Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan; Indian Army Stories

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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 ]

 

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THE COLONEL, THE BATTALION HAVILDAR MAJOR AND THE COLONEL OF THE REGIMENT


Our unit was in located at Balnoi.

Balnoi was an idyllic. It was an ideal location to laze and enjoy the beauty of Kashmir. It was a back of nowhere place. Lush pine tree covered mountains rose magnificently, charged with the heady smell, both ahead on the Mendher ranges in front and the Krishnaghati to the flanks.

Life was what they say these days – 'cool'. It couldn't be otherwise; those days there were no terrorists coming from the haunts of coot and hern to make a suddenly sally. It was almost peaceful. Infiltration did occur, but they were smugglers or spies, or those foolhardy few who dared to walk the gauntlet to meet their folks across the Cease Fire Line. The Line of Control nomenclature came a few years later after the 1971 War.

The Battalion at Balnoi was basically there to train and refit as a reserve battalion and then be rotated to the Posts on the mountains

Life was actually idyllic and the weather was magnificently salubrious.

Well almost!

Why almost? It requires a dekko of the environment prevailing in the
Battalion. The climate of God has to be matched with the climate bequeathed to us mortal by those who rule our lives to be idyllic since otherwise it could be hell!

There is no doubt that life would have been a prolonged holiday here. However, there was this impediment – our Commanding Officer (CO). The CO was not a bad sort; it was just that he was too "British" for the liking of the officers that he commanded. Some of us were dyed in wool desis (natives!).

The CO was of the opinion that he alone knew what was best for the desi Indian kalus , namely the officers and other hapless Indians, who may cross his path. He was the Indian clone of Rudyard Kipling. Loved India in his own way, but was scornful of its 'backward' ways! Indian whiskey he abhorred and rejected contemptuously as 'gutter water'. The tumblers had to be spotless clean without a trace of a finger print. Lines, wherever it be drawn, in whatever the medium, pencil, pen, lime-wash, chalk or chinagraph pencil, they all had to be straight! The menu changed daily for breakfast, lunch and dinner, lest the cook forgot how to cook, the waiters forgot how to serve and officers forgot how it tasted! Dal or lentil gruel, a basic Indian dish, was not 'dal', and instead, was 'daul'! He was a stickler no doubt and even the Queen would have blushed since the CO was more British than the Queen herself!

For the carefree and cool, it was indeed an ordeal!

There were varied theories about the CO.

One of the officers, a senior Company Commander, always wondered if the British in 1947 had forgotten him somewhere between the Taj Hotel and the Gateway of India, when they were boarding the troopship taking them home!

Yet another officer, a Captain, however, opined that the CO had himself volunteered to remain behind in India and carry on with the White man's burden on behalf of his cousin, the Queen!

Thus, there was this confusion as to what our CO actually was!

The officers, though they were troubled by the CO's British quirks, it was just one person whose goat the CO got!

He was the battalion Second in Command (2IC). His distress was profound during dinner time. The CO allowed only an 'English' dinner whereas the 2IC was the desi ghee type. He could not eat any meal without a dollop or three in every dish he ate, be it English, Chinese or Thai! And he was always upto some subterfuge to satiate his urge surreptitiously every dinner time.

Since the CO scrupulously followed the Mess Rules laid down from the British times that one could not eat his meals in his room, the 2IC had no option but to eat in the Officers Mess. It was a sight to see the 2IC every dinner time punching holes in his cutlets and waiting for the CO to be distracted. He would then in that split second, like greased lightning, whip out his small jug of ghee from under his chair and pour it to his heart's content in the holes he had punched in his cutlets. We enjoyed observing this cat and mouse games and thrilled to the gills. However, it affected our health since we had to take the timing for the courses of the dinner from the CO. He finished his course while we were enamoured with the 2IC's antics and the plates were cleared; so, we could hardly concentrate on our meal and eat our share! They enjoyed and we suffered!!

Thus to most of the officers, it was not the Pakistanis who were the adversaries; and instead it was our own CO, who in our opinion, though considered a good soul, was immensely quixotic and difficult.

That, in very brief, was what the environment in which the officers found themselves to be in – a happy coexistence between the sanity and the ludicrous!

In that environment another catastrophe enveloped us! The Colonel of the Regiment decided to visit the unit who was a card by himself!

The key personage that were involved in the visit of the Colonel of the Regiment were the BHM (Battalion Havildar Major) and the Colonel of the Regiment himself! The BHM was important because he was to organise the physical details of the Reception and the Colonel of the Regiment because if he had not decided to come, life would have been pleasant. And the Colonel of the Regiment thought he was the King Emperor of the Regiment and took umbrage to the slightest fault!

The BHM of the Battalion was typical of the class that composed the rank and file. He was a fine and efficient chap, but even with him, one had to go with the Regiment Work Code ethics for Officers (not found in the Standing Orders of War or Peace) of 'Order, Check, Recheck and Finally Do It Yourself'. Good chaps the troops were, but forgetful, to put it politely.

As far as the Colonel of the Regiment, he was a card! He was a sanctimonious, pompous oaf and a busybody with megalomania oozing through every pore! He was a combination of Hop Along Cassidy and Lord of Tartary and immensely self opiniated. There was nothing earthshaking in his opinions, though he did attempt to project that he was giving the Sermon on the Mount!

That being the background, let's move on.

The Colonel of the Regiment was "heli-dashing" somewhere or the other, as he was wont to do, the air dash being at Government and the Army's expense and allowed by rules. It mattered not to me as to where. In those days, all were well contended to charter their career to the next day only, unlike today's youngsters who are more alive and smart and rather career savvy.

Notwithstanding the career charting of days gone by, it is adequate to know that the Colonel of the Regiment was 'air dashing'. His role and profile demanded this 'sacrifice' on his part to share his 'valuable time' with us! He was, after all, the Regiment personified and it was for his inflated ego, "Après moi, le déluge" . He had to be everywhere and yet being nowhere!

Being astute and savvy, the Colonel of the Regiment though going elsewhere, suddenly had decided to make a detour to our unit, just to be 'with the boys'. It was good for his PR. Obviously, for mortals in the unit, it was to be a Red Letter Day and hence everything had to be 'taped up'.

A long distance telephone call to the ADC over the notoriously troublesome static full military lines brought only desolate news. The Colonel of the Regiment, the ADC informed the unit, had barely time to munch a Digestive biscuit, let alone partake in any elaborate Japanese Tea Ceremony! And to imagine, the 'British' CO deemed it essential to offer Huntley and Palmer Cream Crackers and that too in back of nowhere, Balnoi!

 

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THE COLONEL, THE BATTALION HAVILDAR MAJOR AND THE COLONEL OF THE REGIMENT
.................................................................... nowhere, Balnoi!

[Continued]

The Adjutant informed the CO what the ADC had said, adding that the Colonel of the Regiment was a 'man of action' and hinted that the Colonel of the Regiment apparently had little time for such mundane routine as having tea and biscuits.

That infuriated the CO. Being the person he was, with disdain, the CO overruled the Colonel of the Regiment as a village bumpkin; after all, the Battalion was his and not that of the Colonel of the Regiment. The Adjutant had doubts since the Colonel of the Regiment was reputed to be more in the air than on the ground, being the hot air blimp that he was. The Adjutant, having a science background knew that the stratified air made one less hungry. But, who could argue with our CO?

To us youngsters, the Colonel of the Regiment's visit was a red-letter day. There was a lot of hul chul as one dubbed all hyperactive ceremonial chores. But that was not so for our dear CO. The impending visit had not turned a single hair of his. He was cool as a cucumber, even though cucumber never grew in Balnoi. The CO was a man who went by his own ideas and damn the others, whatever the rank. He cared two hoots for who vini, vidi-ed and vici-ed (saw, came and conquered or conked out {!}). The rule for the CO was that as far as he was concerned, so long he was happy, 'Mogambo was khus' .

The Colonel of the Regiment's visit was important to the youngsters. Amongst the youngsters, I was selected to 'organise' the 'visit'. While the dismal, dank and dark living and administrative bunkers were being whitewashed from the inside under the supervision of one of the Company Commanders, the flowerbeds were planted by another of the same variety (i.e. Company Commander), with fresh overgrown plants that had bloomed, I was sent hotfoot to the helipad to organise the reception of the helicopter and the Colonel of the Regiment.

The whitewashing of the inside of bunkers, we thought, were a waste of time for a man who hardly had the time to sniff a peanut, let alone eat it. Peanuts alone were the munching delight of the hip-hop dignitaries of those days unlike these day where cashew, almonds, chilguzas apparently are the metabolic delights of the Brass! But then, who could tell that to the CO?

I was despatched to the helipad.

The Battalion Havildar Major (BHM) trotted obediently behind me. He wore the disdainful look that all senior NCOs detailed to work under youngsters always wore – a little short of total contempt of officers still green behind the ears!

The BHM and I walked to the helipad.

The area was huge. We got busy removing the loose stones and pebbles and gave the boundary stones and the 'H' another coat of fresh limewash. A Company worth, in the meanwhile, got busy and sashayed with their talwars manicuring the wild grass to give the impression of an operational area lawn! Efficiency had visited our unit!

I 'selected' the spot where the shamiyana was to be pitched as also the mandatory toilets – separate for the General and separate for the lowly mortals, like the aircrew and us.

Imagine that! Separate toilets! I could never figure out the rationale for separate toilets. As a youngster, I always thought that the procedure to relieve oneself was the same for all and everyone's urine smelt the same! However, my Company Commander informed me that it was different for the Flag Rank and different for others and that there were Army Orders to that effect! This is probably the reason why I was "charged up" to attain the Flag Rank! I wanted to experience this unique experience and feel the difference!

The siting of the shamiyana was no problem.

The site was the same ever since the 1947 War. Yet, the military mind insisted on a song and a dance every time without fail to move the shamiyana six centimetres this way or that way. It, thus, proved unequivocally that the military mind was fertile and innovative. I did not let the Army down in this pagan mumbo jumbo of the 'six centimetres dancing ritual' either. In addition, I added a few flags along the way as a bonus, apart from the mandatory flag that indicates Toilets. In the Army, we have flags denoting various activities!

The CO had to be given his due. He was dead serious about being actually innovative about siting the urinal and the commode ('combode' as per our safaiwallah as if it were some sort of a common abode and hence, 'combode'!). The CO's idea of siting the commode was unique and way futuristic, almost like Muslim emperor, Tuglak, who moved his capital down South of India from Delhi to avoid an invasion. Our CO was a military genius. He gave us precise instructions on the subject. He was an expert. It had been honed into a fine art in the unit he served previously.

The BHM and I followed this art to the letter and I must say I am now a great toilet "siter" (the one who sites) even to this day and rank!

As per the innovative toilet erection technique, the BHM and I spent the next six hours in the General's toilet tent. We checked and rechecked the wind direction every 15 minutes and recorded the same on a clipboard. We were not disturbed in this serious activity even as the painter furiously hand-painted the commode's wooden structure. What really got my goat was that the painter painted the brand new enamel chamber pot also! I queried him on this unique procedure. He was amazed that I did not know that before a VIP visit everything had to be whitewashed and painted – the vintage and state of disrepair immaterial. Silly me! I was still learning!

I informed the 2IC of the unit, of the painter's unique 'innovation' and guess what? He said that the painter was right! Wonders never ceased in this topsy-turvy military world.

The wind record taken, we marched off to the CO to present our earth shaking scientific discovery. The wind direction was true to the adage – fickle as the wind, or was a woman supposed to be fickle? The recorded degrees touched all the points, sub points and sub sub points of the compass!

Our CO perused it like the sage Agastya Muni . He put his head between his palms, took deep breaths and his chest heaved up and down like Mumtaz's cleavage (they do this i.e. heave their bosom, during the dance sequence in Hindi films). Suddenly, the CO's eyes sparkled like the Pole Star at night.

"North by Northwest".

The CO barked this unique directional discovery into space, as if mesmerised like Archimedes, when he jumped out of the bath naked and yelled through the roads 'Eureka, eureka'.

'North by Northwest' was a unique suspense film by Hitchcock but I could not fathom the connection with the wind records. However, one did not dare even discuss with the CO.

"Marvellous film, sir", I said in the form the Punjabis say yeh bhi wah wah, ta bhi wah wah i.e. non-committal, lest I got the wrong end of the stick.

"Film? What film, old tyke? Don't be a freak, young man. You will site the commode in the North Northwest direction, so that the General doesn't soil his clothes in a hurry nor have his nostril offended by the odour."

Great musings, I must say and what an eye for detail! I was in raptures to learn that a General's relief was offensive to the nostrils, like most. They were also human!!!!

'Trot off now. And by the way, don't forget to put magazines in the shamiyana lest he wishes to read.'

Order understood had to be implemented.

I ordered the BHM to have a whole lot of magazines organised in the shamiyana for the General's reading pleasure and comfort, even if he did not have time to sniff a biscuit, let alone a peanut!

The BHM and I jogged off to the helipad to recheck the arrangements. All appeared to be well. It was still a couple of hours for the arrival of the Colonel of the Regiment. We returned to the Base to relax.

Doubts still nagged me. The military mind can never lie still. It was still 30 minutes to time, when the Colonel of the Regiment would arrive.

I couldn't take the tension any more.

I meandered to the helipad in a controlled 'casual way' as if I was taking a walk to breathe in the bracing air! After all, I could not show that I was flapping. In fact, it would be silly to flap in front of the troops, especially when I had no wings to flap!

Horrors of Horror!!!!!

Neatly, in the shamiyana, on the table, there were magazines of all type – not the pornographic ones that would have ruffled my feathers, but there were, in all its glory and well shone ------------ pistol magazines, sten magazines, rifle magazines, LMG magazines and a belt of MMG ammunition thrown in for 'bull'!!!!!!!

How the right magazines arrived before the Colonel of the Regiment arrived is another story, but then it did prove the then popular adage of my Regiment – Order, Check, Recheck and finally DO it YOURSELF.

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

MY FIRST DAY IN THE NATIONAL DEFENCE ACADEMY (NDA)

THE ENTRY INTO DALDA SQUADRON

My army life has been tumultuous. It couldn't be anything else. The day I was selected at the SSB (Service Selection Board) China attacked India! So, not unusually, my life has been one of interesting battles for (not 'in') life.

This story is about the first day of my military career when I joined the National Defence Academy (NDA) – the nursery of the Indian Army.

I joined the NDA on 5th January 1963. It happened to be my birthday too!

On the assigned date of joining, I steamed in on the 'Deccan Queen' (a prestigious train in those days) into Poona, and right into the arms of an officer and some overzealous jawans (troopers) forming the Reception Committee. Thereon, the rickety military Studebaker truck rattled us past the majestic Deccan plateau and into Khadakvasla.

The first glimpse of the NDA was awe inspiring. Majestic buildings unobtrusively dotted the immense green expanse of lush forestry. The signature dome of pink sandstone called the Sudan Block rose upwards as if in salute. The bountiful silence of the forestry blanketed us into a pleasant serenity of a world at peace and order.

We disembarked at the Cadets Mess – an imposing one storey building. We were convinced that there could be no better profession than being a soldier and an officer. After the preliminaries were over, the officer in charge there assigned me to 'Dalda' Squadron, as was conveyed to me by the hired help. That was my first shock. Imagine, Dalda (it was a popular hydrogenated oil brand) – hydrogenated oil! It was only later that I came to realise that the unlettered helps could not pronounce 'Delta' (the military phonetic for the letter 'D') and so they called it Dalda, being a name they were familiar with!

A civilian bearer (hired help) picked up my huge trunk and bedroll and cockily commenced leading me to my 'officers' quarters (as I had imagined), walking down the slope to 'A' Battalion.

Lo and behold, hardly had I entered 'A' Battalion when a chap in khaki half pants with spindly legs halted me. Like a jagirdar (feudal lord) talking to his serfs, he saucily ordered me to carry my trunk – all of its six feet length – on my head! Bloody cheek I thought, especially since he appeared a village bumpkin with a dreadfully unintelligible accent. Peter Sellers' rendition of 'Indianised' English would have easier on the ear than that of this bloke!

I was thoroughly baffled, perplexed and odd at ease.

I flatly refused carrying the trunk on my head. However, the menacing growl like a pit terrier emanating from this chap dawned on me that this was not the time to show valour; at least not on the first day of my military career! I tried to carry the trunk, but being the 90 lb weakling, I crumpled under the weight.

This bloke compressed with laughter and I was allowed to wend my way beyond. I felt like a worm.

A few moments later I reached 'Dalda' Squadron. By then I was quite deflated and ashamed of myself that I had wilted. Hardly the signs of being a soldier to save the country!

I entered the Squadron to be met by the most hairy thing that I ever saw in my whole life – Corporal AS! He was indeed huge and hairy. He was a Sikh and so it was natural that he would be whiskered and with beard. In fact, it took time to realise that through all that hair, there were eyes peering at me.

"What are you?" said this matchless thing, which I had mistaken for some exotic South Pacific tropical tree. It was getting queerer by the minute. Instead of 'who', this odd fish had used 'what'. What am I? Obviously, a human being! This was an observable fact.

Giving him the benefit of doubt, in a clear voice I replied "SK Raychaudhuri". Three times did he ask, as Anthony had asked of Caesar, and three times I replied the same!

This 'tree' turned pinker than his natural pink. At least he was turning pink in the areas that I could observe. "Are you a Bhangi?" asked Corporal AS. Now, while I knew passable Hindi I was not endowed with such technical Hindi. Naturally, I was confused. However, enlightenment dawned on me.

I surmised that most probably he was trying to say 'Bengi' as the Anglo Indians (in my school) called us Bengalis. I was getting used to the fact that fellows in the NDA had unusual English accents (this I later learnt was the upcountry inflections)

With a radiant smile I proudly said, "Yes".

Corporal AS recoiled as if he had seen the ghost of Caesar. He was incredulous! Keeping a safe distance, thrice (it was his habit of repeating himself thrice) he asked the same question and thrice and I answered the same – thrice.

"Do you know the meaning of Bhangi?" asked AS totally disbelieving.

"Why not? I presume you mean a 'Bengali'," said I.

Corporal AS buckled with the mirth, the laughter almost similar to a steam engine chugging away from a station with the wheels sipping on the rails. His belly fat quivered like Pompeii about to spew.

As his amusement faded like a wailing banshee, he bellowed, "Silly man Charlie bai (boy). It's not a Bengali, Bhangi means a scavenger. A sweeper. Are you a sweeper?"

George Washington could never lie. I too could not.

"No. I am not a scavenger."

Huge that he was, with avuncular kindness, he pronounced, "You no longer civilian. You now Cadet. Be prod (proud). You now 'Cadet Chodri' and add 'Sir' to all seniors."

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

MY FIRST DAY IN THE NATIONAL DEFENCE ACADEMY (NDA)

THE ENTRY INTO DALDA SQUADRON

...............................Sir' to all seniors."

While I had no objection to being a 'Cadet', I somehow could not reconcile to the pronunciation of my name since it had an obnoxious sexual connotation when said in Hindi. I, however, kept my counsel. It dawned on me that I was no longer a human being – instead I was a Cadet!!!!!!

I had barely walked two steps when another unique specimen of humanity accosted me. It was a 3rd termer. It was another inquisition about my antecedents I was subjected to, possibly worse than that experienced by Al Qaeda prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. I was careful to add the word 'Cadet' and suffixed sentences with a 'sir'. I thought he was satisfied and would allow me to proceed. But much to my chagrin, he instead asked me to start front rolling!

Catch me knowing what front rolling was. In deference to my wonderment, in the best of military curtness, he collared a 2nd termer for a demonstration.

The demonstration seen, I exclaimed, "Ah, I see what you mean, sir. A Somersault!"

This specimen, from the Bal Mukund belt (a vernacular school from Kiomandi (clarified butter wholesale market of an upcountry city), was furious. He had not understood what a somersault was. His face gave that away. For all I know, he thought it was some special salt that one took during summer to beat dehydration and that I was being blasted cheeky, it being winter now.

"O getting clavar (clever)? Al-rat (All right), you do five somersaults and eight wintersaults". It had to be done. In the process, I got terribly giddy because instead of rolling over forward or backward, I merely wobbled upside down, holding the pose involuntarily in a semi sirshashan (yogic headstand), to crumple like a deflating balloon, returning to terra firma with an all resounding thud.

Then more blokes arrived.

I was something like a new addition to a Zoo. I was about to say "Take me to your leader" as they say in the comic books when Martians land on Earth. But then, they didn't give me chance.

"Hop and Rotate."

What, in the name of Dickens, was that? My blank look encouraged a senior to collar yet another of the demonstration species – the 2nd termer. The demonstration was executed. It was asinine.

I hopped and rotated like some mentally depraved frog with a sexual fantasia. I am sure such a pose would be in the Kamasutra, but for frogs only. Having hopped and rotated adequately long, I thought I could now go.

No way. The next lot came.

This was like Chinese human wave attack tactics – one wave after the other. They watched me hopping and rotating and the way I was at it, I thought I could have won the figure skating in the Olympics for frogs and other deprived species! However, this new lot had other preferences. They wanted music accompaniment. I, therefore, found myself hopping and rotating, singing my name in 27 different tunes. Why 27? Ask these mental morons.

New 'murgas' (chicken: male and of the 1st term variety) arrived. They lost interest in me. God, where were you all this time?

The bearer (remember him? He had carried my luggage) read a list and ushered me to a ground floor room. These rooms they called as 'kebin' (Indianised version of 'cabin'). Hardly had I entered my cabin and put my things down when Corporal AS surfaced. He hauled me off to his 'kebin', where I found Cadets ASJ and KSR (both my coursemates and first termers) already there.

Astonishingly, I found them convoluted in the 'murga' position (squatting on the haunches and holding their ears, having put the hands through under the knees!). I was awfully amused. India had no Olympic gymnast and yet here they were hell bent in making us India's pride in the next!

I was asked if I could sing. I could. Corporal AS beamed. He excitedly thundered that I should sing 'Do hanso ka jora, bichar gaye re' (I learnt later it was a popular song of two swans separated and reunited). Funny guy, this Corporal AS. He knew that I knew no Hindi, let alone Hindi songs. Though fear crazed that this would lead to more callisthenic, I informed him it had to be only Elvis or Pat Boone.

"Bone? No picking of Bone. You sing. Sing anything, you silly English-boy. You bladi mane.". Corporal AS always ended every sentence with 'Bladi Mane' (Bloody Man). Even 'good morning' had this appendage.

He was dissatisfied with my rendition of Jailhouse Rock. He found it 'very noisy'. Imagine a Sardar ( Sikh Gentleman; though I could never fathom till date why the 'Gentleman' had to be added when describing a Sikh chap) finding Jailhouse Rock as 'noisy'! I wonder if he had heard the Punjabi song 'Main choot bolia koina, something kufartoliya koina, balle balle "¦.broooooo. Surely that is not melody. In fact, it was pure, unmitigated roar of an avalanche in the Himalayas! It was sheer cacophony! Imagine the temerity to call Jailhouse Rock, sung by the international heart throb, as noise!

By this time, KSR and ASJ were allowed to resume the vertical position and were in boisterous unison singing AS's favourite – Do hanso"¦.. It is a different issue that both these boys were more like wet murgis (chicken) by then; forget about their being hans (swan)!

After inane questions on our sex life and other mundane nonsense, we were allowed to go.

We peeked out and seeing the coast clear tried to scamper to our 'kebins'. But whom do you find waiting? It was none other than Cadet R. We didn't know his name then, but later, he became as indelible in memory as Hitler to Jews!

We walked into Cadet R's metaphoric embrace"¦"¦"¦"¦"¦"¦ but then it's another story.

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray (reworked version of same story) ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

SAMNE DEKH (Eyes Front)


I had just joined the Army and had been posted to my battalion.

After a few months, the unit went out for its Annual Training Camp. It was my first touch of the "real army". I was excited as any greenhorn would be. Real soldiers and real sun unit to lead!

We were exercising and training in an area called Shankargarh, near Allahabad. The area was desolate with scanty population with marginal cultivation but had orchards and village ponds. It was a quiet and quaint countryside, and for an urban person, it was heavenly quiet. Paradise!

We were all under canvas and all was going fine to set the camp, but then, there appeared to have been some flap regarding the field commodes and so the junior officers had to use the Deep Trench Latrines (DTL) with no flaps or canaths to cover, while in the act!

Not a pleasant experience, but then who cared?

We were in the initial stages of setting Camp and so there was whole lot of hustle and bustle with no regular schedule.

The setting up of the Camp was left to the junior ranks while the seniors were busy checking up the exercises and training areas and ensuring that the training would be done under as realistic an environment as the surroundings permitted.

Life was fine and we were getting used to the regimen and it was but a few days more to go before the real thing started. Hence, one did not have to wake up before dawn to get cracking. So, instead of awaking with the sun and then going through the morning ablution, it could be done at a leisurely pace without any pressure of a formalised schedule.

One day, I was a bit late for the "morning routine".

I sauntered to the DTL, and without worrying about the world, sat down to perform.

The breeze wafted gently and the birds chirped on the trees just above. It was heavenly. The only thing that worried me was that no bird dropping should fall on me. The birds had to show some decorum after all, since an officer was performing and it was not correct to perform together, no matter how high they were above me!

I could see in the distance that soldiers were going about their duty for the various chores assigned to set up the camp. They were in the far distance! It was nice, as a greenhorn, to observe the ways of the Army – all efficiency personified!

Then suddenly footsteps seem to approach in the distance.

Even before one could say "Jack Robinson", a column of soldiers, with pick axes and shovels, emerged from the left from behind the bushes. They were marching across, ahead of where I was "performing". I was stark naked to the world and as all could observe, the world was at peace! Lest one forgets, there were no flaps to the DTL to cover my "modesty".

I was non plussed. I did not know what to do. I could not get up, nor could I cover my nakedness. And yet, as per the teaching, officers had to be 'on parade' all the time, especially if troops were anywhere in the vicinity.

It was a serious quandary!

I sat mesmerised. I braced up all the dignity that an officer can muster in total nakedness.

I hoped like hell that the column would pass without observing me.

But no, the column commander suddenly observed me.

Without batting an eyelid, he puffed up his chest in the best of NCO (Non Commissioned Officer) training smartly yelled, "Party, Dahine Dekh (eyes right!)" and executed the smartest of salutes!

The whole column executed "eye right" with total parade ground precision.

I sat frozen!

I squirmed but maintained the required officer like stoic.

I wished the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

But nothing of the sort happened.

True to military training and reflexes, I found that I had stood up!

All I could do was yelling, "Samne Dekh (eyes front)".

My military training had got the better of me and maybe that saved the day.

I could not salute. I was bareheaded!

The moment passed.

The military preciseness may have been upheld, but not the Langar gup (soldiers' gossip).

It was said that they had caught an officer pants down!

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray (reworked version of same story) ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

QUALIFICATION FOR SENIOR RANKS


It was a blasphemous thought that I would be promoted.

Tilting at windmills like Don Quixote was hardly the way to success. And I had boss from the Armoured Corps who was reinforced with Chobam/ Kanchen armour on his turret! And his name ended with 'Naini'. We used to call him Nanny Goat since he was a great nag. He acted like a Nanny and always got our goat, as so it was appropriate to call him a Nanny Goat!

Given that I did not like Nanny and he realised that, therefore, my chances for promotion was really very slim, if not nonexistent.

No wonder then that I was shaken out of my pants when Doris rang me up to tell me that I was 'through'. Through what? Through making a mess of my career?

Doris was my coursemate posted at the Military Secretary's Branch that handles postings and promotions and career planning!

"So, Doris, I should call it quits?" I asked.

"No, old boy, you have made it!" he shouted with genuine pleasure on the phone, and that phone was not giving the best of results dampening the static.

"Made what? Another senior being admitted to the loony bin?"

"Cut you silly humour out, old chap. You have been promoted"

It is then that I realised and it dawned on me that our Promotion Board had taken place. The Keen Kumars were always talking about it, but then I never bothered since it was impossibility with me, given the manner how my seniors had endorsed that I was the material that would go far, the further I went, the better!

"Can't be Doris, you know my record of service".

"That is true. What is your IC Number (personal number, that is)?"

As I mentioned earlier, I was always tilting at moral windmills. I had no hope in hell, more so with that Armoured Corps boss whose head could stave off a top attack missile. And so, I was quite reconciled to the fact that I had but only a slim chance.

Therefore, it was indeed a pleasant surprise, when Colonel 'Doris' Deore, a course-mate and a regimental comrade in the Military Secretary's Branch , rang me to inform that I had been approved to be Brigadier, having double checked my 'IC' Number (personal number which is different for each officer) with me and reconfirmed that extraordinarily my IC number coincided with the name! But then there was this hitch! The confusion could be with those who did not match the name with the IC number beccuase the computer could only feed the expanded initials of my name, the surname being too long and hence rejected by the computer!

Doris was initially doubtful because the second initial 'Kumar' could have been that of any North Indian as also it was very doubtful that I could ever have 'made it'. After all, a 'Kumar' like the surname 'Singh' which could be anything but a prince or a lion or respectively (in Hindi) and these were popular appendages for those from up country. I was not even an up country chap!

I was still not convinced that I had made it to the next rank. Seeing, as they say is, after all, in believing! The list had not arrived at our Headquarters in Pune where I was posted.

I did not make a song and dance about it as one does when delightedly shocked with such good news. Or that false depreciative smirk that those who are promoted wear!

I decided to wait for the official result before I made the announcement. It would also have the desired effect. I wanted some jump into their graves out of shock! The only name that floated for such a wonderful 'shocking' demise was that of my boss and none else.

The others who had 'made it' to the next rank and who had unofficially come to know of the board results naturally shared the good news with all and sundry. None crossed my path lest it was embarrassing to them, as also to me.

The Promotion Board results came. My name, though in a corrupted form, was also amongst the successful candidates. I made doubly sure by checking the IC Number.

I decided to keep it under wraps. I wanted the guys to be shocked out of their pants when they knew it from sources other than me, since all knew that my boss had 'booked' me as he did the other Colonels General Staff.

This 'secret' was kept a secret by me. During routine meeting with others, none even raised the subject of my having not 'made it' and 'having missed the boat'. Some were disappointed that I was 'left out in the cold' and some weren't. This 'secret' remained so for about one month. Then, my promotion cum posting order came.

It was a shock to all. Here was I, as if in total oblivion, of my having been promoted and extraordinarily I had not made an attempt to even know of it! It was a shock to them since my 'inactivity' of not exulting, it coming as a surprise, was indeed an unnatural response.

As soon as the promotion cum posting order, it became common knowledge in the HQ. Many friends found themselves embarrassed. They could not believe that they had missed my name when the 'approved for promotion' list had come earlier about a month or more ago. They rechecked the list. They were more surprised that the promotion cum posting order had come and yet my name did not appear! There had to be something wrong. They were more worried that someone in the Military Secretary's Branch had blundered – almost like the chap who ordered the Charge of the Light Brigade!

They still did not come to congratulate me lest the amendment came cancelling the promotion order. Their dilemma was compounded since they were convinced that I had no hope in hell to 'make it'. Thus, they followed the dictum that discretion is the better part of valour.

The word of mouth telegraph system is faster than the written word. While everyone knew, I did not know of my posting cum promotion officially. I had seen it because a Clerk had brought it for me 'unofficially'. Hence, while the whole HQ knew that I had been promoted and was being posted to assume my new appointment, I 'apparently' was in the dark! I would know it after the senior officers had seen the 'dak' (mail) and that took about two days, the HQ being a large one.

One of my juniors 'in the know' could not take this situation any more. He came over to my office.

While I insisted on morality in the system and would, without mincing words speak out my mind, I was quite liberal in my interactivity with my juniors and peers. I encouraged dissenting views to my own since it allowed me to take considered views while taking decisions. Hence, I had folks who had felt genuinely sorry for me.

This officer, who entered my office, was one such person who was a genuine well wisher and who thought that the suspense had gone too far.

The officer came in. He saluted as per the procedure. I got a trifle apprehensive since the salute was too perfect. Perfection somehow harbingers unpleasant news. And so I was uncomfortable. I told him to sit down.

Instead of sitting down, he asked if he could come across the table. He claimed that he wanted to inform me something important but would only do so after checking its authenticity.

That was odd. What authenticity could he check if I came across the table? After all, we were in a HQ and staff work was all paper and nothing else. And all the paper was on the table!

Anyway, he came across the table.

As he crossed the table, he lunged for the region below my belt"¦.rather much below the belt.

In a natural response, I jumped back, but not before he reached his target.

"God, this is unbelievable!", the youngster exclaimed.

"What's unbelievable?" I asked, now very puzzled.

"You've got them, sir. Extraordinary, but you've got them"

"Obviously I have got them. Any man would have them, you silly oaf"

"I agree that any man would have them, sir. But, it is you only who said that seniors don't have them, especially Brigadiers and above"¦"¦"¦"¦ and yet you've got them!"

"That may be true, but I have them. I am a Colonel, old chap."

"No sir, you're not. You are a Brigadier now. The promotion and posting order has come. My advice to you is that if you want to do well, please follow your own theory – shed them!"

Alas, if only I heeded his advice!

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

pussy cats & tigers



to the army's clarion call
come one! Come all!!

Says the poster loud & bright
this is the career for men who love to fight

academies & trainers one has to rough it all
during training many a horse's & their riders fall

there is not to reason why?
There is not to make reply?

Drummed in your mind is this dictum
follow this you are told, as rest is bunkum

do this, do that, do as you are told
at times the meek inherit the earth & not the bold

over the years you look for role models
who are fiercely less
you realize many a times pussy cats in tiger's
clothing they dress

the jungles full of pussy cats abound
look for real tiger's as they are seldom found

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : pkroyal ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

TWIN GUNS OF SAMBA




It was hyped as the mother of all visits. The Big Boss was to arrive for a visit spanning twenty four crucial hours. For Little

Napoleon it was a make or break situation what with age catching up and the prospect of early retirement looming large.

The frills associated with the holding of office would vanish into thin air if he was not kicked up stairs for the prestigious

course at Delhi which if nominated would increase the chance of a promotion into the big league.


The advisers in the HQ were a motley group, a gentle graying deputy who nodded frequently because he was hard of

hearing?, a pickle brained alcoholic who agreed with everything Little Napoleon said and constantly reeked of sweat, stale

smoke and alcohol even from a safe distance of five feet. Two principal advisers burdened by conflict of speaking their

mind or continue angling for a good confidential report. Then there was the maverick intellectual carrying a heavy

baggage of being overweight, sloth and searching for an atmosphere where his ideas would fructify. Also part of the

"ensemble" were three youngsters, fresh faced, energetic, raring to go but unsung and unheard because they were

considered way down the evolutionary ladder. Coordination of the visit hovered delicately, around the gastronomic

preferences of the Big Boss, the first "foot in the mouth" disease erupted, the epicenter being Mr. Smelly. "Sir we must

cater for adequate quantities of Hundred Piper's (whisky) and loads of non-vegetarian snacks". Hygiene inspectors would

be alarmed and PETA activists hyperventilate at the prospect of so many 'Balding Chickens' and 'Shaky Sheep' being

put to sleep for just one night of drunken revelry. The second gun boomed in quick succession, not to be left behind in the

race for putting in his two bit worth. Mr. Know All said." Sir the Big Boss prefers his tea in a glass and we should lay it thick

on snacks for tea". Someone coughed loudly, Little Napoleon nodded and the meeting was done.


The day of the visit dawned like any other day, very ordinary, even the 'Sun God' shimmered sluggishly over the horizon.

The lesser mortals of Samba, from early morning moved about in frenzied momentum like dancing dervishes in a mystical

Sufi dance. Water was sprayed on the roads, sweepers swept the roads till its innards showed, a phalanx of cooks

cooked for the big day, Senior and Junior management officials moved about in brand new uniforms decked up like

Christmas trees and trudged self importantly all over the place. The grapevine has it that the previous nights' 'bash up'

and imbibing of 'Hundred Pipers' went on at the VIP lodge till the wee hours of the morning, the 'Shaky Sheep' ( sick bhedus) was served

in various forms in fancy dishes. Many an invitee under peer pressure imbibed more than his capacity, swayed like the

'leaning tower of Pisa' and at times just to keep up with the "Joneses" charged up his glass but being unable to ingest it

poured his share of liquor into the nearest flower pot. When silly smiles got plastered over all the faces, all of the snacks

cooked and catered for were wiped clean of the plate and the conservation became repetitive the Big Boss realized that

alcohol being great leveler which after threshold point blurs the fine unmarked demarcating line between a senior-junior

relationship. He in the midst of boisterous celebration called it a day.






2



Morning introduction was a humorists delight, Little Napoleon realized during line up for introduction that a few pairs of

boot worn by youngsters were not shining as he would have wanted them to be, the disparity amongst faces, the height,

of individuals to the shades of dress (uniform) and widening girths of senior management officials were a bit too much to

swallow and to aggravate the situation, some loose wires on the facade of the main building, droplets of distemper on

glass window panes nearly 'got his goat'.


Finally Big Boss arrived for the formal visit to office area next morning, he ambled down from his car, sleep walked

through the introduction to the management officials, mumbled and dozed off in turns through the presentation, shoved

fried cashew nuts, 'down the hatch', absentmindedly drove around Samba and the visit was over. The preparations

that began with a bang ended in a whimper.

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : pkroyal ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

Peacock Bay (Naval Training Team Area)


Veterans of an NDA Course at their Golden Jubilee Reunion.


Cadets living area where the veterans and their families stayed in cabins that the Veterans once stayed in.


Squadron's Entrance



[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : Ray ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

Winning the Raja Post from Pakistan

In 1947-48, India wasn’t able to hold on to the Uri – Poonch link via the Haji Pir pass and the resultant “bulge” in the Line of Control (LOC) gave Pakistan access to the Pir Panjal Range, much to the irritation of the Indian Army. This area was also one of the major infiltration routes into the vale of Kashmir. In 1965, it was decided to capture the Haji Pir Pass and the adjoining heights to open the road to Poonch.

The Poonch – Haji Pir Road was dominated by two enemy posts called Raja and Rani. Raja Post was 1.5 kilometres to the north of our post, which was known by its number, 405. The distance between forward defences was only one kilometre. Rani Post was one kilometre further to the north west of Raja. To establish the Poonch – Uri link, it was critical to capture these two posts. After the Haji Pir Pass was captured on August 28, 1965, the focus of effort shifted to capture of Raja and Rani. The operation’s code name was “Faulad”.

In 1969, as a newly-commissioned officer, I was the post commander of 405. Having heard of the battle of Raja Post while at the National Defence Academy, I now had the chance to study the battle in detail. The 1.5 kilometre ridge connecting 405 to Raja was full of chakor (also known as the chukar partridge) and a favourite haunt of mine with my shotgun. I used to be watched with binoculars by both sides and inspired amused interest. The Cease Fire Line (CFL), as the LOC was known then, passed through the centre of the ridge marked by two trees known as Bhai-Bhai. After the 1965 war, the CFL was not very active and our moral ascendency was predominant.

One day I was shooting near Bhai-Bhai when a covey of chakor flushed out. Instinctively my shotgun went up and I got what is called a wing shooter’s dream: a classic ‘right and left shot’, ie shooting two birds (both being in the air) on the wing, one with each barrel of a double barrel shotgun. Suddenly I heard clapping and a voice said, “Nishana achha hai, Laftain sahib!” (“You are a good shot, Lieutenant, Sir!”). A Junior Commissioned Officer (JCO) of the Pakistani Army, from across the CFL, was standing there. We got talking and after routine soldier talk, I asked him, “Subedar sahib, ’65 mein Raja kyun chod diya?“. (“Why did you let go of Raja in 1965?”) He said that in 1965 he was not in this sector, but from what he had heard, his assessment was that the battle was going very well for the Pakistan Army defenders of the Raja Post. It was getting to be daylight and the attackers — the Indian Army — was pinned down 200 or 300 meters below the post, at the wire obstacles and minefields. Suddenly, everything changed and the attacker was galvanised into action and started moving up in small teams from multiple directions, disregarding the fire and casualties taking place, and closed in to destroy the bunkers. The troops at Raja, despite the best efforts of the commanders and a determined fight upto that time, collapsed psychologically.

What he’d told me were the barebones of one of the most remarkable and heroic infantry attacks in our military history. Here’s the story of how India wrested the Raja Post from Pakistan.

Most posts or defended localities in the mountains are located on dominant features, forcing an attacker to attack uphill – probably the most difficult tactical operation for the infantry. The attacker tries to overcome the disadvantages by establishing a firm base, multi-directional attacks at night, use of overwhelming direct and indirect fire, isolation by cutting off escape routes and higher ratio of manpower. However, combat is a battle of wills. Whoever is able to create the conditions to bring about the psychological collapse of the other, wins.

The 2 Sikh, (originally, 15 Ludhiana Sikhs) were raised on August 1, 1846, from the remnants of the Khalsa Army and saw action all over the British empire as part of the British Indian Army. At Independence, it was one of the most decorated units of the Indian Army. However, the unit saw no action in 1947-1948 and 1962. In 1965, led by Lieutenant Colonel NN Khanna, 2 Sikh was very eager for combat. It was initially operating in Chamb – Jaurian Sector, where it captured a number of small enemy posts between August 18 and 23. The regiment was specifically asked for by General Officer Commanding of 15 Corps, and was earmarked for Operation Faulad and ordered to move to Poonch.

As part of Operation Gibraltar, Pakistan had occupied the heights dominating the Rajouri – Poonch Road and were interfering with the traffic. It didn’t affect 2 Sikh. Apart from sending out patrols to protect the road, 2 Sikh used the Khalsa war cry from the convoy vehicles to psyche out the enemy and was safely inducted into Poonch on August 30, 1965.

Initially, 2 Sikh was tasked to capture Rani by 1000 hours, on September 3, while 3 Dogra was to capture Raja by midnight of September 2. However, the attack on Raja post on the night of September 1 did not succeed due to stiff opposition. Both the battalions marched for four hours, back to Poonch, by first light on 3 September. While taking stock at the Brigade Headquarters, it was concluded that Raja indeed was a hard nut to crack and the mood was gloomy. Lt Col Khanna put everyone out of their misery by saying, “Give it to me, sir. 2 Sikh will give you Raja.”

Khanna asked for time for reconnaissance and the attack on Raja was scheduled for the night of September 6, with 3 Dogra attacking Rani simultaneously. Simultaneity has its advantages, but it also meant division of meagre artillery support. Due to pressure from the Corp Commander, the attack was brought forward by one night, to September 5, giving 2 Sikh less time for planning and preparation. It didn’t dampen Lt Col Khanna’s conviction. He told his entire battalion, “I am sure 2 Sikh is going to capture Raja today!” (“Today” was used symbolically as the attack was actually launched after 24 hours.)

Both units again marched back five and a half hours to their assembly areas for the attack by 0930 hours on September 5.

Khanna’s 2 Sikh launched the attack from two directions: along the southern ridge connecting 405 with Raja with one company, and along the relatively gradual south-eastern slopes with two companies. The Commanding Officer’s party was in the centre to control the battle. Due to the difficult terrain, the movement from the forward assembly area to the forming up place got delayed and instead of 0400 hours, the attack commenced at 0505 hours, when dawn was just breaking.

Raja was held by a company of 4 Azad Kashmir Battalion and one platoon of Zhob militia. The post was alert and soon heavy small arms and artillery fire engaged the attackers. The company attacking along the southern spur encountered heavy fire and suffered many casualties. By default, it drifted eastwards towards the two companies to the right, but this area was also under heavy fire and casualties were mounting. At 0535 hours, all three companies of 2 Sikh were pinned down by heavy small arms and artillery firing, short of and below the Raja Post along the wire obstacles and minefields.

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

Winning the Raja Post from Pakistan

In ...................................................of and below the Raja Post along the wire obstacles and minefields.

[CONTINUED]
The attack had got stalled, the sky was brightening and combat inertia was setting in. Looking at the scenario around him, Lt Col Khanna concluded he must either rally the battalion and charge uphill, or pull back to reorganise and attack again or call off the attack. He stood up, took off his green and white jersey (issued to instructors at High Altitude Warfare School) stood on a rock and started waving it to attract attention of his troops. He also shouted the unit war cry of ‘”Jo bole so nihal, Sat Siri Akal!” and started climbing towards Raja Post.

First, a few men around him got up and started moving with him to renew the attack. Then the ones adjacent to them got up and followed suit, and so on. A chain reaction set in and very soon, 300 soldiers in small teams were climbing up towards Raja Post using fire and movement tactics. Led by Khanna, the commanding officer’s party forced the wire obstacle, ran across the minefield and attacked the first bunker lobbing grenades. Khanna was wounded in the upper arm by a splinter, but the Commanding Officer’s example had galvanised the unit. The junior leadership – young officers, JCOs and Non Commissioned Officers commanding platoons and sections – took charge and pushed ahead, against all odds. The enemy’s advance positions were pushed back and the unit closed up to the top of the Raja Post.

At this juncture, at 0550 hours, a burst of .30 Browning Machine Gun hit Lt Col Khanna and he was seriously wounded. He died while being evacuated to the Regimental Aid Post. The troops seeing their Commanding Officer fall pressed home the attack with renewed determination. For the next one hour, some of the fiercest fighting of the 1965 war took place. No quarter was asked, none was given. Soldiers fought like men possessed, the wounded continued to fight and those who died, “died hard”.

Notable was the action of Naik Chand Singh, the Javelin champion of the unit, who with his section cleared 10 enemy bunkers. Naib Subedar Darshan Sigh, a national level sprinter, known by the nickname “Anheri” (“dust storm”) did the only thing he knew how to do: he ran uphill leading his platoon and single-handedly cleared a machine gun bunker before being wounded. Space restrains me from recounting many other heroic actions of this saga.

Raja was finally captured at 0710 hours, on September 7, 1965. The body of the Pakistani platoon commander of the Zhob militia platoon was found and close to his corpse, lay the body of Sepoy Jarnail Singh. Apparently both had shot each other simultaneously. Jarnail had represented the Indian Army in basketball and was known for scoring impossible baskets. He had actually been left behind at the forward assembly despite his vehement protests because he’d entered a state of delirium and had been singing loudly. Disobeying orders, he joined the reserve company and entered the battle at 0615 hours, still singing. Suddenly, disregarding the immediate battle, Jarnail darted forward to the top of the post and engaged the Zhob militia platoon commander of Raja in what was virtually a duel. Both were killed in action, almost simultaneously.

Earlier, 3 Dogras had surprised and captured Rani Post and the Uri-Poonch link-up was completed on September 9, 1965. Lt. Col N N Khanna was awarded Maha Vir Chakra (Posthumous). The battle was aptly summed by a soldier of 2 Sikh who said, “Raja litta, raja ditta“. (“We won a Raja and we lost a Raja.”)

It always intrigued me as to what happened to bring about the dramatic change from failure looming large at 0535 hours to a stupendous success by 0710 hours, I found the answer when I went into the details. It was all due to the leadership of “the man” – Lt Col NN Khanna, MVC (P) the Commanding Officer of 2 Sikh.

http://www.newslaundry.com/2016/07/08/winning-the-raja-post-from-pakistan/

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : @ezsasa ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

With control over Siachen Glacier not clearly demarcated in the Simla Agreement, Pakistan deployed troops in the area in April 1984. India countered with Operation Meghdoot, capturing Saltoro Ridge and Bilafond La. Subedar Major Bana Singh was awarded the Param Vir Chakra for capturing Bana Post, now named after him. Siachen is the highest battlefield in the world and is under Indian control. Since 1984, India has lost 35 Army officers and 887 JCOs and jawans in Siachen.

Operation Vijay

In the summer of 1999, Pakistani soldiers seized strategic locations in Kargil. The Indian Army and Air Force launched Operation Vijay, which involved 35,000 soldiers, of whom heroes such as Anuj Nayyar, Manoj Kumar Pandey and Vikram Batra became household names.

Operation Parakram

India initiated its largest military build-up since 1971 on its border in Kashmir and Punjab in response to an attack on Parliament on December 13, 2001, by Lashkar-e-Toiba and Hizbul Mujahideen terrorists. This was the second major military standoff between India and Pakistan after the detonation of nuclear devices by both countries in 1998.

Operation Black Tornado

During 26/11, NSG commandos rappelled down from helicopters and stormed Nariman House in Mumbai. They rescued nine hostages from the building the first day. At the Taj Mahal Palace and Trident hotels, commandos rescued 300 and 250 hostages respectively. Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan and Havaldar Gajendra Singh Bisht were killed in action.

Operation Cactus

An attempted coup by rebels in the Maldives was thwarted by Indian soldiers in 1988 after the country’s President M A Gayoom requested assistance. The IAF flew in soldiers of the Parachute Regiment to Male Airport. Control of the capital was restored within hours.

Operation All Out

On December 26, 2014, India declared that it had launched Operation All Out to eliminate Bodo militants after attacks by them killed over 76 people in Assam. About 5,000 personnel from CRPF and 4,620 soldiers were sent to eliminate 80 militants, and 2,000 Sashastra Seema Bal personnel were deployed to maintain stability.

Operation Pawan

The Indian Peace Keeping Force seized Jaffna peninsula in Sri Lanka from the LTTE in 1987. Indian troops were supported by armoured vehicles and helicopter gunships. Amphibious operations were conducted against LTTE in Guru Nagar. It took two weeks to take Jaffna. It was the beginning of a three-year campaign to restore peace in Sri Lanka.

[ORIGINALLY POSTED BY : @Indx TechStyle ]

 

[125mm_Smoothbore]

Special mention to Late Brigadier Ray sir for giving us such good stories and first hand experience of various places and incidents
ps sir's birthday is on 5th january (just posting info cause it would all be gone on 10th )

 

[BlackViking]

I am leaving this here, a story I heard during my travels.

Was in NAC recently. Heard about an interesting incident on LoC that happened 4-6 years ago (wasn't told the exact year).
One night there was a fire in Pakistani bunker, across LoC. The Pakis were sleeping probably (don't know why). Our men informed their CO about the incident, and he ordered them to alert the pakis about the fire. The reason the officer gave is "dushman ko marna hi hai to hamare goli se mare". Our soldiers yelled towards the bunker and some shots were fired (to alert pakis of the fire).
2 weeks later that bunker was ATGMed by our men as a response to CFV.

The unit was a Dogra/JAKRIF unit (not sure as people from both were present in the group).