FEBRUARY sunshine spread across the village, reflecting off the white walls and reaching a pleasant 25C. Time dragged in the afternoon; a stray barked before resting under the shade of a wall, parrots flew from a tree, flapping their green wings before perching on a another tree. Not expecting too much activity, we planned an afternoon siesta, when a car drove through the gates and parked in the court yard. An elderly gentleman had arrived on a visit, a retired Major from the Indian army. A tall man of six feet two, white moustache and hair; he wore a smart light blue t-shirt, jeans, with a red silk scarf tied around his neck and folded inside the collar. After the courtesies we sat on the veranda to talk. Tea and snacks arrived, flies buzzed around and so we switched on the table fan to keep them at bay. He said that his son was racing in the Northwest Rally, and had come as he had a few hours to spare.
He talked about the expense involved in Rally racing and the conversation then turned towards the Army. In his deep voice he said that life and death were decided in a matter of seconds, fractions of seconds. If you hesitated in war, you were dead. You had to fire almost in reflex, that’s what the army trained- to shoot the enemy without hesitating. If you paused to reflect, how can I kill another man, then in that instance you were dead. The enemy will not hesitate either.
As he leaned back on the cane chair, a cool breeze swept across the lawn; he complained that the Army today had poor discipline. Every other day, Court Marshalls were taking place. In his day, they were rare and only involved a senior officer winning the affections of a junior officer’s wife. He laughed as he said this, as if there was nothing too serious about that and I found this amusing.
He returned to his subject and said that you could read in the papers almost every other day, about an officer’s indiscipline or worse financial impropriety and fraud. It was a real pity and the army needed to bring its house into order.
He remembered an incident from his younger days; he was now approaching seventy two. He had been a young Major of thirty one years and led a platoon of one hundred and fifty men, or ‘paltoon’ as he pronounced it in Hindi. It was an incident from the India-Pakistan war of 1971. His platoon had been stationed on the Rajasthan-Pak border; they had won their first objective with little resistance. They had then received an order to capture a village that according to intelligence was being held by around one thousand enemy soldiers.
The attack was ordered for dawn the next morning, but these were cold nights in Rajasthan; severe biting cold and the odds were stacked against his platoon. Early morning they mounted their camels, rode for an hour and reached within range of the village; but his men were cold, bones stiff and hands frozen. The order from the CO had been to commence the attack, but in war he said, an officer had to have the ability to think on his feet, assess the ground conditions as well as the morale of his men.
He decided to delay the attack and find a way to warm his men quickly. His voice rose in animation as he sat up straight, eyes focussed; it was all coming back to him clearly. He needed his jawans to be warmed first so that they could operate their rifles and have a chance at least. He wasn’t prepared to sacrifice his men without a chance, no Sir he wasn’t that type of an officer. And if he was going to be court marshalled for that, then so be it!
There was a line of dry bush in front, so he decided to set fire to it. The bush caught fire quickly, spreading out in a long line to both sides; the men warmed themselves from sitting on the back of the camels. The whole platoon felt better for the fire and warmth; where there had been anxiety upon the men’s faces and shivering, there were now smiles and appreciative nods in his direction.
As sunlight broke, they were now ready to launch the assault on the village; grenades, rifles and machine guns were checked and double checked. Just then from the left side of the village, a black deer ran out, catching everyone’s attention. It stopped in no man’s land near a tree, looking around in confusion. He took aim with his rifle and at a distance of one hundred yards, shot it in one. The shot echoed around for miles, birds flew off trees and branches, crying out as they fled. His CO wired on the radio, to inquire whether the attack had finally started, he was coming up from the right flank.
-No, he said. I have just shot a deer.
-What! The attack should have started an hour ago and you’re out hunting!
-Not quite Sir, I had to warm the men first, so that they could operate their rifles. The deer just happened to come by.
-Take your time Major Shekhawat. Have a nice barbeque with the deer. Shall I send you some beer bottles? Tell me something Major, why don’t you roast me as well because my seniors are sure to do it soon enough! Can you please start the attack.
He laughed as he recalled his CO’s discomfort and way of speaking.
The morning light grew stronger across the village, the rising sun brightening the eastern sky; the mud houses became clearer at a distance of three hundred yards. The village was situated on a slope but it was unbelievably quiet. The men dismounted, said their prayers and held their guns firmly; the smiles and jokes were replaced with nervousness, one or two soldiers turned around and vomited. The prospect of death is not easy to face. Sensing their unease he gathered the men briefly and spoke to them.
-Men, I know this isn’t an easy task but we have our duty to perform. In front of us lie the enemy whom we must remove. If we win, glory is ours. If we die, then I know of no greater death than to die fighting for our mother land and rest assured Heaven awaits us as our reward, are you ready?
-Yes Major! Came the loud reply.
-Jai Hind!
-Jai Hind!
They moved towards the village taking cover wherever they could, behind a tree, bush or small mound in the dry ground. The silence was particularly eerie, this bothered him greatly; there seemed to be no movement from the village and he wondered whether an ambush had been planned. The men moved forward with their rifles, crouching down, eyes alert and fingers at the ready on the triggers. They were sure to receive a volley of fire soon enough but nothing.
They climbed the slope and reached the village only to find it deserted. Guns and ammunitions had been left behind in a hurry; yet as he moved towards a house with his radio controller walking behind, one enemy soldier rushed out and charged him with his bayoneted rifle. He swerved quickly to avoid the lunge and tripped him with his right leg. He wrestled the rifle off the man and stabbed him in the stomach with the bayonet and killed the man on the spot. He took off the bayonet and wiped the blood on his trousers; he kept that bayonet as a souvenir of war. He said that should I ever visit him, he would show me that souvenir. It was odd that only one man had stayed behind, maybe he had disregarded the order to withdraw; and had singled him out for the attack thinking him to be the officer in charge, especially with the radio controller walking behind him.
The men searched the remaining houses, the village was deserted, the enemy had withdrawn in haste; there were tyre tracks leading out from the back of the village. They had withdrawn at the sight of the long line of bush fire, imagining that a great number of Indian soldiers had arrived for the assault, so the fire had inadvertently done the trick; some of the villagers who returned in the afternoon confirmed the news.
In that village there’s a photo of the Major with his men as they had freed it. He was commended for his success.
The tea over, the retired Major rose to say his goodbyes and requested us to visit him soon. I wondered at the accuracy of some of the details but his story had held a charm and an interest on that sun filled afternoon.