Dedicated to the Indian Army whose officers lead from the front and whose soldiers are the best in the world
Chapter one
and the Sino–Indian War of 1962
Chapter four
Five’ and the 1965 War
CHAPTER TWO
The Gorkhas and Nepal
Kafar hunu banda, mornu ramro
(It is better to die than to be a coward –motto of the Gorkhas)
If anyone says he is not afraid, he is either a liar or a Gorkha
Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw Medium Machine Gun Detachment–1/5 GR (FF)
After four years of hard training at the NDA and IMA, we got that coveted pip on our shoulder. Not even 21 years of age, it was a matter of pride and satisfaction that we had been able to take whatever our training institutions could throw at us and were still able to survive! To me it meant that at last I was a part of the Indian Army and posted to an elite battalion of a famous Gorkha regiment.
Before leaving the IMA, on 9 June 1958, we were informed about the location of our units and issued with ‘joining orders’ and a railway warrant. My unit, the 1st Battalion of the 5th Gorkha Rifles (FF), was at Ambala. I had to join my unit there.
When I detrained at Ambala, I was met by Lieutenant Gurdip Singh Gill, the junior-most officer of the battalion, and a rifleman who was detailed as my batman. My batman met me with a huge smile, a smart salute and a firm handshake. He had a cherubic face and was about five feet tall. He had a gold tooth which became visible every time he smiled. I spoke to him in Hindi but he didn’t seem to comprehend what I was saying. Lieutenant Gill smiled and said, ‘His name is Tanaraj Pun. He does not know Hindi and that is why he has been
selected to be your batman. He understands only Nepali. He will communicate with you in Nepali and that is how we hope you will learn the language.’
Gurdip said something to Tanaraj in Nepali and he beckoned to a coolie to pick up my baggage, which was the ubiquitous black trunk and hold-all that followed us from the NDA to the IMA and thereafter until we retired, except that by that time we had many more black boxes!
Tanaraj Pun and I got along reasonably well. When I spoke to him in Hindi his forehead would crease into a big frown and I could literally hear him working out what I had said. Then he would break into a big smile to convey that he understood and would say something in Nepali which I could not comprehend. In the beginning, neither of us understood each other but after a while we began to get the hang of what the other was trying to say. Nepali is the link language for all the tribes and communities in Nepal and the regimental language in all Gorkha regiments. The Puns are part of the Magar clan and are known for their cheerfulness and ability to be jovial in the most trying circumstances. I was lucky to have Tanaraj Pun as my first batman.
I had arrived at the battalion on a Saturday evening and was told that I had come when a change of the command of the battalion was taking place. The handing and taking over between the current and the next Commanding Officer (CO) was scheduled for Monday, after which the new CO would meet me.
Sunday was spent sprucing up my uniform so that I would be smartly turned out on my first day with the battalion when I would meet the CO, all officers, JCOs and men of the unit. Fortunately, the 5th Gorkha Rifles (FF) was the only rifle regiment that wore brown leather belts and boots1 – all the rest wore black leather. So, I did not have to change my boots and belt, and Tanaraj gave them an extra shine.
CHAPTER SIX
The Indo–Pak War of 1971
Battles are won or lost in the mind, before they are won or lost on the ground.
Brigadier Desmond Hayde, MVC
That evening, around 8 p.m., two of our choppers landed to take away the remaining wounded. I wanted them to take away the dead too, but at the time the air force did not carry dead bodies. However, after some altercation they agreed and took off safely with the dead and wounded, despite the best efforts of the Pakistanis to destroy the choppers. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not being able to do anything for our many dead and wounded was very disturbing.
Later that night, we learnt that an enemy patrol had come close to our defences and was forced to withdraw after a sharp engagement with one of our patrols. What was of concern however, was whether the Pakistanis had now learnt that we were not in fact a brigade and were spread very thin on the ground.
The CO and I considered what the enemy might do now and brainstormed about what we would have done had we been in their place. There was no doubt, they would attack in force the following day or night. In counter, we needed to face them with a consolidated front to give them a good fight and prevent their attempts to remove us. So, at around 2 a.m., orders were passed to ‘Alpha’ and ‘Delta’ companies to withdraw to their original positions, keeping an intact front throughout the withdrawal.
The next day, 13 December, was spent in improving the defences and dispatching strong patrols to dominate the ground in front of us. The enemy was strangely quiet. I had learnt that silence was always dangerous – it meant that the enemy was up to something. We concluded that they were planning a big attack and we alerted the air force in case they planned a day attack. Meanwhile, through coded messages, we had informed the brigade that we were short of ammunition and we were informed that a Caribou transport plane would drop what we needed at dusk that evening. We lit the ‘goose necks’ to help pilots identify the area in the fading
light. The drop commenced at around 6 p.m. and the enemy did their best to destroy our slow, lumbering transport plane circling around the battle zone and to destroy our loads on the ground. The pilots did an excellent job with the ammunition, coming down with parachutes on the designated areas while the enemy rained down ammunition on our small dropping zone (DZ).
Armed with khukris, I led a party to quickly cut away the loads from the parachutes despite enemy artillery concentrated on the dropping zone and rounds falling all around us. The CO was annoyed when he learnt that we were dodging enemy artillery shells with the team. He said that he had been waiting for my arrival for so long and that I would have to take over command of the battalion if anything were to happen to him. He remarked that I should not be taking unnecessary risks on small tasks. I accepted his admonishment with good grace. He was right.
We learnt later that the Caribou had been damaged from ground fire but managed to reach the base safely.
That night, on 14 December we waited for the expected attack but it never came. Our patrols dominated the ground in front of us. It appeared that the Pakis had lost the will to fight. That evening we heard that our Army Chief, Sam Manekshaw had issued an ultimatum to the Pakistani Army in East Pakistan to surrender or accept the consequences.
Calls for a ceasefire are typically fraught with danger –both sides try to improve their defensive positions in order to have an advantage when the bargaining of captured territory gets underway and the side which has captured more territory is at an advantage. Here that was not the case.
On 15 December, we heard that General Manekshaw had repeated his ultimatum both to the Army Chief of Pakistan and GOC-in-C, East Pakistan to surrender. General Niazi, however, continued to negotiate for a ceasefire, but the Indian
Disabled? My Foot!
Don’t let anyone tell you what you can do or cannot do. It’s often a reflection of their own fears and mental blocks. It’s your journey not theirs. Go for it! Dream big!
Anonymous
General Sam Manekshaw was not only a man of vision, he was also practical and humane and is acknowledged to be one of the best chiefs of the Indian Army. Of course, he led India to a great victory during the Indo–Pak War of 1971, but besides, he genuinely cared for his officers and soldiers. He is one chief who is not only honoured by the rank and file but is also remembered and loved by every officer and soldier of the Indian Army. He knew what it was to be wounded in battle and that something needed to be done for the war wounded so that every officer and soldier would know that he would be cared for if he ever became disabled.
that involved running, jumping, climbing and swimming, which in effect, ruled out command of troops. I came to the conclusion that if the formal route to a positive outcome on the future of the war disabled had failed, it was time to find other ways to prove that the war disabled were no less than the non-disabled and I realized that it would be up to me to prove the point. I had no idea how I could do this.
By this time, more than two years had passed. All my batchmates who had been approved for promotion to lieutenant colonel’s rank were now about to finish their command tenures, but I continued to remain a major and was not even considered for promotion because the policies, rules and procedures that would govern battle casualties had not been approved. Although I had passed out high in my course, I was being superseded for promotion for no fault of mine. In fact, it appeared that I was being punished for being wounded in war!
It was around this time that I began getting sharp pains near the ankle of my amputated leg. However, when I reached down to touch the errant ankle, I found that it did not exist! It was then that I became aware of ‘phantom pains’ – pains that occurred in those parts of my leg that did not exist. I was told that the nervous system that is ‘wired’ to the brain was not used to the fact that this part of my body did not exist. The pain in fact was somewhere in my stump but my brain seemed to be under the impression that it had occurred in parts of my body that were no longer there. Even now, at night in my dreams, I keep walking and running around with both my legs. In the last fifty years since the war, I recall only one dream where I was functioning with one leg. My brain apparently has still not accepted that one of my legs is missing.
About that time, a circular was issued that Physical Proficiency Tests (PPT) would be held in a week’s time and
that all officers from Army Headquarters would be required to take the test which would be held at the National Stadium. The circular did not ban low medical category officers from taking the test. It was probably understood that we were not required to do it. I decided to take the test anyway, to see for myself how well I measured up to these tests.
On the appointed day, I joined all the officers from Army Headquarters who had assembled at the National Stadium. We had ‘fallen in’ (assembled) before a Colonel who was conducting the tests. We were all dressed in PT kit, which meant white shirts, shorts, socks and PT shoes. In view of the fact that I had an artificial leg, I wore white trousers instead of shorts and boots instead of PT shoes. This caught the attention of the Colonel.
‘You there!’ he said. ‘Why are you wearing trousers and boots?’
‘I have a wooden leg, sir,’ I said.
‘That means you are in low medical category. You are not eligible for the test.’
I said, ‘Sir, the circular does not ban me from taking the test and I don’t have a health problem.’
He said, ‘Last year a low medical category officer took it and died of a heart attack. I don’t want your death on my hands.’
‘Don’t worry sir. I won’t die.’
There was a titter from amongst the assembled officers who apparently found my reply funny. I, however, was very serious.
‘Don’t argue or I will take disciplinary action against you.’
I said, ‘Sir, you are welcome to take action against me if I commit an offence but until then please allow me to participate.’
The Colonel probably saw the logic of what I was saying. He relented, albeit very reluctantly, and allowed me to participate.
