teapoy with the fragrant aroma of fine Darjeeling tea was doing the Flamenco in the nostrils. The cigarette lay in the ashtray, the smoke languorous in its ascent in whirling eddies of fine greyish blue smoke.
It stimulated the archetypal mood for a pleasant morning.

The Flagstaff House was cuddled in total idyllic indolence. I, by happenstance of Fate, was the current occupant!

I looked out through the window pane, while still in bed. The ambient light outside was low, though not quite so dark as it could be in full monsoons. The flowers including the tall hollyhocks were dancing gaily in the breeze, almost in symphony to hypnotise the mind. It was almost hallucinatory. The birds, in spite of the rain, chirruped and the occasional trumpet call of a solitary elephant could be heard through the foliage and fern of the Baikuntha Forest that hugged the Flagstaff House. The atmosphere sure had the indication that it heralded a tranquil beginning for the day. Jairam Ramesh, the Environment Minister, would have been in raptures!

I looked at the table clock. It was one of those fancy digital clock giving the time, day and date! That it was a Sunday had slipped my mind. The clock zapped my memory lapse! It was, thus, ideal for a longer snooze, more so since I was no keen Kumar who worked on Sundays for effect or slave drove subordinates to put in overtime on Sundays, as if they were factory labour! No siree, the British were right – no leave in station, full annual leave and no working without pressing reasons in the office and, best of all, no 24 x 7 workday week! The mind required rest and away from office, if efficiency was the watchword. If working like Commonwealth Games labour 365 x 7 was the mantra to feign 'efficiency', then it was not my or my subordinates' cup of tea! And we were an efficient Brigade, even though my GOC, the good man that he was, held contrary view!

As an aside, to illustrate our ethos, I must mention that the GOC did a 'sneak preview' one day climbing down from the hills along the Teesta and was horrified to find me practising Golf drives outside the office! He conceded that because I had computerised my Brigade, it was easier for me, but he opined that just for form, I should have been sitting behind the monstrosity of a teak desk and staring into the vacant space, willing a file to appear!

I thought this sagacious advice over. No wonder, one finds redundant and trivial work in the Army transmogrifying into things earthshaking! I realised this even more after retirement when I had the time to see the real world called civilian India.
I looked out through the window pane to see the garden to put me back into a pleasant mood.

As I was saying, I looked at the fancy table clock. It informed me that it was a Sunday! True one could laze around, but then laziness would not do. I, reluctantly, dragged myself out of bed and addressed the cup of tea, now turning cold, took two puffs at the dying cigarette and was bathroom bound. A leisurely walk through the forest attracted me immensely and so before the day turned hot and humid, it was essential that I make haste.


As I moved towards the bathroom, I gave a longing look outside the rain drenched window pane. It gladdened my heart. The flowers in the garden and the hollyhocks were swaying gently in full frolic like lithesome Manipur dancing girls. The Flagstaff Guard, a Gorkha, stood rigidly immobile, like a Madam Tussaud masterpiece, in his sentry box. The stiff and measured movements of the Gorkha soldiers never failed to fascinate me. They were masters in economy in the field of ergonomics, while the rest of us were like birds continuously flapping!

With that scene in mind, I finally entered the bathroom. A leisurely time I spent there, except for a brief interlude when the sahayak (batman or orderly, if you wish) thrust a telephone through the door after much banging to show urgency. In bated breath, he announced that it was the GOC on the line! As if, Yama (God of Death) was knocking on the door to take me Heavenward bound! However, to be fair to the GOC, it was indeed an earthshaking cataclysm that troubled his delicate mind – his Liasion Cell had informed him that some soldiers were visiting Salugura and he sniggered, yes, he sniggered like a young girl, and informed that they were doing 'naughty' things!

Wow! Naughty things by naughty chaps that made the issue real knotty!

I assured him that I would have them on the mat in two ticks! Now, I am gizmo guy; I spoke into my Dictaphone. Naughty, was it? Man, they would be hauled over the coals, I informed him.

There went a good beginning of a day like a damp squib!

Bathed and physically refreshed though mentally down in the boots and angry too, I exited from the bathroom. No, it was not that I was overburdened with the naughty boys doing naughty things and make life a knotty issue. It is just that a Sunday was ruined a naughty telephone call aimed at ruining a perfectly good day. It was hardly a matter that the DQ could not investigate and keep all informed! Anyway, I realised that the GOC had a chronic digestive malfunction and maybe his hyperacidity had taken the toll whereupon he seized the opportunity to unburden himself. That perked my mood immensely.

As I walked out of the bathroom, what do I see?

A Gorkha soldier merrily doing something outside my window!

I would be damned if he thought I was a strip tease artist who could be salaciously observed in a peek show!

I walked across to the window where he was.

I should have worn a bathrobe, but then the mood was not that accommodating, what with the GOC's naughty boys call!

In my towel, I marched to the window with all the imperiousness a Brigade Commander could muster wearing a towel! I threw open the window. I glared at the man and he blankly, with fluttering eyelids, stared back. A staring competition was thus on!

"Hey Kancha, tum kia kar raha ho?" (Hey little boy, what are you doing?) I asked without thundering to avoid adding to the thunder that God, Himself, was undertaking!

The Gorkha was flabbergasted! He looked at me as if I were some cretin! With his head, he made me follow his movement, to the watering can!

"Thik hai. Batao kia kar raha ho?" (That's all right. Explain what are you doing?) I asked.

More blink blink on an immobile face!

"Sab, ham paude par pani de raha hun!'' (I am watering the plants) pat came the reply and with economy of words.

"Lekin, kia zarurat hai? Abhi to barish ho raha hai!" (But why? It is raining) I asked with incredulity mounting by the minute.

"Woh thik hai, sab. Hukm hai kih roj 0700 baje paude ko pani dena hai. Ham pani de raha hun." (That is right, sir. I have orders to water the plants at 0700 hours every day).

I nearly burst out laughing. Watering plants even when God is the gardener watering! Man, they really could take the cake.

With decorum and without laughing I rushed to the bathroom and broke into uncontrolled laughter which he could not hear!

Naughty chaps they may have been, but damned good chaps they were and totally disciplined! They could always be depended upon!

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

PAGAL KHALSA (The Crazy Sikh)

It was a very tiring day.

Waking up at the crack of dawn, catching a flight from Calcutta to Delhi, changing planes to reach Srinagar and then by road to the Battalion located near Kargil via ZojiLa and Dras. That was not all. There was a long wait in Delhi as the aircraft had a snag. All this was exhausting.

Yet, all was not lost.

Salvation visited me on landing at the Srinagar airport – the liberation from the heat and dust of the plains! Yet, there was still a languor in the heart – my annual leave had come to an end!

Enduring the the usual and unnecessary hustle bustle that greets a CO (Commanding Officer) returning from leave, I entered the Jonga (Nissan Patrol). We were Transit Camp bound, when I did the unforgivable. I told the driver to hop it straight to the Battalion and the acclimatisation mandatory for units in the High Altitude be damned! Not a great example for a CO, but then the heady civilian lifestyle acquired on leave seemed to have charged me with a sense of déjà vu. The driver was not too pleased that I was breaking procedure. His long innings with me seemed to have given him a proprietorship over me, as one would for a loving dog! Yet, he had no options. I was, after all, the CO!

My Battalion, located in the Kargil Sector was something like a circus. All and sundry, irrespective of rank, visited it to get a feel of 'war'. It was, after all, the only active combat area of the Brigade and daily exchange of fire was the staple.

The daily firing had no routine. The Pakistanis resorted to heavy and relentless firing, mostly at night, with all their weapons. The intensity increased when we moved, at night, the small donkeys (local breed) through the predictable and only tracks available, carrying replenishment and defence stores. The Posts were still being constructed and we were under their direct domination since the Pakistanis were on higher ground along the ridges. Unique defence work along the routes and using of gravity feed pipes, laid at great risk, ensured that the Pakistanis merely wasted their ammunition. All this was way before the famous Op Vijay (Op Badr, as named by the Pakistanis) and before gravity feed became the rule than the exception in Siachen. Movement by day to the Posts or within the Posts was impossible in most places. Morale, nonetheless, was high.

I wanted to take charge as fast as I could.

Driving through the night, I reached the base of the mountain where my unit was located and climbed to the Battalion HQ.

My 2IC (Second in Command) and the Adjutant met me at the crest of the hill. The former was very sleepy and not too pleased. With sadistic delight he dropped the bombshell that the next day the new Brigade Commander would be arriving at 0900 hours to get an operational briefing!

A good beginning I must say.

Briefing the next day? Well, the next day had already become today!

''Ah well!'' said I, ''what difference does it make? It is a circus here and we brief all and sundry and so it will be no great shakes''.

Turning to the Adjutant, I said, ''Just have the briefing paraphernalia ready and send me the updates by 0600 hours and hey presto! we shall give him the very best!''

Having said so, we went off to our bunkers. I was tired, but since it was a habit I never slept at night since the firing was at its zenith.

I stayed awake. I will admit that I was dozing off.

0600 hours and the updates came and having gone through them, I was ready, come rain, hail or high water.

Having bathed and all that, I placed myself on top of the hill where the track would bring the new Brigade Commander. As an aside, it would be prudent to state that though it was the only active area in the Brigade and a novelty for all and sundry to visit the Battalion HQ to get a 'feel of the war', it was safer than the Posts. This was so since the Pakistanis, for some good reasons that were a national secret in Pakistan,used only their AD guns and HMGs at the Battalion HQs. It was effective but not as it were on the Posts. Only once, had they toppled a Field Flush Latrine, giving the poor chap inside a heart attack of his life and nothing very life endangering!

I was stationed at the top of the hill awaiting the new Commander.

A few minutes before 0900 hours, I saw a mule coming up the track from the base of the hill with someone sitting on it and another holding onto the tail, gasping for dear life. To gasp was not unusual, for after all, we were in High Altitude and air is rare. Yet, I was most unhappy at this spectacle. It was hardly a time for the 'all and sundry' to want a ringside seat for the war extravaganza!

The mule, the man on top of it and the man following had come closer and one could make out to some extent the features. Shock of shocks! The man astride the mule was none other than my neighbour at the Battalion Support Weapons Course at Mhow. He was the very studious chap who rarely came out of his cabin and so we had named him 'Pagal Khalsa' (Crazy Sikh). He was otherwise a good chap and always helpful and he did top the course. He was a VrC (the third highest gallantry award) to boot! A solid soldier indeed! And an educated one too!

Pagal Khalsa or no Pagal Khalsa, friend at the course or not, I could surely not entertain him the way I should, for the sake of good old days, since the new Brigade Commander was coming to visit us and get a briefing; and who knew what type of a pain in the anatomy the new Commander would be!

"Oi, Pagal Khalsa, what are you doing here?'' I yelled, letting the breeze carry my words. "The new Commander is to visit me and who knows what type of a pain in the anatomy he is. So, hurry up and I will send you to the Post and later we can chat up. We have laid a good breakfast for this new cove and so you can tuck in merrily. Got that Pagal?"

The rider just looked up, gave a wan smile and nodded his head. The man behind was furiously huffing and puffing and oddly, rubbing his finger on the lips, as if to check if the cold air had parched it! Maybe he wanted water and his lips had got parched. I turned to the Adjutant and told him to have the water ready, lest the chap conked off!

I thought Pagal Khalsa had not understood the urgency. I used broken Punjabi, the best that I could muster, so that the urgency hit home.

"Pagal Papaji, cheeti kar. Sade navi Commander athey aiye shartly. (Pagal daddy O, hurry up. Our new Commander is expected here shortly)". I even used the Punjabi accent for 'shortly' so that there would be no error in understanding and anyway, I had no clue of the Punjabi equivalent of 'shortly'.

There was no perceptible change in speed of the mule. It plodded on as leisurely as possible. I yelled again, "Oi Pagal chheyti kar, rub de waste (Oi Pagal, for God's sake hurry up). Notwithstanding my consternation, the mule and the rider and his follower plodded along with the follow up chap desperately doing the finger to the parched lip drill. I looked behind and was pleased to find that the water was near.

I was at my tethers end. Pagal and his friend behind the mule had taken no heed of my urgent pleas.

They reached the top. I was delighted to see him. He was perched high on the Mule MA (mountain artillery) and we were in a dip in ground.

"Pagal, its great to see you here. Maybe you could re-site our Mortars and all those other stuff you are an expert on. Now, this crazy coot of a Commander, who has just been posted, has decided to visit us for a Briefing and to imagine, I arrived only after midnight! These senior officers have no sense! Anyway, I am ready as always, for the main weapon of war in our Army is English and I am well armed!" I blurted all this in one breath. Pointing to the post about 100 meters away, I continued, "Why don't you go and make yourself at home there and have a hearty breakfast?"

Pagal burst out laughing.

"Roy, you will never change. You say the most atrocious things.''

Having said that he leaned forward and wagged his shoulders with a mischievous smile.

The Ashoka Lion and the three stars burnt right into my eyes. Pagal was my new Commander!

That really got me!

I gulped once or twice, the Adam 's apple moving vertically vigorously.

My ears were burning with embarrassment.

"Yes, Roy, wonders never cease."

And then he delivered the coup de grace – "And to imagine that you made it to a Colonel"!
"Touch̩, what? That's for calling me publicly Pagal Khalsa!"..........................."Now, let's see your best weapon in Action Рthe Briefing and could we have it in Hindi?"

Now, that was cruel since my Hindi was the butt of the jokes during the course!

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

'BALLE, BALLE'

It was in the year of the Lord 1968.

I was then but a youngster with one year of service. The battalion was located in Allahabad.

Our Brigade Commander was a hard task master. He was blunt. He was imperious. He rode roughshod. He was certainly not a man to fool with or take liberties. He never claimed that 'Popularity' was his middle name!

Yet, he had a sterling quality – he always ensured that the culmination of a Brigade exercise was always a rip roaring, no holds barred party at one of the unit's Officers' Mess.

Let me elaborate on the atmosphere prevailing during such parties since it was unusual for those times. It was like a carnival. Whilst one did not forget rank, but it got sort of blurred under the bon homie that ran riot! A 'one for all' pizzazz, so to say.

We were attending such a party. My unit's Officers' Mess was the venue.

The party was riotous and boisterous. The drinks were coming thick and fast and so were the snacks. It was not the organised sort of party that the military normally has. It was more of a fete, with groups enjoying themselves without being a part of an organised show, so to say. The atmosphere, in today's teen parlance, would be 'cool', with all the 'chilling out' resulting in 'chillax' (chill out and relax)!

Sher Singh, a Special List Quartermaster of a unit and a village hurly burly, had just declined a boisterous request for a song from him. The atmosphere was électrique! Catch him not singing when asked by the majlis (congregation in Urdu) ! Boisterous yells automatically dubbed him, 'Chuha (Mouse) Singh'!

Being dubbed 'Chuha Singh' for cowardice was too insulting to bear for this worthy of the North (North India). Anger swelled in his heart! In a piqué, he burst forth in a wolf like howl, like Akela of the Mowgli tales, passing it grandly for a song. Not that it mattered, since most were chatting in their own small groups and having a great time. Even if Chuha Singh's rendition was jarring the sonic balance and inviting furtive glances from other groups including the one with the Commander and the COs, who cared?

Sher's 'song' and the loud guffaws were somewhat upsetting the 'law and order' of the party or so it appeared to some.

There are these types in the Army who are always anxious about maintaining 'Discipline' and 'military order' and feel it in their bones that it is the paramount business in the Army. This affliction is normally amongst some senior officers who suffer from a dangerous dose of the 'senior officer syndrome'.

And so, one 2IC (second in command) collared me, it being our Mess. He was one of those 'command by deflection' type. He preferred to 'steer' the boat and not 'rock' it. He ordered me to start the radiogram, which was a novelty at that time, and organise some dancing. He felt that by doing so, even Sher or Chuha Singh would shut up and join the rocking time all would have with the thunder of the music. He informed me, most sagaciously, that the Northern blokes loved nothing like a good bout of wild dancing to let down their hair.

The radiogram was started but the pandemonium continued, not that anyone other than this 2IC, cared.

The Brigade Commander and the Commanding Officers (COs) were also delighting themselves huddled in their group.

The flinty and unyielding 2IC alone was not enjoying. He was keen on bringing the party to order. He once again came to me.

"This won't do", said he. "Start a Punjabi song, preferably a boisterous one". One will recall that Punjabi songs have 'catchy' tunes and the wordings normally real 'earthy'. Thus, it was the best option in his opinion he informed me.

That also didn't work. The situation was getting frustrating. The 2IC was adamant.

One officer, not too young a youngster and who had seen life longer than me and who had followed the whole proceedings with uncontaminated curiosity, came up and advised me to get the Brigade Commander's group to start dancing. That would do the trick, he advised, since the Army had a propensity to follow 'The Pied Piper'. Don't get me wrong – those that follow are not rats, but just normal career driven ambitious individuals!

I was hesitant. Youngsters cannot dare talk to Brigadiers, let also make them dance – at least, not in those days!

Seeing my hesitation, he challenged me. He added a bet – hit the Brigade Commander on the back if I were a 'real man' and get him to dance! I mulled that over. On the pittance we got as pay, the wager was indeed handsome. I might as well add that given the alcohol flowing, it requires no prompting to state that we were all in a rather 'happy' state of mind. I, too, by that time had acquired some Dutch Courage, even though I was imbibing Indian Made Foreign Liquor (IMFL) as whisky was known in manufacturing circles.

A real man? Me? Wasn't that obvious?

The bet was on.

I put the radiogram louder"¦..real loud.

The Brigade Commander's group looked towards the radiogram, lifted their brows and then went back to the ritual they were engaged in.

I walked up to the Brigade Commander and slapped him hard on his shoulder as one would when meeting a dear old friend – real Punjabi style to boot!

He was startled and shocked. A man of his importance does not get backslapped and that too so hard in a gathering of his subordinates, and to add insult to injury, by a pipsqueak!

He had no time to get furious"¦"¦..Grinning from ear to ear I said, "Come on, sir, you all are hot blooded proud Punjabis. Let's do the Bhangra (a boisterous Punjabi dance) "¦.Balle Balle "¦."

The Commander actually thought I was a great admirer of the hot blooded Punjabi pride and their folk dances and that I was dying for some authentic stuff from none other than the Brigade Commander! He was, after all, a megalomaniac.

Delighted, he broke into a boisterous bhangra, giving it all the pep and go that his advanced age and creaky old bones could give.

The COs followed the Pied Piper. The rest of the crowd followed their COs.

The sourpuss 2IC was happy.

And"¦"¦"¦

Sher Singh had stopped his howling.

And......

The best part was that I had won the bet!

Balle Balle!

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

CAN YOU HEAR ME THERE?


I had just been commissioned two weeks ago. I was in that embryonic state on matters military that gives rise to the time tested adage - 2/Lieutenant should be seen and not heard!

Honestly, I had no clue of the Army, let alone of the Infantry in which I had been commissioned. My serious and yet enthusiastic looks belied the fact. It gave rise to the misconception that I was one of the eager beaver keen Kumar variety that infest the Army and such an impression camouflaged the fact that I was but green behind the ears with hardy any, or actually, no service at all in the Army! That is, unless one took two weeks of service to be service enough to warrant eligibility to join the pensionable bracket!

And so, it came to pass that no sooner that I had started getting a hang of unit life, I was detailed with a few others of the unit for a 'Lecture – Discussion', at the Divisional HQ, which was to be conducted by the Division Commander (General Officer Commanding or GOC) himself. The subject was – Employment of Armour in Riverine Terrain.

I learnt from the others that there would be over 75 officers attending of a variety of ranks and it would be followed by Lunch.

I was most apprehensive and nervous over the prospect of attending this Lecture Discussion.

I rang up a course-mate who was commissioned in a neighbouring battalion. He told me that he had not been detailed since his unit felt that it was too early to give him an exposure, as also, to ensure that he did not make an ass of himself if asked a question and let the unit down! Imagine that! He was being protected and I was being thrown to the wolves as if I were Androles, the slave, who was thrown into the Circus Maximus, to battle against the Lion to bring cheer to the Romans and the Emperor!

I was petrified! I actually had butterflies in my stomach as Androceles must have had, and to top it all, I was told that the GOC was some Singh, or a Lion in English!

As a youngster, one is not expected to air one's views or even ask too many questions; and anyway, none was interested in what were my views. Yet, I took heart and asked the officer one senior to me in the unit hierarchy as to how could I explain to the Battalion Second in Command, who had detailed us, that I had no clue of the Infantry, let alone of Armour and that I was dreading going there and making a fool of myself.

The chap senior to me was a bit of an uppity chap. He was wallowing in his happiness that he was no longer the junior most in the unit and the odd job man thereof. He adopted a picture of total peevishness when I asked him the question. He told me to shut up and do as I was told and not get extra smart. Having said that, he thrust some pamphlets my way and told me to study and be prepared, or else, he said I would be demoted to a Subedar Major! Imagine that! What a laugh! I was taken to be a total fool, and yet on the other hand, being taken to be wise enough to discuss armour with the GOC! Conveniently it was forgotten that I was still discovering the difference between a 3 inch and 81mm mortar and between a Jonga (Nissan Patrol) and a Jeep!

I read through the pamphlets, but only perfunctorily. It was not that I was not keen. It was just that it was as comprehensible to me, as it would be even if it were written in Greek or Pushto! I had no idea as to what was an Vanguard, an Advanced Guard, Flank Guard or a Rear Guard, let alone what was meant by a Commander's position in the whole subchiz (plot) being 'as far forward as possible to influence the battle, but not too far ahead to get embroiled in battle'! Good English, but what was the actual place in the Order of March (a term which I only understood since I knew English even if not tactics) was he to be in, is what confused me; and so I quit delving deeper, having not understood even the basic!

The very thought of having to go for this Lecture Discussion was giving me sleepless nights and there was help from none. Most of the seniors were treating me as if I did not exist, while the kind ones taking me to be just an exotic worm from the African rain forests which had lost its way. I could find none to pour out my heart and my apprehensions. So, I suffered in agonising silence!

Our Second in Command was a nice gentleman. He noticed that I was very forlorn. He enquired what ailed me. I poured my heart out. He sympathised, but sagaciously informed me that it was good for my exposure to 'higher levels' of understanding of operations and that it would go a long way for me! Of course, it would and that I knew, providing I knew what tactics was in the first place!

The big Day came! We were herded into a Nissan Truck 1 ton and we were Division HQ bound. It was a cold day and my blood has frozen with apprehension. The idle chatter of the other officers, looking forward to the Lunch more than the Discussion, did nothing to change my total paralysis of mind, limb and brains.

We reached the Auditorium where the Lecture Discussion was to be held. I showed great alacrity to find a seat way at the back and checked the lighting too. It was in a dark corner. I hoped that because of the distance and the darkness where I would sit, I would remain the 'Invisible Man'. I breathed easy and I did not move, lest someone else usurped my 'strategic' seat!

The General came and the Discussion started. The General was a swashbuckling Cavalry man and had been a Commandant of the Indian Military Academy, when I was a Gentleman Cadet there. He was a tough cookie as they say. He swung the Discussion like a Cavalry Charge. Fast and furious but it was beyond my horse sense, let alone tactical sense. In this tactical m̻l̩e, I was like the General who ordered the Charge of the Light Brigade Рtotally clueless about the situation. Yet, possibly like the Charge of the Light Brigade General, I wore a very intelligent look!

I kept listening with rapt attention. I think I was learning a wee bit and I was quite enthused. My memory flooded with the great armour battles of Kasserine Pass, Battle of the Bulge and of Patton, Rommel and Guderian.

I leant forward lapping up the discussion and may have worn an intelligent look, apart from appearing to be beaming with 'keen interest'. The General must have been a hawk in his last life. Even at that distance, he could spot me. He caught me unawares in my reverie, for out of the blue, he asked me a very pertinent question – pertinent as per his perception, but totally Esperanto to me!

I was so enamoured with the discussion, that I did not hear the question, let alone understand it!

I stood up since I was asked the question, having observed that this was the form.

The fact that my legs were shaking and it also indicated the state of my brains, the General did not realise. He couldn't, in any case, have discerned that since there were many rows ahead of my row and between him and me.

In sheer confusion, I pulled out my pipe since I thought a smoke would clam me down. Smoking had been allowed. Sherlock Holmes is said to have smoked his pipe before piecing the detective puzzles. So, what worked for him should also work for me I thought!

I slowly filled the bowl of the pipe. I had no option otherwise since my hand was shaking Time was ticking away as all, including the General, patiently watched. Putting the pipe stem in my mouth I gave a couple of pulls to confirm that the airway was clear. ! Having done so, I lit the pipe after many attempts. The impatience of the audience and the General was now quite evident.

Having lit the pipe, I gave a puff. It was most satisfying and helped to calm my nerves.

If I were to have my maiden speech in the Army, then it was mandatory that all heard it and it should never be forgotten.

I looked to towards the far left of the audience and asked, "Can you hear me there?"

I took another puff. It cleared my mind more.

I asked the same of the audience to the far right.

I gave another puff.

By then I forgot what the question was.

I asked the General, "Begging your pardon, sir, could I have the question again?"

The General was kind and patient, possibly having observed that I was but only a 2/Lieutenant and incapable of growing a genuine military moustache. He gently, with all decorum expected of a General, repeated the question.

I gave another pull to inhale a huge amount of smoke. I was horribly nervous. I thought it would open my brains and pop would come the answer.

The General waited patiently, tapping patiently on the lectern, Beethoven's Third Symphony, if indeed there was something like that.

Nothing concrete tactically visited my brains, try that as I might.

I racked my brains remembering the sagacious word of the pamphlets thrust to me to bone up as also of the discussion so far.

The audience waited for my tactical gem to be cast amongst them.

Having kept the General waiting and having asked him to take time out to acquiesce to my request for repetition the question, it was mandatory that I said something that was coherent.

All I could say was, "Sir, I have no idea. I haven't the foggiest!"

What happened thereafter is history!


[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

THE HUKAH (Hubble Bubble)AT THE MESS

We were located in 'Operation D' in the High Altitude area.

Of course, it was not earth-shaking an experience. It was just that there was this daily unpredictable incessant, intense and unrelenting exchange of fierce shot and shell, especially in the hours when people elsewhere curl up with the warm hug of sundowners. It is nothing much really, except that one could make his Maker. Bookmakers would make a killing and it was but a daily lottery and that's all!!!!

Our Division's sector was sea of tranquillity. It was this place alone where we were that was the hot spot, if you did not count Siachen. Siachen: Those desolate waste, the land of Guns and Roses! Ours was equally desolate, heights were similar and it was horrifyingly stimulatingly exciting environs. It was also excitingly horrifying to helicopters in the vicinity. They kept far from our location. This, however, did not deter all and sundry – the 'war tourists' in their pursuit of the 'been there, done that' rubber stamp! The only rider being was that the war tourists, desired ringside vistas, but from safe distances!

The intensity of firing reached the crescendo at night and the 'tourists' were gone by then!

The GOC was one who had to visit, not because he liked to be in the line of fire, but he was conscientious enough to do so in the line of duty. To be fair to him, he did visit even the forward most post, when the preceding unit was there, though on that occasion, he was wounded – not a battle casualty in its strict terms, but he could have claimed the Wound Medal, since it was a North Indian unit he was with, and the North Indian do mix up their 'W's with 'B's, like Bapas, for Wapas. The GOC had been injured while attending his morning ablution because of a jagged used fruit tin as there was no standard toilet at those places and was wounded in the you know where!

Of course, the GOC was not too pleased at the experience. Though he did not claim the Medal as the Citation would be too revealing, he did give a diktat that the 'quality of life' had to be improved. The improvement started when my battalion took over and there were Field Flush Latrines galore. It was in such abundance, that it did not matter even when one of them toppled under enemy fire with a boy still inside at the act!

The GOC was to visit. To top it all, he was to have lunch. It was not that we were stingy and did not want to host the GOC, it was just that our Regimental Centre, then being commanded by a soldier Brigadier, thought that our unit required to be real battle hardened under strict combat conditions – and so he had posted out our Mess Cook, and to add insult to injury, also the masalchi (the condiment grinder man) to Ferozpur so that they exercised their culinary delights for a Brigade Commander! This left us at the mercy of Joe - who actually was borrowed lunger (troops' cookhouse) marvel. His name was not Joe. We called him so, to assuage our ego, and what could be better than a cook with an English name?! It also gave him the personality fillip, wherein the food was still of the lunger' class, but the English name ensured that his enthusiasm for dousing his culinary marvels with an overdose of condiments, especially chillies less and very officer like!

Under these circumstances, the Pakistanis were easy meat compared to hosting a lunch for the GOC and as they say, a way to a man's heart was through his stomach and our GOC was reputed to have an ample stomach!
When a GOC wants to break bread, it becomes more serious an operational problem than the Pakistanis peppering shots at random and into the blue. As is normal in the Army, when people are clueless, they hold a conference, and we were clueless how to organise this lunch! The Second in Command, true as rain, suggested a Conference and herded the officers of the Battalion HQs, namely, the Adjutant and the Quartermaster (QM), for their 'valuable' suggestions. I presided, being the Commanding Officer. And yes, forgive my memory relapse, to put the records straight, our post dog, William, also attended. He was an honorary member of our Mess, having the right as he consumed the major portion of Joe's culinary marvels that were actually unfit for human consumption!

It was decided that I was the best cook. My qualifications? I survived on extra messing of the lunger version of scrambled eggs – bujiya. Hence, not having tasted Joe's own, I was definitely the sole one who understood food. The QM, rotund that he was, was selected as the masalchi, since he did not have the rank to outmatch me, and because he was a gourmand, living to eat and not eating to live!

The decision taken, the QM and I hotfooted it to the Officers Mess kitchen – an underground bunker, dark, damp, dismal and squalid! The Second in Command, the honorary Officers Mess Librarian since he controlled the finances, helpfully brought the book, 'Maharaja's Cooking' written by some minor Raja of Madhya Pradesh. Very apt title, but were we the 'cooking staff' up to it?
The pages of the Maharaja's were frantically turned. "Jungle Roast" appealed. It was the easiest and yet the most exotic! It was a capital idea, sirjee! The GOC having been feted at a surfeit in Messes, his palate could only be jiggled with surprises that separated the class from the crass! The recipe was simple. A hole in the ground, a chicken well marinated, wrapped in leaves, covered with wet mud and left to roast in a slow burning charcoal fire, turning it occasionally. Viola! But no, the problem was that we lived in stark surroundings and there were no trees and so there were no leaves. So, that was out.

More pages were furiously thumbed. Nothing seemed to click. Some condiment or the other was missing from our larder. No fault of ours either. We were not the ITC of MaJor Rehman nor the Taj or even being impoverished Mahrajas writing cookbooks to keep the home fires warm!

We were at our tethers end.

I took a calculated risk. I wanted to surprise ourselves and leave the GOC surprised and guessing as to what Fate deemed his way! And one cannot challenge Fate, can one? So to Fate we let the GOC stomach lie!

The masquerading mess cook Joe cut the chicken dexterously, he having been cautioned earlier that it had to be cut Officers mess style, where the chicken could be recognised so and not mistaken for crow.

We wanted the GOC to realise it was a chicken and not a crow. This was some feat too, since live chicken was a rarity in these parts where food came in tins, bottles, in dehydrated form and in pills that only the famished of Somalia could relish, notwithstanding the ASC's claim nothing fresh could be issued as everything shrivelled in the cold, including human beings. As if, someone had asked the ASC to supply human beings as Meat on Hoof, even if most in uniform were but sheep!

That chicken was cut the officers mess style. I attacked it with a fork stabbing wildly like a cadet attempting the 'Best bayonet' at the National Defence Academy.

In the meantime, the QM, my honorary masalchi, pulverised the High Altitude rations of raisins, cashew, almonds and the works into a paste and stirred it into a bowl of milk powder turned curds. There being no chillies, he doused the mixture with Hongtu's Chinese Chilli Paste, a welcomed gift from an officer's wife on the Delhi – Hong Kong run of Air India! And then... into this goo..... we threw the Officers Mess style cut chickens to marinate for four hours!

The QM went into an overdrive with the remainder of the menu since the dal and the vegetables were no problem – the Maharaja's Cookbook proving quite adequate and the ingredients being available. Joe, remember him? - Our lunger turned officers mess cook? - He prepared the dessert, which in the Army, is known as the 'sweet dish'. It was some exotic stuff from where he hailed and was his Mum's favourite. We fervently hoped that the GOC and his Mother shared the same tastes!

The marinating done, the chicken was cooked over a slow fire on a slow burning charcoal fire and once done, it was declared ready to eat.

The main part of the battle done, we awaited the GOC.

He arrived on a mule, helicopters being no go in our area. I cannot vouch that he had a sore bottom, but he certain did not look pleased. He had made no secret that he did not like me too much ever since the Spotterscope demand incident (another story, some other time). But I will add the feeling was mutual.

Tea and small eats served, I launched into the Briefing. It had become hackneyed, having given it to all and sundry, be they VIPs or 'war tourists'. I could have given it with my eyes closed and as parrot like Long John Silver's parrot saying "Pieces of Eight'! The GOC too had heard it many a time and so he fitted his head left to right and vice versa like some mountain bird from Salim Ali, the naturalist's, book! Both played out this charade to the hilt!

The Briefing over, the question hours was on. He looked at me as if he had suddenly discovered a worm emerging out of an apple! He blinked twice and rubbed it in, "Still hankering for that Spotterscope, what?" He chortled. "Carry on hankering. You will not get one!" He beamed having said it. As if I cared, I had already bought a Russian telescope from the moth eaten local market!

He had no question and somewhat relied that the charade was over.

"Shall we have lunch", said the GOC.

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

THE HUKAH (Hubble Bubble)AT THE MESS



He had no question and somewhat relied that the charade was over.

"Shall we have lunch", said the GOC.

[CONTINUED]
A good point! After all, none expected him to go and man a machine gun and go on a pigeon shoot, even if it meant the Pakistanis.

We repaired for lunch.

While we waited with bated breath, he enjoyed every morsel! He was ecstatic over the chicken dish and went so far as to say, "The bird was fabulous". General classify al type of fowl are called 'birds'. I believe it is classy to do so! I made it clear that though it was fowl (note the spelling and not the pronunciation), it was clearly was a chicken and not a crow by stating thus:

"Ah yes, sir, its from our poultry, fresh live chicken, prepared just for you!"

"My compliments to your cook and say, can I borrow him?

I will leave the borrowing of the cook episode for another time and instead move on with the story.

After the General had knocked off his 'sweet dish', I asked the General if I could smoke. He was not too fond of smoking.

It was my mess and not his and so he grudgingly waved his arm and said, "Burn yourself for all I care".

The good General had been needling me throughout the lunch and so I was seething.

I delivered the coup de grâce. The time had come for one to have a spine, even if he were only a CO!

I clapped my hands as if I were some Sheik for the Arab world.

The GOC beamed. He thought I applauded his smart repartee, as most CO did and do!

Clap done and in popped Andy, the lean and tall Jat soldier, all decked up for the occasion.

He carried a silver hookah (hubble bubble) perched on a red stain pillow with flowing tassels in gold colour.

He handed me the hookah, took the nozzle, gave it two puffs, changed the mouthpiece and extended the nozzle towards me.
With all solemnity and grace of a Guard Commander of a Presidential ceremonial guard, he saluted and exclaimed loud and clear – "Shariman, hookah taiyar" (Sir, your hubble bubble is ready).

The General jaws dropped, eyes popped and he was left unceremoniously gawking!

"Time to leave, I presume", the General squawked. It was Veni Vedi but not Vici!

He climbed the mule and went into the sunset as Lone Ranger does in Universal Pictures films

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : RAY ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

THE MIRACLE OF THE WIRELESS SET 31

It was in my final Term of the Indian Military Academy.

We were out on our last of the many exercises that we had to undergo before Passing Out as full-fledged officers. Thus, doing well in these series of exercises was most critical.

We had gone through the Mountain Warfare, plains warfare and other exercises on warfare and this was taking place in the Raiwala forest and so I presume, if my memory serves me right after all these years, it was the Jungle Warfare phase.

I liked these exercises since it was an escape from the Directing Staff, the ustads (NCO instructors) and every other menace moving in uniform whose basic enjoyment in life apparently was macho sadism. During the exercise, you were on your own, of course operating within the ambit of the demands of the said exercise. The only pain in the posterior was the Platoon Directing Staff (DS), and in my case, he was an odd fish who also found me to be an odder fish!

He 'liked' me immeasurably and so he found great delight to somehow contrive situations wherein I had to carry the Wireless Set 31 (radio set) which, to me, appeared heavier than my actual weight. Radio Set 31, to many newbies in the Army, would be as unfamiliar as the matchlock rifle to, say General Sunderjee. Therefore, it would not be out of place to mention some it its characteristics. It was a bulky and a VERY heavy radio set which used, I was told, 18 Valves! Its batteries were bigger than the GC slab and way heavier. In short, it was a monstrosity that only the Army could be bamboozled into accepting.

I will be frank, the weight killed me and seeing my plight, one of the ex ACC (Army Cadet College) Gentleman Cadet, who was originally a Signal Radio operator was overcome with such immense pity for scrawny me, that he quietly removed the battery and tucked it in his knapsack, quaintly called Pack 08, another ingenuous folly that only the Army can be entrapped into. I have a strong suspicion that it was called Pack 08 because the '0' indicated your normal self and '8' indicated how twisted you became on wearing it on your back. However, this I will admit, it was so large that it could carry the artefacts that one acquired in a lifetime.

I was aghast that the battery had been removed. If the DS found out, and there were good reasons he would when he wanted to use the Set, I would be dead. I queried my friend, the battery remover, as to what to do if the DS bloke wanted to use the Set and in a frenzy of fear bleated the dreadful consequences that would follow. He laughed it off. He told me not to worry, for if such a situation arose, he would be at hand and would fiddle around and tell him that it was duff (not working) and the DS would have to believe it since he was but an Infantryman and would know nothing of a Wireless Set whereas he was an expert! He also told me that everyone knew that the Wireless Set 31 was more unreliable than a postulation that a mule was masquerading as a horse!! That gave me some relief.

We trudged along. I was slowly transforming into a Sad Sack. But then with little help from friends was making steam and hoping that there would be a quick attack soon so that I could get some respite during the planning of the attack by lying down, having take 'position' that we normally had to do, whenever there was any hold up in the movement.

Then there was some furore up front. One could clearly hear the DS barking loudly, as if he were some forlorn ship's foghorn, blaring like a fishing trawler off the cod dense coast of Newfoundland. We soon realise that the DS was admonishing someone or the other. We were perturbed since it was his God given virtue to make a nuisance of himself, even when there was no cause.

While all this was going on, we had taken 'position' on the ground as we always did whenever halted. To me this halt was God given. It gave me respite to lie down as if on the funeral pyre thanking God for the eternal rest he was assigning me, after a good knock at life!

But low and behold, what do we see?!

The DS charging towards me like a lost cow (gauchi ga in Punjabi). I quickly took up a more military like posture from the posture taken by the dead and pretended to be busy in monitoring the radio traffic!

"You bladey (bloody) Roy"¦.. Take silly 31 off back"¦. give this bai (boy)"¦. Fool bai"¦ getting extra clavar (clever)"¦"¦teach what when play hunki punki (hanky panky)".

It was music! Catch me wasting a minute. Off came the 31 Set as if I was hit by lightening! It is then when I froze. The battery was not there and if this fool DS came to know, then I would be the one who would be at the wrong end of 'play hunk punki'!!!!! I could have wept.

God helps the meek or so says the Bible. And I was a real meek chap, as meek as a mouse!

Before I realised, my ACC friend, was by my side and he was working like a dynamo checking this, checking that. He spoke into the handset, did a tuning call and a netting call and, to my horror, pushed the handset to the DS! I nearly wetted myself!

I awaited slow death!

The DS appeared pleased, so pleased that he supervised hawklike the remainder part of the change over from me to the hapless sod. I was thunderstruck. Slow death did not visit me!

It later transcribed that in all the checking this and checking that, the ACC friend had, through a marvellous sleight of hand, transferred the battery to its rightful receptacle. I could not have thanked my friend more.

He was really a manna from heaven and I, the meek, as per the Bible, had inherited the Earth!!

To this date, I remain indebted to him.

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

AND THEN FELL THE RAIN!


The warm, humid breeze cut like a knife through the thick foliage of the undergrowth of the Raiwala forest.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge as we, the Gentlemen Cadets of the final term of the Indian Military Academy, pushed through the thick foliage and trudged along. Wilfred Owen alone accompanying us (in spirit)!

Carefully we moved; not a dry twig or dead leaves were to be trampled. The enemy was nigh - in the close proximity or so it was told! Danger lurked everywhere. Noise would be the sure giveaway of our intent and position!

Heading the column as it snaked its way was I, the ever vigilant Scout of the leading section of the Point Platoon. Heavy was the burden that I bore and steadfast to duty was I, like Casabianca, the boy who stood on the burning deck.

Exercise Jungle Joe or whatever the unimaginative and ludicrous name the Training Team had conjured thus progressed magnificently. Ideally, it should have been named 'Tarzan and his Chimps'.

Looking to the Left, then to the Right, sniffing the air for the smell of human existence, we pushed through the dense mass of the undergrowth. Binoculars were of no use. Visibility extended to the end of one's nose since the forest undergrowth rose thick and high.

Hand signals alone were to be the guide for those following in the column.

I was on the hunt, as had been taught, for that tell-tale sign of the enemy – his OP (or Observation Post) – the enemy's eye and ear to detect the oncoming enemy, namely, us. Sadly, the enemy OP and I shared the same disadvantage – we were blind as a bat beyond the length of our nose!

We trudged on.

I was as stealthy as Daniel Boone, the famed American Frontiersman. The raccoon cap was the only item missing in our pursuit to ape him. Instead, a most unsteady and a heavy steel helmet sat on our heads – the ideal accessory to tap rainwater or boil tea!

The humidity was taking a heavy toll. It was sapping the vitality and enthusiasm. The silver lining that peeked through the black cloud was that being a Scout I had an advantage – I controlled the movement of the column. Any time I halted and took position i.e. lie down in prone position to observe the ground, the whole column had to stop and replicate the same. Given that one could not see beyond the nose because of the thick foliage, it was obvious that it was not to detect the enemy and instead to take a well-earned halt to break the monotony and more importantly, take a breather.

There was, however, a danger in halting for the breather, ostensibly to 'observe'. If the halt was prolonged, it magically materialised our pet orang-utan alongside as if it had scurried forth hotfoot from the forest of Borneo! Orang-utan? Yes, the orang-utan, for the uninitiated, was our pet name for our supervising officer, also known officially as the Directing Staff (DS).

True he could not challenge the action of going to ground, but the explanation given could come under scrutiny and there was a good chance that it may not have been accepted, depending on which side of the bed he had got up that morning. Such is the vagaries of what is known as minor tactics!! Minor tactics is very technical and personal!

Yet there was a way out. The golden rule was to keep these 'going to ground' and undertaking 'observation drill' short and not too repetitive in quick succession. That way none would be wiser as to why we had hugged the ground!

We had trudged over a mile. The dense foliage did not help matters. There was no sign of the enemy even though it was said that the enemy was 'in close proximity'. It was another lesson to be learnt – good English made good Tactics!

I was dog tired having been a Scout for a real long time. The cardinal principle of changing Scouts regularly in 'close country', meaning areas where the range of observation was limited, as in the jungles, seems to have been cast to the winds! The Scout had to be changed after a reasonable point in time. This ensured that the Scout remained 'fresh' and 'alert'. There was no second opinion on that, if the enemy was to be detected well in time for the action to be professionally orchestrated that would signal an instant success. But then some had seriously blundered as they did in the Charge of the Light Brigade.

And I was the Scout and had been so for over an hour and a half. I was tired. I should have been changed, but there was no such luck. It was my 'karma'. My past was catching up. I knew that Orang-utan, who would authorise the change, took immense delight to have me 'up a gum tree', he being a positively sadist animal released on mankind, and he distinctly disliked me as he felt that I was extra smart for his liking! I forgave him, for he was but the archetypal infantry wonder! Little did I know that he would have the last laugh by recommending me only fit for Infantry!!

And so we trudged along with an overpowering monotony. I took care not to arouse suspicion with too regular in succession of 'going to ground' for the 'observation drill' or having too large a stop while undertaking the drill.

On and on we trudged. I secretly hoped that the enemy OP would observe us and start firing so that we would all would go to ground. Our well-deserved rest for a longer period than what the 'observation drill' would then magically materialise.

How so?

Well, on being fired upon, as per the drill, my section would provide the Firm Base (the section that would go to ground and fan out). It would then probe the flanks and force the enemy to fire so that we could know the extent of the enemy defences. We would then 'fix the enemy'. Thereafter, as we lay on the ground in a linear fashion giving fire support, the remainder of the platoon would then go in for the attack, the Platoon Commander having made his plans, having decided the route of the attack and having made the Fire Plan.

This would also mean, in the non-tactical manner of speaking, that the section of which I was the Scout and which had probed the flanks, fixed the enemy and then gave the fire support to the attack, would continue to lie in prone position and take the well-deserved rest, while the others huffing and puffing goingwent through the motions of an attack on the 'exercise enemy'. And then when the attack was successful and the Verey Lights fired to indicate success, we would join the Platoon at the Objective, fresher than when the attack commenced and much fresher than those who went into the attack!

But then, no such luck visited us. The enemy which was in 'close proximity' continued to be in not so close a proximity, nor were they alert enough to have spotted us to let loose the hail of make belief fire in the form of blank rounds and exercise grenades (that when ignited and thrown, burst like a Diwali bomb). And so the well-deserved rest as the leading section remained as elusive as ever!

Boredom had enveloped me with the same perverse intensity as the hot humid breeze that wrapped us in warm embrace.

The long trudge, the humid hot breeze, the overpowering vegetation smell including the ones putrefying, the sweat drenched clothing and an intense and pressing need to relieve myself, catalysed by the all-consuming smell of animal urine, had got my goat. I was at my tethers end.

I went to ground to do the observation drill, crawled to the other chap who was Scout No 2 and behind me. He was excited. He thought that I had seen the enemy and wanted to tell him so. Remember, we could make no noise and we could not talk?

I crawled up to him and told him that he should hold the fort. I was going in for a 'leak'. He was crestfallen, but realised the need. I can't say he was too happy since he would now have to do the job of two instead of one and Gentlemen Cadets can give new meaning to the word 'lazy'! But then, I was not in the profession of making people happy, more so since it was I who had to be happy by lightening my disposable load.

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

AND THEN FELL THE RAIN!.........................................................

............................................................................... lightening my disposable load.

[continued]
I got up and in a most professional manner of a Jungle fighter, manoeuvred expertly through the foliage and took position, in the most military manner, to execute the task I was contemplating.

No sooner had I emulated the Niagra Falls in all it pristine grandeur, all hell broke loose!

There was a yelp that slowly turned to a howl and then a bloodcurdling yell laced with immense anger!

The Naigra Falls faded and I stopped abruptly unloading the extra load. It was not because I wanted to, but because I was petrified and confused at what was occurring below the huge leaf, amidst the dense foliage obstructing the view, where the Niagra was aimed at.

There was a lot of movement under the leaf. I was scared. Maybe it was a wolf about to pounce on me. I was preparing to bolt into the blue. But no chance!

In this split second all this happened, more hell broke loose!

Firing from all over created a din that made Dunkirk look kindergarten!

I ran back.

Just in time.

The Orang-utan and the Platoon Commander had surfaced. I had just beaten them by a whisker in a photo finish and so they never knew that I had gone on a non-governmental private mission! And I knew that my friend, the Scout No 2, would never tales out of school!

'What happened?', asked the Orang-utan.

In the most theatrical manner, with bated breath, and with all the necessary excited breathing pause as if I had run a 100 metre race and bested Jesse Owen, I said, 'Ssssssssssssssh, the enemy' and pointed in the direction of where I was emulating the Niagra. Even before I could be asked more questions, I took to the ground more professionally than Colonel Thapa, the PVC man. PVC, as you know, is the highest gallantry award and a chap who won it surely is the best in matters military!!

My well-earned rest had finally come. I lay on the ground in the copybook style as enunciated in the GS (General Staff) publication, 'Section Leading, Point Platoon'. On my position, my Section 'built up' and provide the Firm Base. Some chaps were sent to the flanks to 'feel the flanks' and shortly we 'fixed the enemy'.

The Platoon Commander gave his orders having made the Plan and the poor sods of the other two Sections went into the attack.

Soon the pathetic bleats, as they neared the Objective, rented the air! They imagined this to be the appropriate equivalent of a 'war cry' that stole the heart at Monte Cassino in which British Indian troops took part! The attacking chaps furiously fired their blanks and 'bayonetted' the 'enemy' and they finally captured the objective!

The Verey Lights were fired – Green over red over Red and the battle was won.

Our Firm Base section 'upstaked', after our long rest (technically we were firing) and joined the Platoon on the Objective.

We reorganised and the exercise enemy gathering their stuff, prepared to leave, excepting one very upset man who was roaming around and furiously questioning people.

He came to us.

'I say, could you tell me which of you idiots pissed on me?' he asked with seething anger.

Catch anyone letting the cat out of the bag.

It transpired that the silly duffer had gone off to sleep as an OP when Niagra and rain burst upon his slumber!

He deserved what he got. It was God's way of reminding him not to sleep on duty. Lives depended on him!

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

THE FEAT OF GOD


Football is not such a popular game as hockey in the Army. One never knows why.
Yet, football was the CO's passion.

On the other hand, hockey, the Army game, was an anathema to the CO. It is not that he was disloyal to the country or to the Army, it being our national game, it was just that though he still wielded a hockey stick out of sheer patriotism, the stinging shots he had taken on the shins by either the ball or the stick, had left too indelible an impression on him to attempt to be the next Dhyan Chand!

As luck would have it, the CO got command of a unit where hockey was the fixation and football their alienation. 17 footballs and 34 football boots in mint condition in the Sports store did not require a UN resolution to endorse it so.

The CO had just taken over, He had to make his mark. Opportunity presented itself – and opportunity knocks at the door but once! The CO realised that. What opportunity could be better than winning the Divisional Football Championship that was looming in the horizon?

Of course, nothing could be better, except for one small issue – that none in the unit would have qualified for the Girl Guides weekend Picnic football, let alone the anything at the Division level! Heart wrenchingly pathetic was the state if one wanted to make a mark!

Ein Volk, Ein Reich (read unit), Ein Führer (meaning him, the CO) rang in his ears. If devastated Germany could rise as the Pheonix, so could this Football team, but hopefully, not meet the same fate as Germany. So, all charged up like Hitler, nearly doing a Nazi Salute to instil the required fervour, the CO met the so called football team, rounded up for his august presence!

Having met them, he collared the most hyperactive junior, Ramu, and read him the Riot Act. There was no two ways for Ramu. For Ramu, It was Ein Volk, Ein Unit and Mein Führer (that meant the CO of course!)

Ramu heard the CO out. He was an intelligent boy, hardworking and all that, but he did get a lingering feeling that there is a limit to intelligence in the Army and this CO surely was proving the point. Imagine winning the Div Football with a team that did not know the difference between a football and a hockey ball! In fact, it was a case of all balls.

Crestfallen, Ramu went to the Games ground and got the team together. Fortunately, apart from two, all were from the new draft that had come just the last week to the unit. They were still not brainwashed that hockey was the only game in the world as the unit always thought.

The CO observed the boys hard at football during Games. It didn't warm the cockles of his heart. In fact, it definitely left the Cold Hand of Fate gripping his heart harder by the minute. Nonetheless, he steeled himself like Nelson at Trafalgar facing the mighty Spanish Armada. If Nelson could do it with a Blind Eye, so could he and he had both his eyes 6/6!

The CO was distinctly pleased that Ramu statistically was kicking around the most, even if not quite contacting the ball. It was a good sign indeed! It reminded him of Major Shaminder Singh, the Second in Command of his old unit, whose motto was – ball jae, lekin aadmi na jae! (the ball may go past, but not the man) The CO felt assured. This theory won many a championship in his last unit! So, there was hope. Yet, in his heart, the CO had that lingering feeling that it would take a Pele and Maradona rolled in one to win the Championship and that too not without a slight nudge from God Himself! Even so, there still was this hope. After all, wasn't it Wordsworth who wrote – My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky? The CO's heart was leaping up since there was no chance to go down any further. He saw stars of despair, even if not a colourless rainbow!

Ramu was trying his best to get the team going. And as the CO saw the progress every day, his Blood Pressure rose – with hope and excitement and he was encouraged and courageous enough to drop by with a tip or two! After all, the CO was a hands-on man! They were shaping up since getting shipped out was not on Ramu's mind.

The boys are not bad, thought Ramu subconsciously as he saw the new draft of Bengalis, Oriyas and Assamese racing enthusiastically all over the field with the ball even if not quite under control. They were getting a hang of football or so it appeared. All that was required was coordination and a strong defence.

The CO's joke of ball jae, lekin aadmi na jae suddenly jolted Ramu from his reverie. He walked to the burly Sikh, Kashmira, who was the stopper full back.

'Oi sardar (Sikhs are called Sardars or Boss), you heard the CO sahib's idea of ball jae, lekin aadmi na jae. What do you think of that?"

"Ek dum Sardar wale baat hai". (totally a Sardar way of thinking).

Ramu wondered whether Kashmira meant it to be a crazy idea, or was he being sheer earnest that the defence should be rock solid.

"To kia karna?"

"Sahabji, Hukum manunga". (So, what should we do?; Sir, we will obey the order!)

Ramu thought that over. Maybe, things were looking up, though he felt a bit uncomfortable. He soon forgot about it and started training the boys, subconsciously confident, with greater vigour.

The team improved by the day. The coordination between the team players were so good that whereas the unit personnel had thought them to be a joke and a flight of fancy of the CO, the number of spectators amongst the unit personnel started to increase by the day. Even a few spontaneous cheers of encouragement were heard. The team seems to have arrived.

The Divisional Football Championship commenced.

The butterflies catapulting within the unit personnel's stomach calmed down as the team soared from success to success. The first round came and went; the second round was another easy success. Confidence amongst the unit personnel grew.

The Semi Final against the Artillery Medium Regiment was a nail biter. They were a contender for the Finals. Kashmira, the ball jae aadmin na jaiye man had saved the team from a catastrophe. The hawkeyed referee saw through his gambit and gave him a yellow card. It brought him to his sense, but he still managed to stop the raids by the Artillery men, who pompously called themselves the Ferozpur Arsenal!

The Artillery scored twice and there was no reply from the Unit. Cold sweat broke out. Halftime came and went. No spark came from the Unit team. This state of affair continued"¦"¦"¦"¦.. and then suddenly, out of the blue, some deft dribbling by Ramu from the half line netted a beautiful low Bend it like Beckam to drop the margin. 10 minutes were left. There was no hope in hell to square the goals and go into the extra time. Ramu, once again proved his mettle. This time he got tripped in the goal mouth by a desperate artillery gun loader who rammed him as if he was ramming a charge. Ramu flew out like a Charge 8 Bofor shell and hit the ground. Yells of Penalty rent the air. The referee looked non plussed. There was a good chance he had not seen this deliberate thuggery! The time ticked by, tension grew"¦.. and the unit was crestfallen. Then the shrill whistle came and the referee pointed to the dreaded spot – the penalty spot! Then thunderous cheer rent the air as the goal's net bounced with the impressively deceptive shot by Chintaharan. The CO, forgetting that he was a CO, thumped the astonished Brigade Commander hard on the back, not once but thrice!!! The score was two all! What a turnaround!

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

THE FEAT OF GOD


The score was two all! What a turnaround!

[CONTINUED]


There was still 5 minutes to go. The game was furiously fought. It went back and forth. The spectators were on their feet. Three minutes to go and there was still no result yet. The game was sure to go into extra time. The spectators were biting their nails. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, Kashmira, the stopper full back, for no rhyme and reason charged forward, leaving the unit goal mouth empty! A dangerous thing to do, but there was no stopping Kashmira. He charged past the half line, got into a melee at the 25 yarder and heaved one God Almighty kick in no direction at all! The ball whizzed forward, hit a defender, deflected past another and went straight past the bewildered goalkeeper and into the goal!!

The unit had won the semis!!

The scene was chaotic within the unit stands. The spectators were ecstatic. The CO ran into the field, the Brigade Commander wanting to restrain him caught hold of his shirt and in the bargain was pulled along and so sheepishly tried to cover up as if he too had come in to congratulate the team!

The joy knew no bounds.

The CO threw an impromptu barakhana (festive dinner with the troops) that night! His cup of joy bubbled over the brim and so did the pegs of rum that flowed as if there was no tomorrow.

Then catastrophe hit the team!

Kashmira, the stopper full back, who looked and acted as Rocky Marciano aka Rocco Francis Marchegiano aka The Brockton Blockbuster/ The Rock from Brockton, the only heavyweight champion to finish his career undefeated, fell ill. He had an upset stomach!

And a day later was the Finals!

Bad luck knew no bounds.

A non-entity of a team that had stormed into the final was being robbed of its rightful hour of glory by Fate. The Star of the show was down and out due to over indulgence. The whole team was demoralised. The CO drowned his sorrow in 'malt'! He was on the verge of crying himself a river!

The Finals was with a boisterous, gung ho Sikh unit, which was deft in Shaminder Singh's adage of 'the man never to be allowed to follow the ball'.

The whistle blew the start. The game started. The unit was there in full strength. They had not the cheer that had become their routine. The CO appeared as if he was participating in a matam (funeral lament). The Brigade Commander tried to cheer him up, but nothing seemed to get the CO back to his boisterous self. He sipped his Campa Cola (a soft drink) as if he were a child sucking on his thumb.

Though the star was missing, the unit's team was at it with all the josh (charged up pep) as if no one was being missed! It did nothing to cheer up the CO or the unit. The fat Assamese boy who had replaced Kashmira was dancing around the goalmouth as if he were Mohammed Ali of football. He danced like a butterfly and stung the ball like a bee. Things were not going too bad. The unit was holding its own. Not a goal had yet been scored by either side. The tension was palpable. The Sikh unit's ranks were getting restless and more furious. Then relief came for all. Half time was blown and still it was goalless!

Half time over, the game commenced. The CO watched the game proceed as it grew thick, fast and furious. No quarters were given and no quarters were asked. The game swung from one half to another and still there was no score.

The frustration was growing both on the field and amongst the spectators. The nonpartisan crowd seem to be favouring the unit since the Sikh unit had been the undisputed Champions for two years successively and it was expected that the Medium Regiment of the Artillery would give them the run for their money and here was a team that was unheard of, holding them off!

The clock ticked on. There was just 5 minutes to go. It was still goalless. Two players had already been shown the red card and were out. One from the unit and one from the Sikh. It appeared that some more were asking for it!

3 minutes to go. There was a melee in front of the unit goalmouth when the fat Assamese stopper full back gave one mighty kick and sent the ball well beyond the half line and into the Sikh half. All ran towards the Sikh half including Sikh and the unit forwards and the midfielders. The ball was sent back into the unit half. The Assamese chap who had advanced dangerously near the half line, trapped the ball neatly, dribbled past a few Sikh chaps and gave an almighty kick.

It was just 30 seconds to time!

There was a huge melee in front of the Sikh goalmouth. The goalkeeper had gripped the ball. It slipped. Someone ran up, but the goalkeeper pounced on the ball. It appeared that it had slipped again. None could make out what was happening, when Ramu came from nowhere and in the melee gave another Almighty kick. And the goalkeeper and the ball were in the goal!

The goal judge furiously waved his flag indicating a goal. The referee blew his whistle and it was over. The unit had won the Finals one nil! The CO was ecstatic and the unit stand went berserk.

The Sikhs protested that there was a foul and so the goal should be disallowed. The referee consulted the goal judge. They were firm on their decision. It was a goal, fair and square.

Catch the Sikhs giving up. They appealed to the Committee. The Committee turned down the appeal.

Thus, the unit won their first Sports Championship and that too with a team that had no hope in hell! It was a grand success. The CO was ecstatic and when he was told to take the Trophy from the GOC, he smiled wanly and waved Ramu to do the honours. He deserved to lift the Trophy more than anyone else!

It was a historic win.

Many years afterwards when the CO met Ramu and they were reminiscing about the Football match that made unit history, the CO gushingly congratulated Ramu.

Ramu looked embarrassed. The CO wondered why and he asked him so.

"Well sir, we did win. It was not only our win, but it was also by the Feet of God!"

"Feat of God, Ramu?"

"Yes sir, it was a feat of God and the feet of God too!"

"Feat of God and the Feat of God too?"

"Yes sir, the Feat of God and F-E-E-T of God too!"

"What are you talking about? Are you in your cups?

"No sir. It was a Feat of God because it was done by the Feet of God. Something like Maradonna's 'Hand of God'!' Ramu gave a pregnant pause and continued, "You see, sir, in that melee, I am not too sure if the ball had slipped the goalkeeper's hand, but I gave a God Almighty kick that saw both the ball and the Goalkeeper in the net!

Ramu paused for effect.

"It was a Feat with the Feet and God alone knows the truth!"

[originally posted by : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

COME AGAIN!

Officer Cadets or GCs (Gentlemen Cadets) come from various strata of society. Many have rural background, while others are urbanites. The educational background is equally varied – the spectrum span premier public schools to the rural schools. Comprehension and usage of the English language syntax is thus equally diversified. Some spoke perfect English, while others, just passable. And in this linguistic muddle, all functioned perfectly well.

There were GCs from the NDA (National Defence Academy), NCC (National Cadet Corps) entry, Technical Graduates, Army Cadet College (from the Ranks) and the Direct Entry (direct from colleges). Even though for each entry there were the tests including for the English language, yet selection was not merely based on English. Weakness in English could be evened out in the other academic papers.

It was in this linguistic environment I was in the IMA (Indian Military Academy). I was an NDA entry.

A large majority spoke in Hindi amongst themselves possibly since they were more at home with this language than English. Notwithstanding, there were also those who spoke English, but dropped the article and hence it appeared as if they were speaking in a telegraphic mode! And some, the public school variety spoke perfect English. In short, it was a real interesting pot pourri and none ever felt out of place! Actually, it was amusing since it took time to understand when the telegraphic mode of English was used. For instance, "I come go" would actually mean, "I came and then I went"! It was fun!

Some of the DS (Directing Staff who were officers) were equally handicapped and they too were amusing. In actuality we felt that they were unadulterated blockheads! It made life easier since one could laugh it off later when obeying some of their moronic and sadistic diktats! It made life bearable.

My Platoon DS was a rural chap prone to telegraphic English which he blurted out so fast that, at times, it became difficult to understand what exactly he meant. He had been nicknamed as "The Machine Gun Charlie" or "MG Charlie" or merely called "Charlie" because of this unique trait of his. His behaviour added 'glamour' to his sobriquet, 'Charlie'!

Charlie had this penchant to 'interview' GCs at the drop of a hat for reasons that were really not essential. I believe it helped him to get to know us better. We also, in turn, got to know him better. It gave us confidence in that if he could become an officer, then anyone could! Even a donkey; as some of the irreverent cadets opined!

One day, during one of his interview ritual, about seven of us had been called. One did not mind having been called, even though it meant changing into fresh starched uniform with the blazing sun pouring down on us and making a horrid and uncomfortable goo of sweat and starch that scratched the living hell out of us waiting in the hot sun!

We all prayed at these moments that the ordeal ended fast.

Slowly the line wended forward as one by one the interviewed GCs left. I was standing behind a GC, who was a hard working, highly disciplined, regimented and a rural self taught English language bloke.

His turn came to be called in and I was the next. As per the procedure, I moved up and stood at the door while he marched in smartly and saluted.

Charlie asked him something, which I could not decipher.

Then suddenly, the GC saluted smartly and did a smart about turn and walked out.

I was preparing to go in, when this GC wheeled about, marched right into the office, saluted smartly and awaited Charlie's further dialogue.

Charlie looked up from the papers in front of him and said something.

This GC again did a repeat of the previous performance. He came out and then promptly did an about turn and marched back!

Some words were said by Charlie. I could see that but I could not hear what was being said.

Some more discussion followed and once again the GC saluted smartly, walked out and before I could go in, he pushed me aside and walked in to smartly salute and continue where he had left!

I really was confused and my curiosity got the better of me. I deliberately stepped closer so that I could fathom what was up. This was more so since I could see Charlie's bushy moustache all aquiver with sharp words seemingly emanating from where his mouth was and which I could not see behind his hirsute facial camouflage.

Since Charlie was decibels higher than the muezzin's call and I was a wee bit closer, I could now decipher what was being said.

"You stupid chap", said Charlie.

"What all this monkey business you do? Am not interested you Plus 2 in drill (the highest grading for drill). Don't want experience here. Got that? Why like ass going in and out office displaying drill standard? Who care? This not Republic Day Parade selection!"

The GC, I could see, was totally nonplussed.

"What say you about this stupidity?" bellowed Charlie.

The GC was trembling. Charlie was known to be an erratic chap who distributed extra drills and restrictions (both punishments) as if India had won the Cricket World Cup!

Through all that trembling of the GC, I could hear him replying with the plaintive bleat of a sheep being led to slaughter, "Sorry sir, you only told me repeatedly to 'Come Again'. So I went out to come again. I was only obeying your orders, sir".

I burst out laughing!

It was so loud that while the GC escaped Charlie's wrath, I got seven extra drills!

[originally posted by : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

GIRLS FALL AT MY FEET

I am no Tony Curtis, dimples and all. I am, also, no he man Charlton Heston with muscles even on his mouth! But I am passable.

I am so extremely passable that, if rumours are to be believed, even Amitabh Bachchan (a leading Indian filmstar) is said to be going around town stating he is but me!! Though Amitabh is not being fair to me – he is much older than me and I sure have less wrinkles and I don't use L'Oreal, Ponds or any of the anti ageing products!'

Yes, by Indian standards, I am a heartthrob!

Girls fall at my feet!

If you don't believe me, ask my wife!


Let me narrate an incident to establish my credentials.

It was in the famed dusty, one horse Frontier town of the Punjab – the romantic, mysterious town hugging the Hudiara Drain, where the entertainment was in abundance with the shady bars peddling Punjab's best – theke ki sharab (country liquor) and possibly ladies of easy virtue thrown in for effect, if one went by the 'Out of Bounds for Military Personnel' boards placed every few metres or so! It indicates the number of Bars and the hours of overtime the CMP (Corps of Military Police) put in – outside and, most probably, inside these Bars!

That being the sum total of the town's entertainment share, it sure did not classify to be in the TLC's 'Most Attractive Destinations' show.

Pitiable as it may have been, it did not dampen the Army's penchant to make even the Desert come Alive with lights and song and dance. So, we had these parties, in house, out of house, in the Club and within the Brigade. They were so frequent that it did appear to be overdone. Yet, who would bell the cat? Our Commander was, what they call, 'the Page 3 party Animal'. He loved parties, the more the merrier and loved to dance, shake a leg and guzzle. He was called, behind his back, Chevrolet! Chevrolet? Yes, because these American cars can guzzle and Chevrolet was a good enough and a famous brand!

It was one of these parties that was organised at the behest of 'Chevrolet'.

Chevvy loved a late entry. He was a drama master personified and he had learnt that all important people came in late since it made a great effect on the people and more importantly, to the important person's ego as they had everyone squirming with discomfort and in anticipation of the Exalted's arrival!

We had arrived on time. The music was on, and some people were dancing. We were awaiting the arrival of Chevy. While the youngsters were having a ball, it was us Commanding Officers who were furtively keeping one eye on the entrance, where the runner (long red carpet made of jute) had been placed all the way to the dais, where the Exalted One would sit, partake in his beverage and munch on the fatted sow which was being barbecued! The dance floor was adjacent to the runner that had been laid, and just below the dais.

My wife was from a civil background and though a CO's wife, she was still not quite the fidgety, imperious Old Lady of the Ball types these CO's wives tend to be. In fact, she was a positive embarrassment to the stereotype CO's wife image.

Keeping to her wayward civil attitude, she wanted to know why we could not have a dance before the Exalted One came. Poor thing, my wife, did not know what a sacrilege it would be if I were not there to do the Mugal courtier rituals when the rather tubby and flushed pink Chevvy, the Mugal Emperor, dropped his weight from his car and onto the runner!

That was one reason to avoid the dance before the arrival of El Cid aka Chevvy.

The other reason was more important. While I was quite a good ballroom dancer, I was petrified of entering an Indian Army dance floor. I had once been kicked so hard on the thigh, yes the thigh, that I had to be hospitalised! These dance floors were a veritable battlefield. People thrashed their hands and legs in wild abandon in all degrees of the compass, and at times, pointed their middle fingers heavenwards, in tune with obscene gyrations of their shoulder blades! And the music! It was horrifyingly loud catering for the artillery chaps I presume, who were mostly deaf (because of their thunder and shot), even though not dumb. And Chevvy was an Artillery convertee to better climes (to Infantry)!!

That being reasons to avoid the dance floor, my wife's dancing prowess too did not quite flatter my sensibilities. She danced in a most weird manner. It was one of the new dances or maybe it was her copyright dance. She moved forward and backward on her feet, with her hands moving horizontally forward and backwards from the elbow straight at you. Frightening! Her hand movement was almost as if they were the steel links between the wheels of a steam locomotive. I would not be too sure if her dance style was inspired by Kylie Minogue's hit number – Locomotion or not. What I did know was that I found this type of a railway dance very monotonous and it gave me a giddy feeling even if I had only been on Coca Cola that day. And I don't think Coca Cola is heady!

Therefore, given all the inhibitors to dancing, I told her that I would prefer to wait for Chevvy than dancing. She was sorely disappointed. And as they say, hell hath no fury than a woman scorned. Under bated breath she hissed: "OK, so you don't want to dance. Have you seen your face? No one would even want to dance with you'.

Now, that was mean! Would that mean than no one would like to dance with Amitabh Bachchan? Remember, he was going around town saying that he was me?

I was a sophisticated chap, more so, when I was in public. As a CO, I was no hoi polloi and instead, I was a very public figure. Almost like King Louis XV – after me the Deluge like attitude that all COs seem to acquire.

"Who says that I am not good looking?" I said with my haughty best.

Óh really? You are just slim and that is why you look passable!"

"Passable?" I was getting a trifle irritated. Had she been a jawan (trooper), I would have had her put in the Quarterguard immediately for being indiscipline on parade. But then she was not a jawan and in those days, there were no women in the Army and so I would not have had the excuse of mistaken identity either! So, I controlled myself.

"Passable? Let me tell you, woman, slim or not slim, girls fall at my feet".

"Hah! Girls fall at your feet? That will be the day!"

We were still arguing with bated breath and each wearing a smile, hiding our clenched teeth and hissing our chitsy chatsy (Indian way of explaining a more intimate chit chat than chit chat itself!), something appeared to be approaching us.

It was one young thing who had approached us. She was one of the fancier ladies of the Brigade and a youngster's wife of another unit.

She had come alongside, almost like a ship undertaking a perfect berthing!
"Colonel, would you like to dance with me?"

Imagine that! I was being asked for a dance when actually the man is supposed to ask for a dance!

It boosted my ego that has been so far crushed underfoot, as a offensive bug would be, by my worthy wife!

I smiled a smile that would equal a Victory Dance of the bush pygmies – a radiant and a defiant one and flashed that smile in full radiance at my wife. The pygmy drum beats were the only thing missing!

If looks could kill, the young girl was killed by my wife's look, that beatific smile of my wife still in place, as if measured to engineering precision with an inside calliper. The smile did nothing to kill her scathing and disdainful look.

"You want to dance with my husband", asked the Battle Axe of my home.

"Yes, ma'am, if you don't mind", the young thing replied.

"Oh I don't mind, but don't let me tell you that I did not warn you"

"Warn?"

"Oh yes, not in that way, but it is just that he dances with the exciting agility of an Army mule. He is a trifle rigid in his movements and his feet moves not nimbly, and instead like the plod of Army mules as they move up the hill. And of course, he is also going on in years. Let his slimness not fool you. He is out of breath the first five minutes and he then breathes like a she bear going into labour. Very scary!! Now, you want to take the risk, then please go ahead!"

"But, I saw him the other day at the Commander's party. He was such a pleasure to the eye. So graceful and not wild at all. His steps were so perfect and classy. And he danced for about 30 minutes till the band took a break! I don't think he was breathing hard. He is ever so classy. That is why I wanted to dance with him."

"Really? He was not breathing like a panting water buffalo? That's surprising. But then snakes don't pant, do they?"

The girl was totally confused.

My wife realised that this young lady would not be taken in by her stratagem to leave me in the cold.

"Oh well, if you think he can dance, please go ahead. He is however waiting for the Commander. You know, how the Army is. He has to go and pay his salaams."

As she said this, the young lady looked at me.

To spite my wife, I took her hand and was about to move to the floor.

It is then when she fell!!!!!

The jawan in charge of having the runner perfectly straight and without any folds, had given the final hefty tug to make it perfect.

And so the girl fell"¦"¦"¦"¦.right at my feet!

I looked at my wife and with my eyes guiding her to the lady at my feet.

I gave a mischievous smile signalling my victory.

My eyes said it all to my wife.

Girls do fall at my feet ----- mostly, young ones!!

[originally posted by : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

THE GOC's BOTTOM

This happened. The General Officer Commanding's (GOC) bottom was blemished!

It was in the spring of the 80s.

It was providential it was not in our time. It came about in those days when the preceding unit was holding the posts along the Line of Control in Kashmir. It is an interesting story and so it has to be unravelled in the correct perspective and not sensationalised, it being a historic event.
All was calm and quiet on the northern front as it was all quiet on the Western Front in World WarI "¦"¦till it was discovered that the Pakistanis were slowly inching forward with their posts and were in the process of violating the Line of Control between India and Pakistan. The locale of this shenanigan was the forbidding heights of High Altitude somewhere on the Northern borders – as the tabloids tend to weave mysterious anonymity to the formidable frontiers to garner enigmatic background to their stories.

Flag meetings took place to resolve the issue. It was to no avail. Right as rain was the Pakistani skulduggery of claiming that the Line of Control drawn on the map was done with a thick pencil wherein the thickness of the pencilled line equalled quite a few yards, if not kilometres on ground! Crafty little devils!

The dispute not being resolved, each side stood by in an armed peace. They had always stood in armed peace, but this was more armed and less peace than the usual!

It was still calm. Then some Pakistani madcap opened up with a Heavy Machine Gun (HMG)! All hell broke loose! It was an unfortunate thing to have happened but then the Pakistani soldiers were usually on Afghanistan's best and consequently the trigger mechanisms tended to react to their itchy fingers causative of the hallucinations that Afghanistan's best tends to encourage.

The hell became an inferno and then there was no stopping it from becoming a full-fledged war. With no holds barred, the environment was savage.

While the exchange of fire continued unabated, the saving grace was that it was confined to this battalion's area of responsibility and had not spilled over to the remainder of the Brigade and the Division. More Flag meetings took place, but to no purpose. And, as it is with most Indo Pak conflicts of all dimensions and size, it took on a permanent indelible signature!

The unit improved their defensive posture by occupying areas to their advantage. The new posts that mushroomed were rough and ready as the area was high altitude and no natural resources to bank upon. Defence stores had to be man-packed from the valley to these high heights. Therefore, stone bunkers and Sangers was all that was immediately feasible, but dangerous they were, fraught with the ever present hazard of soldiers becoming casualties through flying splintered stones. Over the weeks with the advent of defence stores, brought up by ropes and dangling like monkeys, the bunkers took shape of permanency. All this was constructed under intense and heavy enemy firing. The Pakistanis being on higher heights, even before the conflict, had an advantage.

With the conflict escalating in ferocity and with all flag meetings with the opposite side having failed, the situation was becoming another festering boil for the Brigade and the Divisional HQs.
First-hand knowledge was essential for those who were responsible for the overall strategy. To have this first-hand experience of the operational situation, the living conditions, the morale of the troops and the state of defences, the General Officer Commanding (GOC) decided to visit the forward most posts.

It is one thing for a unit to be fighting the front line battle and it is quite another thing for a GOC to be hanging around as shot and shell traipsed around randomly in a high density mode. While one could statistically predict the accuracy of bullets of Marksmen, it is those bullets of those classified as 'Standard Shot' and 'Failures' which were most unpredictable. Pakistanis appeared to have a surfeit of the later variety. Fortunately, God was with this unit. However, there was no guarantee that God would smile favourably on the GOC and that was what made the CO break into cold sweat at the prospect of the GOC visiting the forward most posts of his unit.

The CO was not ready to take the risk. He took advantage of the fact that the GOC was a once the CO of this very unit and tried to dissuade the GOC; but the GOC was adamant as a mule!
And so it came to pass that the GOC arrived at the unit's Battalion HQ located on a lower ridge and relatively safer than the forward posts.

The CO once again tried to dissuade the GOC. The GOC exhibited true mulish resolve. He would go, come what may.

With total resignation, the CO prepared the escort party and as soon as the sun set, the party along with the GOC and the CO, set forth for the arduous climb to the next ridge where they would spend the night. This area, though under fire, was no hell hole like the forward posts and so the night passed 'peacefully' for the CO, though the nocturnal exchange of fire and it hitting the various bunkers kept the GOC awake and going a long way to his acquiring a 'first-hand experience'. This post was there before the current conflagration and hence was well fortified and could stand many an assault of shot and shell.

The morning broke, but none could move. The GOC hung around moving behind the brestwalls and through the communication trenches and observed the day battle as it waxed and waned. He had lunch at the troop's cookhouse (lunger) and the party set out to the forward posts as soon as it got dark. The track leading was a registered target and so it was being flayed by HMGs describing random arcs that were discernable because of the indiscriminate use of tracers. The tracers allowed one to judge the trajectory and where the firing was terminating and so it was actually an aid to avoid being in the firing line, that is, if the gunner was not an addict of Afghanistan's best! That risk had to be taken in one's stride!

Running the gauntlet, the GOC finally reached one of the forward most posts, which had only a platoon. It was one of the hurriedly constructed posts under fire. It had no amenities or adequate bunkers. Most had to make good sleeping in the communication trenches, when they could grab the time by day, when the intensity of fire was lower and the OP (Observation Post) could watch the area over a longer distance. It may be mentioned that this being High Altitude, there were no trees and so the observation distance was fairly long.

On arrival, the GOC got a warm steaming dinner from the lunger. He was most satisfied since he was not one to stand on formalities when he was in his own unit. He ate out of a bashed out, though scrubbed shining, mess tin, the food receptacle issued to troops and officers. Being an Indian, he had no qualms or difficulty in using his fingers to eat the food. For dessert, a syrupy fruit was served from a tin since rations were basically tinned. A vitamin pill was also handed over as that was routine when one took tinned food.

The GOC then hit the Communication trench to observe the battle!

That night it was hell. Worse than before! Somehow, the Pakistanis had got an inkling that some VIP had come avisiting! The GOC was not worried. The others were. Bullet streaked endlessly and the thump and rattle of the HMG resounded all over. A couple of RPGs (Rocket Propelled Grenade) also came the post's way, as if to give it a shake, rattle and roll. While the bunkers shook, rattled and rolled, the GOC was not amused. He was beyond the age for Disco Dancing!

He had more than what he had bargained for, in the quest to have a first-hand experience of the operational situation, the living conditions, the morale of the troops and the state of defences.

The fireworks went on through the night and the GOC got accustomed to the 'scenario' and the 'effects'. He then went for his nap. Initially, he kept waking in fits and starts as the thumps kept falling close but later, it is reported, he snored away merrily. It was also mentioned that his snore was near in decibel as the noise of the battle ensuing outside.

The dawn broke and the 'war' took a break. It was apparent that though different countries, the habits were the same. Timings for ablutions for both the countries were historical and as ancient from the time of Mohenjodaro.

After a steaming cup of tea in an enamelled Government Issue mug, the GOC wandered around the post. It was as if he had come to check the 'stand to'. He chatted here, he chirped there with the troops and the troops were distinctly happy and proud that a GOC had the spirit of a soldier to have come where danger is the norm.

The GOC wandered a wee bit more and then, not being able to take it anymore, asked the CO as to where the toilet was.

Toilet?

That was rich! Who had the time to build a toilet when the bunkers are yet to be built?

"Sir, there is no toilet in the strict manner of speaking", the Company Commander was bold enough to say and clear the GOC's fanciful thoughts.

"Really? Then where do you go?"

"To be frank we just sit in the communication trenches and use a used fruit tin and then chuck it towards the Pakistanis and it rolls down to them!"

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

THE GOC's BOTTOM

This happened.......................................................................................to them!"

[CONTINUED]

"OK, then where should I go?" asked the GOC incredulously.

A part of the communication trench was cleared and with gunny sack it was screened and the Company Commander regally led the way. It was a historical event after all. No GOC ever emptied his bowels in a communication trench in history. Sadly, there were no representatives of Guinness Book of World Records to note this unique and singular feat in the history of warfare!

And so the GOC repaired to this hallowed part of the communication trench duly screened.
If the Company Commander could help it, he would have even sat alongside to help him on the way to nature's release of bodily waste. No sir, the GOC did not want to have such devoted observation and assistance and he made that crystal clear.

Disappointed not to be of assistance to the GOC, and that too an ex CO of the unit, the Company Commander was disappointed. He soulfully handed over a used and empty fruit tin, duly wiped of all remnants of the syrup that accompanies, to the GOC and left.

He left, but hovered in the vicinity so as to be of assistance in case required.

Obviously, in a communication trench, there was no toilet bowl and so all had to squat and use empty fruit tins. The General was not used to squatting or substituting the toilet bowl with a used fruit tin. He was hard put to relieve himself. The only consolation was that there swirled a cool breeze through the gaps in the boulders and it had a very pleasing effect in this unique manner adopted to release bodily waste in the morning.

The General was getting used to this style of operational readiness.

He GOC was enjoying this activity since the exertion ever since he arrived had transformed all the food into bodily waste.

Then there was a sudden and sharp yelp from within the 'toilet'!

The Company Commander rushed. He then hesitated. He could not muster up courage to peek in lest the General was still in the raw. He realised that it would do him no good if he caught the General with his pants down.

"Any problem, sir?" he meekly enquired.

The General's reply was a mix between anger, pain and surprise!

"Yes, it is the fruit tin".

"So sorry, sir. Was it not up to the standard?"

"You bet it. I have cut my bottom. It's bleeding. The Godforsaken thing has jagged edges and my bottom is a jigsaw puzzle!" Wincing, he added, "Get a damned bandage and antiseptic".

Of course, the General's desires were attended to and his bottom was salved.

His bottom may have bled, but his bottom made the troops lives a happy one.

The first thing the GOC did when he went back to his HQ was send a long missive on improving the Quality of Life on the Posts!

Field Flush Latrine took priority!

[originally posted by : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

AND THEN GREW APPLES IN MEERUT


Dr Kurien may have done a miracle with his White Revolution by flooding India with surplus milk and diary products, but my Company Second in Command (2IC) was no less a miracle man. It is unfortunate that his feat was not publicised. The Army PR has always been and is notoriously bad and so this is my attempt to allow him his place in the sun!

Meerut, as those who are aware of this city know, is in Uttar Pradesh and is famed for its burning sun. Apples, on the other hand the world over, require a temperate climate to grow; and yet he grew in Meerut! A miracle no doubt!

My experience of this miracle was experienced on a post (Forward Defended Locality), along the Line of Control with Pakistan, in the Pir Badesar area in the Rajauri Sector . I was the B Company Commander and the 2nd Lieutenant was my Company 2IC. He was nonetheless an old army hand; he having been an ASC Staff Duties Clerk before being commissioned. He was good company and I enjoyed his quaint English pronunciation, where "I mean to say" was staccato-ed out as "Aam 2 say" and things like that. His speech may have been quick time, but he was a real laid back person, as if with no care in the world! Good chap was he and jolly as Old King Cole!

He had just returned from his spot of annual leave. Surprisingly, he was not full of his usual cheer. It is true that one is not one's perky self when one returns after annual leave, but was he a troubled soul? Rumour had it that he had overstayed leave!

In the field area where we were deployed accounting for leave was a complicated process. Officers' leave was controlled by the Battalion HQs and the documentation was a convoluted procedure since leave commenced from the last of the series of Transit Camps that one went through before one hit the Railhead at Pathankot . And none could predict how long it would take to reach the Railhead via the various transit camps since there were but finite number of trucks that took the transients. Those who could not be accommodated had to await their turn at the Transit Camp the next day. The Battalion HQ alone received the second copy of the leave certificate duly endorsed by the Transit Camp at Pathankot. The Company HQs was out of the loop.

Hence, when my 2IC returned from leave, I knew of the AWL (Absent without Leave) only as a rumour. I did not broach the issue with him since it was an embarrassing issue.

And, so for a day or two, it was mums the word for me on the issue and he too did not appear to be in a 'gushing to spill the beans' mood.

As I said two days had passed and still the 2IC's cheerful demeanour had not surfaced. One would have blamed the weather but then it could not be because of the weather. Contrary to the predictions, the sun had shone bright thorough the dark winter days ever since he had arrived! In fact, the world at large was full of good cheer. Even the Pakistanis felt son top of the world as they had not fired ever since my 2IC had returned! Yet, the poor man, my 2IC, wore that hangdog, 'tomorrow we shall die', look.

I love humour and mirth all around. Can't do without it, as some cannot do without their sundowners! I get seriously affected by gloom. My 2IC was affecting me. I had to brace up. It took me two pegs of whiskey that night, and I hate the stuff, to muster embarrassed courage to ask him the inevitable – was he AWL or was he not and why was he moping, like a withered bat?

The poor fish, my 2IC, stared blankly into the bukhari (wood and coal burning stove to heat the bunker) that was given the warmth to our bunker. He opened the lid through which the pine cones and wood were fed and looked into it, perched as if he would jump into it to add to the burning effect, adding more heat within the bunker! I leapt up and restrained him and yanked him back. He fell in a heap and didn't get up. Christ! Was the yank too much and he was dead? No, he was not dead. He was softly moaning. I thought I had hurt him, but no, that was not the case. He was softly weeping!

I lifted him up even though he was very heavy and sat him on a chair. Then I started a clamp down session of cooing him over cups of tea. After half an hour, he regained his calm.

Then he blurted out the story and took it off his chest.

He was returning to the unit after leave when the dacoits (armed brigands) had kidnapped him and had taken him into a forest (one wonders where forests were en route!). They lit a bonfire and sat around it, contemplating what to do. At last they said that they would let him go since he was a soldier defending the country (damned patriotic dacoits were there in those days I must say!). They, however, had drugged him so that he would not be able to give away the location of the dacoit's hideout! And so he had passed out like a light. The next thing he realised was that he was lying on the platform at the Pathankot railway station! But my 2IC, as we all know, was a good soldier and so he did the correct thing. He went straight to the Transit camp and reported his arrival. And from there he came to the unit!

I am no film buff, but this was real box office hit stuff, with all the drama of crime, drugs, patriotism and all that! Just the type that succeeds at the box office!

What a cock and bull story! I felt sorry for him. Had he been a soldier, it would have been 28 days in the clink and end of story. As an officer he sure would have a minimum of one year loss of seniority.

I couldn't help it, but I blurted out in wonderment and enquired if he had a relative in the Bombay film industry! He was not shaken that I disbelieved every word of his. In the most innocent of tones, denied any connection to Bombay or its film industry. In fact, if one were to believe him, he said vehemently, he had never stepped South of the Holy Ganges! Even Allah is his witness! Secular chap was my 2IC.

The Court of Inquiry was ordered and my 2 IC left the Post.

After two weeks my 2IC returned.

He had, it transpired, been taken to the Brigade HQs and then to the Divisional HQs in the process of the investigation. A very odd thing, but then with my 2IC, everything can go wrong!

However, the manner in which my 2IC was handled, not only perplexed me, but also inflamed my sensibilities. The General Staff Publication on handling of PsW (Prisoners of War) states that it is the procedure PsW undertake and so it was very very odd as to why my 2IC took the route that is honoured by PsW alone! Could it be that my 2IC was an unusual cove and after the Bombay movie like dacoit story, the bizarre that was my 2IC alter ego, was not so bizarre after all?!

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

AND THEN GREW APPLES IN MEERUT

.....................................after the Bombay movie like dacoit story, the bizarre that was my 2IC alter ego, was not so bizarre after all?!

[Continued]
My 2IC stayed two days in the Battalion HQ and then he came back to the Company.

Obviously, as a Company Commander, I went through the drill of interviewing him as is done for anyone away from the Company for a length of time.

He was cheerful and that was the saving grace. The man had stoic. He could be cheerful even after the ordeal of a military enquiry!

My interview of my 2IC was short. He said that the inquiry went off well and they believed him, even though I, as his company commander, had been stunned into disbelief. This type of a thing happens in UP, Rajasthan and MP, he told me. Commonplace, he emphasised. And anyway, both the Brigade Commander and the Divisional Commander were from the same place or nearabouts where his village was and so they understood. And hence, the inquiry was over. He was a free bird!

So, that was it. While I was happy that my 2IC had escaped becoming a cadet, since loss of seniority would only be minus in service as he had only had six months of service. I was despondent. It was not because my 2IC escaped, but because there were none from where I came from to understand that I, too, could get late from leave because of gheraos and bandhs . In those days, the horrendous impact what these instruments of "peoples' power" was capable of was unknown to the rest of India, my State being run by the Communists. Therefore, I had no chance of being as lucky as my 2IC.

My 2IC went to his bunker and said he would join me for dinner later, and did I not get the crate of apples that he had left for me?

I am not too fond of eating, nor am I one of those fruit munching type. So, while I thanked him, I forgot all about it, till after three days when my orderly produced some of those apples for lunch. My 2IC was also having lunch with me.

"I say old chap, rather delicious" I said to the 2IC for politeness sake, even though I didn't relish apples.

"Thank you, Sir. I got one peti (crate) for you, my company commander, one peti for the CO and one peti each for the Brigade Commander and the Division Commander since my father knows them from earlier times! These apples are all from my orchard."

Aha! That much for military law!

And then I forgot all about this conversation.

A week passed when I suddenly recalled that my 2IC was from Meerut, the area of the burnished sun as burnished as from where Othello belonged!

I was astonished! Burnished Meerut produced apples?!

I collared my 2IC during the evening Stand To.

"Old chap, where did you get these apples from? They were rather good. I hope you did not have to pay a fortune for those four crates of apples. They must have cost you a King's ransom!"

"No, sir, they were from my orchard as I told you"

I pottered around. Re-laid an LMG's fixed line. Told a chap to ensure his bunker was clean and so on. I peered at the Pakistani post which was but a few hundred metres away.

My 2IC followed me as any good 2IC would.

I swivelled on my heel and asked my 2IC, "Say, aren't you a Thakur (small time satraps) from Meerut?"

Now, these thakur chaps love to impress all about their fiefs! And they love to twirl their larger than life moustaches, which they all sport. Well, almost all.

My 2IC chest puffed up to indicate this thakur pride. He tried to twirl his moustache as per the Thakur drill and failed. He had forgotten that he had none! He opened his mouth and very grandly said, "Of course, sir. My grandfather is known in the Meerut district as also the neighbouring ones. The Chief Minister regularly comes to pay his homage!"

"How wonderful! Splendid! First class! Totally capital! And the Chief Minister comes to pay homage. Good going, I must say. But, just tell me one thing, notwithstanding these great happenings, how is it that you grow apples in Meerut? I have never heard of such a miracle happening!"

He looked sheepish.

He broke into a mischievous smile and said, "Oh sir, as per the unit drill, one had to bring a book or something when returning from annual leave. I had forgotten all about it. So, when I got down in Pathankot, and because the Transit Camp bus was leaving, I had no time to go and buy a book. I did the next best thing. I bought these petis from outside the Transit Camp gates!"

So, that was how Meerut grew apples and that is how that miracle came to pass!

[Originally posted by : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

THE FLORAL MAGIC

Flowers can levitate.

Commissioned in the Indian Army, my first posting was to Banarhat in Bengal. The unit located amidst adjoining tea gardens, was housed in bashas , which meant slatted bamboo huts on mud foundation. Some had cement floors.

Greenhorn that I was, the army life routine was as Greek as it could be.

The day I joined, the unit looked immensely busy. Apart from the customary pleasantries, I was left to roam with the freedom lost cows groping in the dark are accustomed to. That is till someone waved his hand towards a group of bashas and sent me 'A' Company bound.

The Senior JCO (Junior Commissioned Officer) met me and was the first one to indicate some heartiness in the welcome, but was quick enough to inform me that apart from the welcome and handing me over to another man, he had little time at hand since he was busy preparing for the 'Adam' inspection.

Adam inspection?

The new man in whose charge I had been assigned explained. It had nothing to do with the Bible, but was equally momentous though! It meant the unit was being inspected by the Brigade Commander, an annual phenomenon that decided that unit's efficiency! A Big Deal actually. That is what he told me. He also advised to stay clear lest I messed up anything. Frank chaps, they were I must say.

I was never too lazy a person and so soon I was on my own 'inspection'. To me it was equally a momentous moment. I roamed around the unit. All were busy and so none really cared. I was as conspicuous for attention as the lizards on the bamboo walls.

There was the Adjutant strutting around pompously yelling orders than none seem to obey and the Quartermaster busy dipping his finger in tinned cans to 'check the freshness' as he desperately updated his ledgers!

The JCOs (Junior Commissioned Officers and factotums of the unit) were the sole souls mimicking eager beavers as they 'guided' the troopers or jawans in their task, their abuses intensifying in decibel with the approach of any officer! In short, everybody was busy.

I continued my 'inspection'.

I espied a beautiful garden in front of the SP Company office . It was a glorious display of colours amidst the drab military utilitarian surroundings. The garden was in full bloom. I paused to admire it. The breeze blew gently and the flowers and plants sway in delightful ecstasy.

In the other corner of the garden, the troops were frantically digging in front of the office while some others were busily cleaning the Medium Machines guns, 3-inch mortars, the 106 Recoilless Guns and other heavy weapons. The incongruity was stark. There was beauty on one side and there were the weapons of war on the other!

Then came Judgement Day. The day of the inspection! It had by now been made clear to me that it had nothing to do with Adam, and instead was Adm, a short form of 'Administration/ Administrative' and so on that I learnt from the GS publications, Staff Duties in the Field, Appendix C that was shoved right under my nose!

The Brigade Commander arrived. The Officers and JCOs were introduced to him in front of the CO's (Commanding Officer) Office. I was a bit surprised. It seemed incongruous that the Brigade Commander did not know the officers and JCOs except possibly me. But then having seen oddities of life during my cadet days, I just added another for the memory lane.

The Brigade Commander was pleased as Punch seeing me. He devoted as much attention as one would to a new daughter in law in the family. Like any new daughter in law in the family, while delighted at the attention, it did make me uncomfortable too. He asked me if I had any idea of the Army. It was obvious that I had none and I mumbled it so.

"Aha! Then you must come along with me as I do the turn. See how a unit should run first hand with me". I could perceive that my Commanding Officer was not pleased at all, but I saw another aspect of the army that has deluded me so far – how to say "Yes Boss" with the contrived delight of a Cheshire Cat!

So, I followed them.

The Brigade Commander started 'doing the turn'. He asked apparently innocuous questions. They must have been loaded since quite a few stumbled to answer.

Then he came to the Support Company lines.

The Brigade Commander was an Anglo Indian. He obviously had the British fondness for gardens. He saw the SP Company garden that I had been equally enthralled with – the garden in full bloom, swaying lazily with the breeze.

He was smitten by the garden.

He paused in admiration. It was as if a lifetime passed, the wait being that long!

The Brigade Commander bent down seeing a gorgeous rose blooming in its full magnificence. He was a tall man. He bent down to smell the fragrance of the rose.
He tried to resume the upright, after a great sniff of the blossoming rose and he sort of jerked!

The rose came into his hand, the stem, the roots and all!

We froze!

It was then the truth dawned.

Subedar Suradkar, the SP Company Senior JCO, who was known for gambols and gimmicks, had planted already blooming flowers and produced an instant garden, practically overnight, just for 'one-upmanship'!

The expected bollocking never came. The Brigadier broke into guffaws that resounded through the adjoining tea gardens.

"Oh my, Suradkar sah'b , wonders will never cease. Ap badlenge nahin [you will not change]. Ap number one Guru Ghantal hain [you are a Number One smart pants]."

The day was saved.

But Suradkar earned his lifetime moniker - Guru Ghantal sah'b.

Even jawans who came later to the unit, well after Suradkar sah'b had retired, knew all about the Guru Ghantal sah'b; but they could never recall his actual name!

So, if you go to my unit and ask about the Guru Ghantal sah'b, you will be regaled with stories, but don't ask for the actual name.

They won't know.

[ORIGANALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]