Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan and other Indian Army stories

[Ray]

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.

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

 

[Ray]

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.

 

[Ray]

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.

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!

 

[Ray]

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!

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!"

 

[Ray]

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!

 

[Ray]

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!!

 

[Ray]

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!"

"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!

 

[Ray]

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?!

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!

 

[Ray]

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.

 

[Iamanidiot]

Brigadier I want some info on good army chow

 

[Ray]

ALL HOLES OPEN

General Sunderjee of the Mahar Regiment had taken over as the Chief of the Army Staff. He was a 'sci-fi' solider and apparently ahead of the time. He had done a course in the USA and so imbibed some egalitarianism that sent shivers through the military relics of the British Raj. His celebrated 'Dear Brother Officer' letter to all officers of the Army exhorting us to be 'men' and quit the cult of sycophancy was blasphemous in military protocol, to say the least. It was blasphemous because Generals NEVER wrote to the rank and file and never ever with any 'Dear Brother Officer' salutation!!

The General had kick-started the Army the computerisation way. In addition, he was cranking in new fangled 'concepts' to make the uniform more 'practical', shorn of the frills and trappings. In short, the Army was on the road to various 'experiments'.

Sunderjee's mobile brain was too ̩lectrique for the plebeian. Of the experiments with the uniform, one was to have Regimental insignias on the collar. The Adjutant General was exhausted and out of his depth with whether to have the Regimental insignia on the collar or have it not, since some British relic Colonels of the Regiment were having serious misgivings in having their officers lit up like Christmas trees while some others liked the idea Рif only to show 'solidarity' with the Chief for obvious reasons. The result was like Alice in Wonderland. Instead of the heads, the regimental insignias were 'on' one day and 'off' the next day. The only thing permanent in this exercise to 'practicality' in the uniform was the ensuing holes in the collars where the insignia jumped off and on like cats on the hot tin roof. Further, it was 'impractical' financially to have sets of uniform to suit the mood of the day of the Adjutant General!

The Mahar Regiment, to which I belonged, opted not to have the insignia. Hence, they had holes in their collar since the insignia was no longer there. Notwithstanding, the Adjutant General remained confused as to what he had ordered and what he had not! And we preferred to keep the holes on the collar – lest there was another change of heart for the collar insignia.

During this 'momentous' era of the Indian Army, I was an instructor at the College of Combat, Mhow in the Junior Command Wing.

Since he was an enigma, General Sunderjee was touring the Army and was projecting his thoughts first hand so as to have a closer interaction with the officers and 'feel the pulse'.

It was a balmy day when General Sunderjee arrived at Mhow. There was interest amongst those who did not know him since they wanted to know yeh kia cheez hain (what type of 'thing' is he?) After all, in the rigid military hierarchy, no Chief had ever written a letter to all officers or had so openly talked or admitted about the growing cult of ji huzoor-ness [the 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' syndrome]. Sunderjee had already had a fan following, thanks to the 'dear Brother' letter. Further, his fondness for things ultra modern had made him Mohamed Tuglak-ish (the crazy, but way ahead of his time, Emperor of India). The anticipation was as keen as would some be elicited for some unique specimen brought to the zoo from a strange part of the world!

While the General nestled in Guest Room No 1, the instructors and the students were all hustled into Lecture Hall No 3. In spite of the Madhya Pradesh heat and the profuse sweating, none really realised the discomfort; such was the excitement!

The lecture was still a good one hour away, but like all good things of the Army, we were herded with a large time cushion that Army husbands normally don't insist even of their wives when they are going for an important social event! The time lag was preposterous which matched the 'Havildar Major timing'! For the uninitiated the Havildar Major is the Non Commissioned Officer who is responsible for the discipline of the troops who congregates troops two hours before an event, if he is a bit soft in the head, and six hours earlier, if he was not!

We arrived in the Lecture Hall No 3.

In front of us we found whole lot of gizmos and arrays of wire and some sort of a contraption that was to project the slides. Remember, in those days we did not even know what 'slides' or 'view-foils' were! Music was also coming out of the battery of weird machines that were still being set up. In fact, I thought RK Film Studios had arrived to show us some film like Satyam Shivum Sunderumjee. Only Zeenat Aman (a shapely and 'bold' female movie star) in the near raw was missing! In her place it was only Lieutenant Colonel UB Ghosh, who I knew during my cadet days. He was sticking various things into place and was to be the Master Of Information Technology Ceremonies. Since we were not allowed to move out of our seat, we watched the proceeding with bated breath. It was as if we were to witness the launch of the Apollo satellite from Cape Canaveral!

Then on the appointed hour, the Chief arrived, duly escorted by the Commandant. People craned to have the first glimpse of this man, who was already an icon like Hema Malini, the comely female film star. He was lean, thin and tall. He bettered Malini. He was smart and handsome too! The best part was that he ran up the stairs to the lectern on the dais. The man was really in a hurry. If that dash were anything to go by, then the Army was really on the move!

The usual banality of introduction of the guest speakers done, we were informed how fortunate we are that the Chief had 'so graciously deemed it fit to grace the College of Combat' etc etc. The Commandant was at his eloquent best. He then gave way, smug as a bug, for the Chief to give his 'two penny' bit.

The Chief commenced. There was none of the 'Good morning, Gentlemen and Officers' sacrament of commencing the address. He got underway with 'Brother Officers'. Had he been a politician addressing an election rally, there would have been instant and spontaneous 'Sunderji ki jai. Bharat Mata ki Jai (Halleluiah to Sunderjee. Victory to Mother India)' and all the other things the guys, at these election rallies, are paid to shout with total insincerity. However, the difference was that if we were allowed sloganeering, this would have been totally sincere!! Such was the charisma and hope he had generated with his 'Brother Officer' letter.

He spoke of innovations that were on the anvil and what was expected of the rank and file. He told us not to overdo the 'Sir' part of our life and there was no need to say 'Haanji, Sirjee, Sir'. He assured us that saying 'Sir' once was adequate. In fact, he strongly advocated calling seniors by their rank, giving an example that it was absolutely adequate to call him 'General' without adding the 'Sir'; just like US Army. The stuffy British could take a running jump! The shackles of the British Raj were finally becoming a hoary past!!! The Boston Tea Party so to say – true Indian style.

He was candid. He said that sycophancy could not be got rid of overnight. He exhorted us with an example of two men who were chased by a Tiger and had climbed a tree. One had to come down and face the Tiger and maybe die. But, the other guy would be free. Someone had to sacrifice.

That did not go well with the audience, though. It proved that he had no idea of the Indian mentality. Catch a modern Indian sacrificing for community good! That ethos had finished with the struggle for Independence. The current struggle was to find a place in the sun, by hook or by crook and most likely, by crook. I think his over exposure to the US caused this 'thought-mismatch' wherein he had lost the touch of reality. It was rather odd for a Tamil Brahmin (TamBrahms) to have a mismatch since they are known to be shrewd blokes who always had their ear close to the ground and nose in the air and reacted as per the situation for the maximum payoff.

Anyway, the Chief continued and having finished the address, he was given an enthusiastic and warm standing ovation. The standing up and clapping was not a 'done thing', but this form of recognition was creeping in. I don't know if it was a sycophant phenomenon or the loose disciplined US ways.

Then, the address was open to questions from the floor.

There was silence.

Notwithstanding my reputation of asking questions and being awkward, I thought this was a chance to test whether he meant what he said. So I got up to ask a question.

There was a petrified look writ large on the Commander JC Wing's face, who was my boss. It was OK to be awkward in-house, but with the Chief"¦..! But it mattered to me not, at least for the moment. I was like the Gorkha. Having taken out my khukri (battle half sword), it could not return to the sheath un-bloodied.

"General, it's all very well to take the Army from the bullock cart age into the space age. But, is it possible to do so when such a simple decision as to whether we are to wear our regimental insignia on our collar or not keeps changing practically daily? One day, we are to have holes on the collar to fix the insignia, and, the next day not. It will be appreciated that we can't continue to have two different sets of dress to suit the mood for the day of the Adjutant General".

I knew I was being obnoxious. After all, no Chief is capable of answering simple questions. I really wanted to see if the man who climbed down from the tree (namely, me) could survive.

People froze. Sacrilege had been committed! One, a cocky question; and two, instead of addressing as 'Sir', the addressing was with just 'General' and that too rather cockily that was too close for comfort!

"Hey, aren't you Ray of the Mahar Regiment?"

"Yes, General, it's me"

"It had to be you. Well, as far as you are concerned, irrespective of the order and the mood of the day of the Adjutant General, you have my personal permission as the Chief to keep all your holes open. I mean all your holes!!!!

Indeed, he proved that he was a Tamil Brahmin and not lost his touch! Next day onwards till I retired, I was provided enough evidence that the Chief was right. Ever since, it has always been ensured by the Army that I have all my holes opened!!!!!!!!

 

[Ray]

Wiil add some more.

I do forget why stories I have penned here and which I haven't.

Also there is some problems with the apostrophes in the earlier stories.

Does make reading difficult.

Will try to correct if I have the time.

And some comments please.

Feedback is essential to keep the morale high!

 

[P Raj]

Wiil add some more.

I do forget why stories I have penned here and which I haven't.

Also there is some problems with the apostrophes in the earlier stories.

Does make reading difficult.

Will try to correct if I have the time.

And some comments please.

Feedback is essential to keep the morale high!

Sir,your stories are truly entertaining and am looking forward to next 50 or so..

 

[Archer]

Ray, you missed your calling. All I can say is your stories are hilarious and you must have made your seniors - the more pompous ones - realize they had bitten off more than they can chew.

I have been reading story after story and they are just too good!

 

[W.G.Ewald]

Sir,your stories are truly entertaining and am looking forward to next 50 or so..

Joseph Conrad or Rudyard Kipling would be reading them if they were alive today.

 

[Ray]

Thanks.

I am a bit busy these days, but will soon post some more.

 

[hitesh]

Ray sir you are a funny bone , i loved your "GOC's bottom" story .

 

[W.G.Ewald]

Thanks.

I am a bit busy these days, but will soon post some more.

Posterity would benefit from collecting and publishing these stories beyond DFI, as much as they are enjoyed here.:thumb:

 

[Ray]

True, but the publishers find the stories niche and not a commercial proposition.

 

[Ray]

Ray sir you are a funny bone , i loved your "GOC's bottom" story .

Actually, they are true stories.