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| Crimsonkashmir > Chapter 4 |
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| Dark Night |
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“Revel, rejoice and shine bright,
You wicked creature of the night.
In deep sinister bosom of dark,
Evil in black, say you lark.
With humanity fearless asleep,
Valiant men on dutiful keep.
Man – the evil creature of night?”
— Jesse |
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| The LoC |
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(2139h, 03 Mar)
Naib Subedar Gurung Bahadur, deployed with his four ambushes, 1875 metres
southeast of Pakistani Post 113, put down his headset, after hearing the
latest instructions from his Company Commander. He looked at his luminous
watch. It read 2139 hours.
From intercept to warning troops in forward locations, it had taken exactly
forty-two minutes.
Four men each, in four ambushes approximately three hundred metres apart,
the basic gap was too much amongst them, thought Gurung. Intimate mutual
support was not possible as basic military sense dictated. His Infantry
School instructor, who had adjudged him the third best student in Tactics,
would be appalled at the deployment if he saw it on ground.
These were pressing times and menial niceties of sound tactics could not
be implemented in true spirit.
Not that they would not plan for it, but most of the times, pressure on
manpower left crucial voids. Men had to avail their leave, go on courses,
do temporary duties, execute fatigue tasks and most importantly rest adequately.
Shamsher sahib was a stickler for rules and would personally detail men
on ambushes and guard duties after ensuring that each man had one complete
day off the previous day, including compulsory sleep, for eight hours. Sahib
had promised immediate fire support from medium machine guns, rocket launchers,
automatic grenade launchers and 51 millimetre mortars in case he ran into
trouble. He had himself registered almost all conceivable targets in front
and both the flanks of his company post. The best part was that they had
fired and registered the targets during normal daily exchange of fire with
the Pak Post 113, right across on the next crest-line. It had been a good
cover for the stated intention. Whatever be the assurance from the Company
Commander, men on ground were less and in battle, as always, faith and confidence
came with numbers.
But that was the classical military quandary.
You take more men, the likelihood of detection increased proportionally
and chances of a contact reduced in that magnitude. Lesser the numbers,
it inversely increased the likely contact ratio due to reduced detection.
It had been a third continuous day since the ambushes had crept forward
up to the near edge of the Khuni Nallah, from their locations on the ridge
in rear, which came right down from the company post.
Major Shamsher had led the ambushes on first two nights consecutively. Major
sahib had reasoned that the positions in depth on the ridge though very
defensible, could be bypassed by a number of lateral tracks running along
the Khuni Nallah. These jungle tracks looked no good to us but could take
the infiltrators across with the help of local guides, who were operating
in plenty. If one could control these trails, they could control any movement
on them, thus checking infiltration, he had explained it to the whole company.
Sahib’s right and convincing reasoning apart, they were right under
the noses of death. That Pak post hung like a fairy tale monstrous castle,
in the air above them, ominously.
Havaldar Pun, the commander of number four ambush, under the deployment
command of Gurung, was peering down towards the Khuni Nallah through his
passive night vision binoculars. He had been on a continuous watch since
his party commander had informed him of possible intrusion that night. Fierce
cold wind was biting through his coat parka and jute cap balaclava, which
clung to his round head, making him shudder in the cold now and then. These
bloody army clothes were no good and wind passed through the woollen leggings
as if an air-conditioner was blowing merrily inside one’s underwear,
he icily reasoned. His buddy rifleman Bhopal Gurung was watching his left
flank and his light machine gun detachment was covering a small spur coming
up from the river below.
Observation by night vision binoculars was a stressful business.
His eyes said so.
Water droplets finding the origins in his cornea were streaming down his
cheeks due to the strain of continuous peering drill. In the sea of whiteness,
pale yellow bushes danced in the wind and the rivulet resembled the flow
of molten lava. At only 250 metres from the LoC, he had his night vision
binoculars focussed at the optimum, range though nothing comprehensible
was visible beyond the nallah. Those technical goons from Dehradun claimed
600 metres of effective range, but parametres of ideal conditions they always
loved to sing, will only be available on the full moon, he thought. Ambient
moonlight, my left foot, he cussed. It required more than two million photons
of light to function as per its stated capabilities. He felt there were
less than two light photons available at present. Who will produce moonlight
when infiltrators will infiltrate on a dark night like this one? By the
time the area gets illuminated by flares all the rats would have hidden
in their burrows.
At first he thought it was an illusion.
Two dots appeared on extremities of the vision field of his night vision
binoculars, almost camouflaged with numerous electronic dots running crazily
across the screen. It was only when the dark shapes firmed in and moved
defying the static of the still background, did Pun remove the binoculars
and re-focussed them hurriedly. Yes, at the edge of the Khuni Nallah, he
made out two distinct humanoid shapes slowly making their way across the
stones in the riverbed, half bent. Bingo, he thought. For first time he
was seeing something, which he had heard his friends, boast off. Fascinated,
he followed their movements till they turned towards the spur on which his
ambush was sighted.
On reality check, few seconds later he immediately patted Piru’s back
and harshly whispered,“Do dushman, nallah bend par. Jaldi night sight
lagao. Fire mere hukum par.”(Two enemy at nallah bend. Quickly put
on the night sight. Fire on my orders)
Like a drilled mechanic, Piru put on the night sight atop his barrel and
brought the light machine gun at the designated point of fire by resting
the barrel on a wooden peg aligned towards the target. They had placed such
pegs facing various directions; covering expected avenues of infiltration.
Primitive, but effective method in aligning towards the enemy and more importantly
giving more stability by nullifying the effects of horizontal azimuth accentuated
due to burst fire mode.
Pun on turning 180 degrees, frantically flashed his torch towards his Platoon
Commanders expected position and at the same time pulling the woollen blanket
over his head to reduce his voice signatures, he whispered into his VPS
radio set, “Kilo four for kilo, kilo four for kilo, message over.”
“Kilo four pass over.”
“Kilo four for kilo, two infiltrators sighted at nallah bend. Repeat,
two infiltrators sighted at nallah bend. Moving between kilo three and kilo
four location, over,” reported Piru starting to sweat inside the thin
blanket.
“Kilo for four roger. Kilo four do not open fire, I repeat do not
open fire. Dushman ko age bharne do. (Let the enemy move forward) Out to
you. All stations kilo come to stand to, I repeat come to stand to,”
Gurung was shouting into the radio set. In any case all bloody men were
always on ‘stand to’ in the ambushes, lest they wanted to die
sleeping, like what had happened in one such ambush in the neighbouring
battalion, seven months back, he reflected.
He was passing the message to his Company Commander on his unreliable hand-held
VM-mark three radio set, when the night lookout man, his ambush buddy, barged
in and in heavy rasping breathless manner, stammered, “Danger indication
received from direction of number four ambush,” and vanished as quickly
as he had appeared. |
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| Not Far |
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(Little Later)
The ice cold howling wind, cut into his eyes, despite him hugging the rugged
surface. His eyes were watering due to the harshness of the cold and his
ear lobes felt as if they had been dipped into liquid nitrogen. His senses
were chilled into submission, but the brain spoke otherwise.
Use me or die.
He peered from the side of a tree stump and tried to comprehend the confusing
mass of ridges above. This was the trickiest and the most dangerous part
of this exercise, which was breaking through the crust of the first line
of Indian ambushes. Those bloody Indian ambushes had to be deployed somewhere
on the crest of those craggy rocks above. They must avoid gullies, re-entrants
or tracks near any prominent landmark, the most favoured places of Indian
security forces. Rough edged stones were jabbing into his knees but he dare
not even murmur in relief. All was going well, till now. Risal was close
on his heels and he was confident that Gul’s group was thirty to forty
minutes or three hundred metres upslope. They had practised this part, live,
with Special Services Group so many times that it was now a predictable
routine to move and guide even a blind man.
“Risal which way today,” Reshab casually inquired.
“Let’s take the route which passes below the Indian post,”
Risal confidently replied.
“But that could be bloody dangerous,” Reshab alarmed shot back.
“That’s why it’s safe. Indians send most of their troops
in ambushes and the posts are scantily manned. You know that ambushes are
deployed a little down slope but always on the dominating crest-line, leaving
the post on top under-manned and vulnerable. Last place they will expect
any one of us to cross is through that pathetic 1965 vintage mine field,
next to the post. I know a safe route through it over the rocks. Don’t
you remember how shitless scared they are of stepping into it. We must exploit
this, as we have a larger group to infiltrate this time,” Risal explained.
Reshab could not search for an equivalent counter argument.
They, as per their own evolved and time-tested drill, both did not agree
to a known, pre-discussed, set-route for infiltration. It had irritated
that fat ISI army man, trying to disguise as a civilian even further. They
had very strong reasons for the same. They had suffered earlier as their
whole party of JKLF cadres had walked into an Indian trap, two years ago.
It conspired later that one of their members, was an Indian informer who
had passed the precise route including the halts to the enemy a month earlier.
The cunning and he was sure ‘grinning’ Indians had a month to
plan for their bloody reception.
No wonder only five had survived out of twenty-five. By divine intervention,
they both were in those lucky five. Both had backtracked, discovered the
un-Islamic betraying man and later killed the informer’s whole family,
but only after savagely raping his two lovely teenaged virgin daughters
trussed like animals for an entire week. It had sent ripples of shock in
the area but now none dared to double cross. Since then, both had vowed
not to discuss the infiltration route earlier and to refine the security
even further, decide it only on crossing the LoC. They had various gadgets
to guide even blind men. Yes, Risal always spoke sense. In-fact his half
brother was intelligent and proving himself beyond his shallow age every
time a mission was entrusted in his hands. Though he had joined the cause
five years earlier than Risal, the bugger already knew more tactics and
more routes than him. He had handed over the charge of daily dealing of
weapons, delivery schedules, intelligence gathering, eliminating informers
and most importantly, financial transactions to him. He loved his half-brother,
admired his loyalty towards the family of which he was the titular head
and in turn always listened to Risal’s sound advice.
“OK, blink back the signal and place the LED fluorescent marker facing
upwards but away from the infidels post direction. Hope Mosul and Tarik
will not goof up the turning,” Reshab whispered.
Risal immediately did as instructed. He crawled up the slope and took out
a small roll from his right pocket. He unwrapped the tape and put it on
the ground. He quietly got down to work, practised so many times earlier
and it took just fifty-six seconds, eleven more than his usual time.
Moments later, snail-paced, both lumbered up the spur leading to the Indian
post Khukri. Reshab stole a look behind, from twenty metres up, at their
guiding contraption assembled below. No trace of light towards Indian side
was visible except the faint reflections of the LED blinker, which blinked
once after ten seconds each time. He was sure that a little further up the
slope that those homing in reflections too would get hidden, due to the
folds in the ground. Hope the God’s men coming behind would react
as drilled and not miss the marker.
Number Four Ambush
(More Later)
Pun’s eyes were glued on the two figures like a hawk ever since he
had acquired them in his night vision goggles. Fascinated, he watched their
movements.
“Kilo four, kilo four, they are headed towards our spur, over,”
said a shaken voice.
“Kilo for four, do not open fire, I repeat do not open fire, out,”
instructed Gurung.
“Kilo four, wilco,” Pun replied heavily and turning back towards
no one in particular hastily whispered, “Don’t make any noise.
No firing unless in self-defence, that too, on my explicit orders. We have
to let them pass. Subedar sahib’s orders.”
What stupidity, thought Rifleman Gobar Singh, the number two of the light
machine gun detachment. One never lets the enemy pass. That was the logic
his baje had drilled into his simple head when imparting endless tips on
fighting recounted out of his participation in the Second Great War. That
is pure sacrilege, but orders are orders. Do not know what these sahibs
keep on planning after reading maps and books. If the enemy is in the front
as he is now, then shoot and kill him was the best option. It is better
to kill a cobra while he is facing you, than to tackle him, with your back
towards him. However, mother-fucking orders are orders and that is what
he will do. He or others for that matter could not see beyond twenty metres
in the darkness. Moon was still struggling to peep out of the black sky.
Excited whispers along with animated gestures of his commander created more
fear and apprehension than confidence.
He adjusted his fibreglass helmet and touched the silver handle of his khukri
for assurance.
It gave him confidence.
It was his revered family heirloom. It was his grandfather’s khukri,
a present from an ever-grateful British officer, whose ebbing life baje
had saved in World War II, by chopping the head of the fanatical Japanese
imperial soldier, who was about to bayonet the hapless wounded Gora sahib,
the second time. His baje had nursed his injured sahib, poked only once
in the stomach by a Japanese bayonet, like a little baby, for two nights
in the Kohima Town District Court complex and was awarded a Military Cross,
for bringing him back to safety, two miles back, right under the nose of
the enemy, guarding the ridges above.
Baje had told him of his war stories ever since he could remember.
Papa had broken the old man’s heart by taking premature discharge.
He could not cope up with the rigors of the army in the wake of 1962 Indo-Chinese
war where he had somehow survived in a wounded state and that too as a prisoner
of the Chinese, having been captured at some place called Lumpo, in Arunachal
Pradesh. When he, as a youngster, had shown an iota of interest in joining
the regiment, his grandfather had jumped up from his proclaimed deathbed
and gleefully assumed command over his life, thankfully for three months
only. He was a hard wily old instructor and had taught him all the field-craft
and drill even before he could join his regimental recruits training centre,
at Shillong. The problem he encountered later was that the drill and much
of his tactics he had acquired from the old goat were totally British, of
pre-Independence era, and he had to slog double, in first unlearning what
he had mastered and then learning the right Indian way. He could never forget
those tears of happiness when he joined baje’s own 1/9 Gurkha Rifles.
The toothless old goat had got totally drunk and danced throughout the night,
with one of the local didis.
“Kilo for kilo four, message over.”
“Kilo four, pass over.”
“Kilo four do not fire at guides. Let them pass your location, out
to you. All stations kilo, do you see nallah bend over.”
“Kilo one, negative over.”
“Kilo two, partially over.”
“Kilo three, negative over.”
“Kilo for kilo two re-site for better engagement, kilo three move
two hundred metres right to engage nallah bend. Kilo two and three out.
Kilo one, fall back to kilo location, over.”
“Kilo one, wilco.”
“Kilo two, wilco”
“Kilo three, wilco.”
If silence was death, then all four men deployed in the number four ambush
were definitely, quiet dead. They were lying so still that even the normal
breathing of each other was resounding like a deafening roar. Heartbeats
ticked like megaphones on full blast in their ears. The ticking was eardrum
shattering. After a few minutes, they could hear the laboured breaths of
the two infiltrators including the unmistakable sound of feet scrapping
against the undergrowth. Pun brought his night vision binoculars down lest
the infiltrators identify his position due to the ambient glow his binoculars
emitted and had also switched off his radio set also as a precautionary
measure. He watched them with acute apprehension from his vantage point.
They passed, ten metres below their location. Their round turbans and cross-slung
AK-47s were clearly visible. He waited for about seven minutes, after he
could hear them no more, before he could muster enough confidence to pass
back the report. |
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| Khukri Post |
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Same Time)
Pulling back the talc sheet lying on the table Major Shamsher Singh peered
over his map, perhaps for the twentieth time, in the last so many minutes.
If one looked closely at the sheet staring back at him, one could only marvel
at what he was studying, for it was more than an ordinary map. Ridges and
various spurs stood out due to light pencil shadings and red markings of
all known routes of infiltration glared back, almost giving a panoramic
overview of the entire area up to fifteen km radius. Notations on sides
of known sympathisers, guides, militants, demographic profile, move timings
to different places by varied sizes of groups, obstacles, difficult no-go
areas, own patrolling schedule and ambush sites for the day, all read like
a fairy tale story book.
Sick of getting no worthwhile catches, despite his sources giving him bi-weekly
news of various militant movements through his Area of Responsibility, he
had reappraised the situation alone, last week. Though he was convinced
himself of the efficacy and soundness of his decision, he was sure that
if the Commanding Officer was ever consulted he would be back in the rear
base for trying to be a ‘Napoleon in his nappies’, a phrase
he always used to restrain young officers. He personally would hate it,
as he hated counting onions and potatoes for provisioning of the soldiers.
It was not the reason that he had joined this unit or the army for that
matter. Some of his friends and course-mates revelled doing this silly logistic
business. He could never reason why. They should open a pansari ki dukan,
earn more moneyed-respect and then why serve in the army. He felt comfortable
with a rifle in his hands and commanding the respect of his troops in situations
beget with danger.
Well, two men had been sighted by number four ambush in charge of his company’s
ace footballer Havaldar Pun. They were traversing this ridge, he reflected
deftly tracing it on his panoramic map with a pencil. How odd, a further
up they will hit his post. He was sure they were the advance route reconnaissance
guides employed by the militants. It had taken a considerable argument in
convincing the men, not to open fire, at first sight of the enemy. They
had been vehement in disagreement initially till he managed to convince
one of the youngest Rifleman and ashamed seniors then followed suit, though
without much ado. Policy in general was to allow the initial guides pass
through in hope to catch the larger group, invariably following. This was
what he planned to do for now and not let his Commanding Officer spoil his
show. First, he should warn his post to throw one more ambush ahead on the
edge of the perimetre minefield, as those two men were headed this way. |
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| Khuni Nallah, On The LoC |
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(30 Minutes Later)
Mosul saw the LED first. “Tarik stop,” he whispered.
“Yes, what for,” came back an equally hushed voice.
“Look, route guide marker is right ahead. We must head for it.”
Both crawled slowly towards the LED marker and on examining it, Tarik cursed,
“Stupid bakarwals have changed the plan. They are going by the uphill
route. We must warn everyone of this change in the route. The idiots have
taken the least desired route option number four, of all routes earlier
discussed. Mindless idiots.”
Gul was feeling confident tonight.
The bakarwal guides seemed to have got clean through. Either Indians were
sleeping or ambushes were not placed ahead as anticipated. In any case,
Colonel Iqbal had told them of paucity of men and material in Indian ranks
in the frontline, due to the havoc caused by the jihadis in the rear areas.
He stumbled into two of his men kneeling down and irritably shouted, “Why
have you stopped, you fools?” The unknown kneeling Kashmiri, pointed
ahead.
“Change in plans,” answered Tarik when he married up with him
a little later and then explained the problem.
Gul’s, otherwise calm disposition gave way to fitful bout of irritation.
Unworthy local rascals, he thought. How can you trust someone when he does
not trust your plan? What was that famous saying amongst the Pakistan Punjabis;
you can trust a snake but never a local of this area. In any case, these
weak-kneed people had betrayed the true cause thrice earlier in 1947, 1965
and 1971. Imagine they betrayed their own tribal Muslim brothers. He was
the second of his family to be in Kashmir. His father’s twice removed
cousin had died in 1947 at some place called Pattan fighting the Indians.
His family was destined to make a name in this vale. But if these shit-holes
had woken up then, this muddle wouldn’t have been there. Besides cursing
them avidly he also could not do anything. He gestured Tarik to hurry on.
The group quickly crossed the nallah. One of the mujahid in Kasim’s
group fell on the slippery rocks with his rifle making a sharp metallic
clang, as it fell on the stones.
“Hush you idiot. Noise travels far at night,” retorted Kasim.
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| Number Four Ambush |
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(2205h, 03 Mar)
The noise did not travel as far as feared that night.
The wind from Indian positions was blowing away, but the fall was definitely
registered by Pun who was glued to his night goggles. His hands were drenched
in cold, apprehensive, sticky perspiration. Holy-shit, an endless line of
people had crossed the nallah, like ants. He with a determined resolve again
convinced his disbelieving brain that what he had witnessed was not an allusion.
He had counted about thirty after the first shock had worn off. He tried
looking upwards, but an overhang clouded his vision. He could not see two
people who had crossed earlier.
“Kilo four for kilo,” he rasped into the microphone, “thirty
to forty men are crossing the nallah bend now, over.” His three other
ambush-mates scampered for more effective cover on just hearing this shocking
report. They stared at him in dark, daring him to speak with saner mind
and sight the second time.
“Kilo four, reconfirm figures again, over.”
“Kilo four for kilo. I said thirty to forty and am passing after counting
twice,” Pun half-screamed into the handset, in total frustration of
not being believed in first place, “and accord permission to open
fire, over,” he later begged.
Pun’s battle-mates were shocked and had full reason to rebel. Four
against forty was not even worth discussing and wasting your money to place
any reasonable odds on.
“Kilo four, negative, I repeat, negative. Fire only when infiltrators
within forty to twenty metres range. Fifty-one millimetre mortar will provide
illumination within five seconds of your opening fire, out to you. All stations
kilo, provide fire support to kilo four if enemy visible or bring down speculative
fire at nallah bend. All stations kilo, out.”
All kilos rogered almost in unison. Apprehension breathed out of Gurung’s
handset at each reply.
“Guru ji ab kya hoga,” (Reverend teacher what will happen now)
asked the youngest Gobar.
“Diwali aur maut,” (Diwali and death) echoed mind-dead Pun.
All the battle-mates heard the resolve laced with the fait accompli. None
had the courage to rebel. |
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| Srinagar |
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(2210h, 03 Mar)
The place had witnessed much better times.
Now it was a dead city. It became deadlier at night.
It was the price of jihad and its ungrateful citizens refused to acknowledge
it.
The fact was actually too shameful to admit and admit failure, never. Like
anything bad it could be passed to as an Indian conspiracy or better still
to repressive security forces, but never ever to the price of Jihad.
Except for the stray dogs that guarded their packs territories, the streets
were totally deserted. Their occasional barks pierced through, in otherwise
silent night. Heavy fog, descending from the mountain ranges all around
had engulfed the city and was making a slow progress along the river Jhelum.
The city halted after 1800 hours, well before the dusk-to-dawn curfew imposed
by the Indian authorities.
Another price of Jihad.
All thanked their plethora of Gods, as dear ones were cattle-counted and
safely tucked in for the night. None whispered or spoke or sang or entertained
or opened doors to anyone, if possible. In the dead of night people covered
their anxieties in fitful bouts of sleep. Nevertheless, few men like him
engaged in the business of warfare were awake, only daring to operate in
the safety of the night. They were too well known to move in the candour
of daylight. Indians had numerous spotters mingling with crowds to home
in to known or suspected militants. Like him, fellow bandsmen in various
parts of the city kept night vigil, peering through secret places on the
movement of Indian patrols and cordon parties. Thanks to his efficient organization
and civil telephone department that all sectors got adequate warning of
impending danger.
The figure in black moved down the deserted back streets, in Lal Chowk commercial-cum-residential
area. He, as always, had deliberately chosen black, to blend with the darkness.
He desperately vied for that magical half second of delay and confusion
in spotting him. It had saved his life from the Indian bullets many a time
and he struck to his dress code as a religion. The man in black peered cautiously
from the side of the building into the open square lit by a lone electric
street lamp. Finding it deserted, he quickly darted across and started moving
in the shadows of the triple storey edifices, guarding the flanks of the
street. On crossing the shop named Zahir Silk Factory, he slid along the
compound wall, into three feet wide, side alley. On its fifth window, an
innocent white paper sticking out of the joinery, indicated all clear. He
thanked God for safe transportation and tapped the small wooden door adjacent
it twice in succession.
Almost immediately, the door opened in anticipation. It made no noise for
it was freshly oiled at the hinges. Nothing could be left to chance. He
smiled at the eye for detail and efficiency of his host. He entered a small
square room.
“Why did you call me here. It’s forbidden,” said the man
in black.
“Importance of events,” replied a calm voice. “Time has
come for deliverance and the destiny of Kashmir now lies in our hands.”
“What do you mean,” he asked and through the slit in the black
layers of wrapped clothes, eyes darted across the face of Maulana Amjad
Ali and searched for an answer.
“Collect all your able men. Initially handpick the best five and give
them to me. Ensure that they are well armed and are available within a week.
I will seek for twenty more at a later date,” instructed the Maulana.
“What for,” inquired the man in black.
“Do not seek reasons. You possibly cannot fight the jihad alone. It
is a fact and you are intelligent enough to digest this issue. We have to
come under one banner. United we have a better chance at the war being won
quicker. It is basic commonsense. Our friends in foreign countries are exhorting
us to do so or all that has been achieved till now will vanish as fast as
the dipping evening sun. In half an hour from now, Tarik, Jilani and Lone
will be here to pledge similar support.”
“I will do as you seek. To obey you is my life. If bigger birds are
flying, then, how can a small fly on the same pedestal sit idle? But remember
you will be giving your best-kept secret to others,” the man in black
said. Later at not getting any reply, bowing his head, the figure in black
disappeared as silently into the night as he had come.
It took him more than two hours and two near brushes with Border Security
Forces patrols to reach his two-storey house in the prestigious Raj Bagh
area of the city. Jumping over the shoulder high wooden green coloured gate,
he quietly slid into already unlocked ajar door. Moving inside the house
with aid of pencil torch, he threw down his black turban on the floor and
lay on the bed. Staring at the darkness above Rasool Bhatt said, “shit”
and closed his eyes.
Four kilometres southwest of Rasool’s house, in the sprawling Kashmir
University complex, Nafisa was sobbing in her bed. Sleep had eluded her
all the night. Her best friend Khushbu was fast asleep in the next bed oblivious
to her troubles.
|
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| Indian Post, Khukri |
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Indian Post, Khukri
(2215h, 03 Mar)
Major Shamsher was biting his nails in sheer nervousness. The contents of
the latest situation-report from the ambush-sites had him gulping for precious
air for a few seconds.
The report from Kilo four was painfully disturbing.
Had the Pakistanis gone mad?
Dammit thirty to forty men were attempting infiltration.
Bloody Pun must be having multiple parallax problems. He was expecting six
to eight terrorists at best, to attempt infiltration, a manageable number,
but never ever could he dream of forty. Pakistanis were assuredly going
mad. A mad-failed nation and what could one expect from them with their
ideology that if we can’t progress then how the neighbour can? The
information was good enough to give a minor heart attack to the old man
and more than adequate to create a major riot, in all those headquarters,
up the chain.
Bloody hell, his whole appreciation of placing the commanders at more vulnerable
ambushes had gone wrong.
Wish by some magic wand he could change that buffoon of Gurung with dynamic
Lieutenant Thapar. Gurung, though a good JCO, had not been tested under
fire and was slow to comprehend any fast fluid situation, while Thapar had
single-handedly killed two militants last month. Out of eight ambushes out
of his company post tonight, four had been deployed on the Southern slopes
at Khuni nallah under Gurung and the balance covered the Northern slopes
under Thapar. He was sure that infiltration would be attempted from the
North of the Pir Panjal ranges.
The mother-spine on which his company post was located, peeped into valleys
both in the North and the South, in equal measures but Northern slopes occupied
his focus, as the militants could descend directly into Srinagar valley,
the hotbed of fundamentalism and local support. The valleys to the South
of these sacred ranges were inhabited with Rajput –Mohammedan or Moslem
- Mohammedan which changed the demographic profile to India’s favour.
They considered themselves the true and purer Muslims than those Kashmiris,
as their forefathers coming along with conquering Mughal hordes had converted
these infidels of the valley into Moslem fraternity, only a few centuries
back. Mostly from Gujjar and Bakarwal communities their mutual dislike for
supposedly snootier Kashmiri brethren ran deep. Leave aside inter-marriages,
they refused to sit and eat together. Historic subjugation apart, their
physical and mental attributes also fueled the rivalry. The Southern men
were dark, taller, and rugged and their muscles gave them the animalistic
swagger, while their counterparts in the North were fair, mild, feminine
and let their upper story do the talking. No wonder he had persisted with
an officer-led ambushes in the Northern slopes.
Major Shamsher picked up his field telephone contemplating to speak to the
old man, but before he could speak into it, he threw it down, as if it weighed
a ton. He had to organize the few men around him first, before he dared
to speak to his Commanding Officer.
“Company Havaldar Major (CHM),” he shouted on top of his voice
and like genie in comics the CHM appeared, before his Company Commander’s
reverberating voice could die down.
“Mine field ambush mein kitne manush gaye.” (How many men are
deployed in the minefield ambush)
“Char hazoor.”
“Post to Stand par hai.”
“Ji hazoor.”
“Reserve.”
“Chavvis hazoor.”
“AGL and MMG targets.”
“Post 113, hazoor.”
“Good, line tor,” replied Shamsher.
After ensuring the perceived correctness of his undertaken actions he picked
up the field telephone and asked for his Commanding Officer, Colonel VS
Thapa. A few seconds later, he was put through to his boss. Animated grunts
and crisp resounding of yes and no sir filled the room for the next five
minutes, giving enough indication even to Rifleman Bijoy Thapa, his beloved
sahayak, that sahib was having a grueling time with the Commanding Officer. |
| |
| Three Km Behind |
| |
| Mother Ridge |
| |
(2225h, 03 Mar)
Fucking shit, fucking shit, he screamed to his disbelieving ears.
Soothing heady intoxication, ensured by five large whiskeys he loved to
enjoy almost daily to kill monotonous routine, receded magically by the
time Colonel VS Thapa, Commanding Officer 1/9 Gurkha Rifles, put down his
phone. His heartbeat had drastically dimmed and his cute little ass was
literally “on fire” as per the army parlance.
That mother-fucker tells me now, of all he has done, he grumbled to himself.
It was too late to retrieve the situation or to intervene effectively. Family
histories in this unit ran deep and he had seen that toddler turn into a
fine man, but at present if someone asked for a second opinion, he will
shout and shout loud that the idiot is a mentally ill military lunatic.
Shamsher was a second generation officer whose father had died bravely defending
this battalion headquarters at slopes of Tsandhar in Namkachu area in Chinese
war of 1962, similar to his own father’s last heroic stand, a mere
hundred metre away at the units three inch mortar position.
Both had audaciously died defending the honour of the unit.
In any case the positions they had been told to defend were not tactically
honourable and honourable soldiers had no business to do unhonourable biddings.
But they were Indian soldiers in heart and mind. Your safety, honour comes
last every time. The honour of their country defied mundane thinking and
came before self everytime.
Multitude of well-armed Chinese hordes did not aver their resolve.
So they had fought, a little distance apart, shouting, goading each other
till they ran out of their given hundred rounds of ammunition, which an
educated Prime Minister and his academically brilliant Defence Minister
had provided and thought was adequate to fight the largest Army in the world.
Then they ran as fast as their laboured lungs could support their suicidal
rush.
They ran with their Khukris held high, its polished steel glimmering in
full brightness of the burning sun.
They ran straight towards the hordes of gloating Chinese and chopped a few
heads.
Later, the astounded Chinese remembered to mow them down with automatic
fire and plentiful ammunition, which had been provided by their uneducated
peasant born leader. The tale narrated by a wounded survivor had been very
dear to his heart and to both families. Shamsher was revered by his troops,
was precise and wholly professional but it was his daredevil approach and
hell for leather attitude which worried him the most. The guy was also impulsive,
always up to something and worst still he informs you after he has executed
his plan. Left to him, Shamsher’s half cock-and-bull schemes would
never see the light of the day. Holy cow! He had changed the deployment
pattern without his knowledge and now admits that ambushes as per him were
a bit exposed. He was damn sure that they would be hundred per cent exposed
to the enemy fire.
Once his finger-holding toddler had jerked his arm across and jack-knifed
it up his anus. It was too painful even to scream coherently.
He was also racked with conscience, whether to report the matter to his
superior officer or not. Knowing the jumping jack above him and associated
problems of managing him at his forward company base, which his boss would
surely reach tonight, he reasoned against it. It was my battle at least
for now and he would wait to see how it develops, he thought. Colonel Thapa
then quickly summoned his file browsing Adjutant and issued instructions
to lay his battalion Mortars on India Mikes 17 and 48 (Nallah bend and Pak
post 113 respectively) and turn in his Quick Reaction Team for immediate
move.
Rather than to punch the air in desperation and stare at the barren wall
ahead for the moment, he walked up and prayed to the idol of fiery ‘Durga
Mata’ installed in the corner of his room, to bless his battalion
and protect his men. |
| |
| On the LoC |
| |
(2255h, 03 Mar)
The darkness was total and frightening.
One could not see beyond the fifth or the sixth man.
The big rucksacks they were carrying slowed their pace and each step became
an exaggerated affair. But there was no choice, thought Gul. These rucksacks
contained grenades, RDX, timer detonators, light activated detonators, ammunition,
walkie-talkies and many other arms to further the cause of jihad in the
subjugated Kashmir valley. Indians will never leave vale of Kashmir. They
were too powerful to be driven out by conventional war. Pakistan had tried
it thrice earlier, and each attempt had resulted in a miserable failure.
They even had lost half of their country trying to do this.
Thank the shitty Ruskis for showing Muslim brotherhood the way. Why thank
Russians. They just gave us an opportunity. We must thank those gora Americans
for organizing them and showing them the true-lighted path to heaven. The
true light of jihad, ironically has been shown by his religion’s biggest
enemy; the Satan infidel state of U.S.A.
God bless America, he murmured. Actually he hated that vulgar satanic country.
How can you live in a society where women walk half-naked? Do they have
no shame? Their women nude and drunk all the time. What morales do they
teach their children? Do they actually have any religion as labeled by his
mentor? Women holding hands of men in public, kissing in public, men kissing
women or men kissing men or women kissing women, free pornographic photographs
pasted on walls, such movies even freely available to see. It was beyond
him to think anything more ugly or repulsive than that.
Those people were uncivilized.
Thousand cuts.
Yes, this was the only solution to defeat a superior army. Kill them slowly,
by thousand cuts. Bleed them like a halal goat. Yes, let the blood ooze
out in small droplets simultaneously ebbing its life. Ah, there were dedicated
Muslim militants from Europe, Sudan, Checheniya and Afghanistan to pick
up arms for their cause. Once India lost Kashmir, its famous neck, it will
disintegrate like a house of cards, just as U.S.S.R. Then we will rule the
jewel of the crown. The only bastion of non-believers in South Asia. What
Changez Khan, Timur Lane and Ghazni, could not achieve, we shall achieve.
Putting his head down, Gul started trudging up the slope, slowly.
“Kilo four, message over.”
“Kilo, pass over.”
“Kilo four, minimum forty men, in my killing zone. On my fire, illumination
out.”
“Kilo, for kilo four roger, kilo two and kilo three, situation over.”
“Kilo two, enemy sighted, at maximum range, over.”
“Kilo three, enemy seen, in range, over.”
“Kilo, to all stations kilo, join with all fire power. Good luck,
out.”
As always, the bullets arrived earlier.
They arrived in great numbers much before their shocking sound could explode
in Kasim’s ears.
Mosul’s face erupted like a burst watermelon, as the first burst of
7.62 mm Light Machine Gun (LMG) caught him squarely. He dropped to the mother
earth, faceless.
Piru had aimed at the centre of the body, but down slope firing had affected
the trajectory of bullets. Through his crew served weapon night sight, he
could see streaks of bullets flying over. He quickly adjusted the aim and
fired in small controlled bursts much lower this time. The bullets raced,
grazing the ground and hitting true.
He saw three more men tumble.
Pun in good military anticipation had also kept his hand grenades ready
and primed. He, in quick succession, lobbed three of them. They uncannily
fell smack in centre of Kasim’s group, blasting with an identifiable
low crunch four seconds later.
More men tumbled.
Then the rest of his battle-mates joined with their guns blazing. They had
no willing reason to hold back anything in terms of ammunition delivery.
It was they or themselves.
More men tumbled.
Then a couple of fractions later, devastating fire from other like-minded
and similar intentioned ambushes reached the focal point.
Then more men tumbled.
It was a simple tumbling game. It was an Army’s favourite game. It
required no deft reasoning or better comprehension. It was the game of simple
mathematics, addition and subtraction, which the biggest army dodo could
also compete in. Any side which ensured the tumbling of his opponents more,
more quickly than his, more importantly won.
Before Kasim’s shocked brain could comprehend anything acceptable,
bright flashes caused his lower limbs go numb. Unsupported by his fragmented
legs he fell heavily on the inclined earth. Wounded, in excruciating discomfort
he whimpered for help. None moved towards him to provide any solace. In
a trance, he saw a dance of death unfolding in front of his eyes. He tried
to shout, trying to summon help but could only croak, “Allah, Allah,
please save me.” After uttering that lamentation, he died.
Light Machine Guns of all the ambushes were simultaneously, in unison, racking
the exposed flanks of the intruders. Red bullets tracers lazily flew in
the air. Volley after volley of fire echoed along the mountain slopes. Volley
after volley of automatic fire ripped into infiltrators. Volley after volley
of lethal bullets burst their guts, liberally soiling the slopes with blood.
At each dying retort of a volley, more men tumbled.
Gul thought the world had slipped under his feet. “Ambush, ambush.
Go to ground, go to ground,” he thundered taking control of his emotions.
His long years of battle inoculation against the Russians, came back instinctively,
“Fire back Ahmed. Get up you fools fire back. Kasim hold the right
flank. Yusuf get mortars in action. All jihadis fire back,” Gul screamed,
hidden luckily below a boulder.
Suddenly, the sky above him illuminated. Two shooting stars lighted his
left flank and the wind blew them towards his position, where he hugged
the ground. Sharp crunch of bombs and steady bursts of fire created a maddening
noise. Some idiotic fragmentary ones fell smack in middle. A few more men
tumbled.
Gul hurriedly scanned around. Limbs of Kasim’s men were scattered
all over and hardly anyone was visible. Suddenly a bullet slammed at a man
next to him, lifting him clean off his feet. When that man fell back to
ground his body tumbled to one side, revealing his bloody face. Blood oozed
out of his neighbour’s mouth. Blood, oh my God, blood was everywhere.
Few were whimpering in agony. Gul then felt a sharp sting on his right shoulder,
they have got me, he thought. The pain was sharp and acute. The bloody Indians
have got me. Those white Russian pigs could not even scratch his body in
so many encounters and these lowbred Indians had shot him.
Within him a blinding fury of hate rose choking his throat. The pain, the
stinging fire like pain, drowned in his pure anger.
He lifted his AK-47 and fired a wild burst towards the nearest position,
which he could discern from the trajectory of the tracers. “Charge,
charge, follow me,” he hoarsely shouted as he let off three grenades
from the Under Barrel Grenade Launcher, attached with the weapon.
In the madness and melee all around, six fanatics rose as one, from God
knows where and joined him shouting, “Allah ho Akbar, ya Ali, ya Ali,”
charging the Indian positions, simultaneously firing their guns and grenades.
Ahmed and Qurban were mowed to death before they could cover four yards.
Havaldar Pun, Lance Naik Piru and Rifleman Bhopal, did not feel the blindness,
which overtook them as the grenades burst all around their ambush position.
Gobar, who had crawled to a small cleft of stones to get extra LMG magazine,
felt the earth shake around him. He quickly recovered his wits and urged,
“Piru left, fire left, Piru fire the stupid LMG.”
He stared at Piru. It seemed million seconds before he realized that Piru
was lying on the LMG, unmoving. Oh my God, Piru is dead.
“Pun, Bhupi help me. Piru is wounded, come to the LMG, help me,”
Gobar shouted.
He quickly scanned around. The twisted shapes of all his comrades momentarily
visible in pyrotechnic light told him the grim story. Oh my God I am alone,
thought Gobar.
“Kali Ma give me courage,” he muttered under his breath.
He grabbed the LMG and cocked the bolt while taking aim at the advancing
enemy shouting, “Ya Ali, Ya Ali.
He carefully aimed at the centre of the chest of the fanatic goading other
men.
He pressed the trigger in rising panic. Noise of an empty click was all
he could hear.
No, not at this time, his weapon could not misfire. Not at this crucial
juncture. Kali Ma don’t desert me now, he prayed. Shit, no time to
reload. He watched death in numbers charging at him. ‘Diwali aur maut,’
his inert Havaldars retort filtered into his ears. His hand automatically
slipped to his right waist. It was better to die fighting than be mowed
down like a rat.
Baje, I will make you proud today.
Brandishing his khukri high above his head, he jumped out of his position
and charged the enemy crying, “Ayo re Gorkhali, ayo re Gorkhali.”
Animal instincts overtook him. He was a tiger fighting for his survival.
There was no fear. His mind, his hands were in complete union with his Baje’s
jewel; the eighteen-inch long khukri. Suddenly he found himself surrounded
by bunch of hostile men. They momentarily withheld fire, to avoid fratricide
amongst them. Gobar was not in mood to give them a second stupid chance.
Kill the cobra when you are facing him, his body talked.
The first arc of downward stroke bisected a neck. The cut was clean and
clear. Abdul didn’t even feel the prick.
The fountain of blood hit Bhogal’s face. It sprayed on to his face
as an intoxicating perfumed deodorant. Like barbers aerosol, phush-phush,
it hit his hot face. He felt better, the warm blood cooling his boiling
head.
Gul saw in fascination the head fall off Abdul’s shoulders, bounce
like a rubber football and tumble onto his feet.
The backstroke split the abdomen of the second jihadi. His guts burst, intestines
slowly slithering out, spilling on the ground.
Like a beast possessed Gobar charged at the remaining three.
In the semi-darkness of the night, Gul spied on a strange glow emanating
from this advancing madman. Due to an illumination flare bursting directly
overhead, he saw an eerie looking, slit-eyed man, face covered in blood,
his tongue darting out to savor its taste, advance menacingly. A feary man
eating cannibal. The Indians had employed cannibals. The advancing one seemed
to be enjoying the taste of body fluids sprayed on his face and oh God what
will he do to his body. To be eaten and not buried. Surely there would be
more such animals behind him. Simple dread of an adam khor overtook his
steely nerves, “Run, run, turn back, run,” he mumbled, scared
for the first time in his life.
Mehmood, about to press the trigger at his AK-47 at the advancing devil,
hesitated for a fraction of a second on hearing Gul’s voice. It cost
him his life.
Gobar’s khukri flew like a missile, impacted with a thud and then
bisected his ribs into two. In the same running stride, Gobar plucked out
his weapon protruding out from half kneeling man and started running after
the remaining two enemies.
“Run, run, run,” screamed Gul.
In the darkness, Gul ran. His life depended on how fast his legs churned
the ground beneath his feet and he ran very fast in the darkness of night.
He ran fast not knowing where he ran. He ran fast over the dead bodies of
his fallen comrades. He ran fast over an overhang. His body flew very fast
in the air. He shrieked in agony and fear as no ground came to meet him
and when it did after about five seconds, he had blissfully fainted.
“Ayo re Gorkhali,” Gobar let out a blood curling war cry as
he covered the last five yards with a long leap from a small platform of
rocks above and crashed into the last visible jihadi.
Blinded by fear, the jihadi got up and turned towards Gobar. In the red
paleness of the bursting para illuminating bombs above, he could see the
glint reflect off the steel of the khukri as it raced towards his head.
Instinctively he raised his hands above his head in protection. The steel
blade sliced through his left ulna just ricocheting enough to miss his neck.
“Oh Allah, have mercy. Please, please don’t kill me,”
he howled in pain and slumped to the ground, one hand less.
Gobar quickly grabbed the AK-47 fallen from the hands of the whimpering
man and with contempt granted him his life wish. Slowly he surveyed the
scene below. In semi-lit night he could register some persons running back
into the nallah. Back into the vaginal hole from where they had emerged
the first time. In a jubilant cry he again shouted, “Ayo re Gorkhali,”
and led out a wild burst from the captured weapon, in no direction in particular.
For Gurung, about three hundred metres distant, the events flashed in sonic
speed, too fast for his brain to register all the intricacies of the firefight.
Initially he could discern the firing from all the ambush sites. Noises
of grenades bursting and wild chatter of guns and anguished cries filtered
back to his position, three hundred metres back, clearly.
“Good, keep the illumination on,” he excitedly shouted to his
fifty-one millimetre mortar detachment commander. “Keep the area illuminated
every thirty seconds. Yes, keep the point of burst much to the left and
short. Strong wind is blowing away from us and don’t forget to fire
HE in between,” in addition he instructed.
Suddenly unmistakable cries of, “Allah O Akbar, ya Ali,” filled
the semi-lit surroundings. Shrieks, cries of pain, of hollering mercies,
of whimpered defeat, of pungent prayers, of goading, of excitement, of battle
whoops and also wails of despair followed. Intermingled, overlapping, the
riot of noise defied decipherable acoustics. After a few seconds later,
ominous silence whiplashed his soul.
“Oh my God,” he muttered. “The firing had stopped from
No. 4 ambush. The enemy seems to have overrun the boys,” he fearfully
intuited.
“Sahib, no firing is heard from No. 4 ambush. Yes, just some shouts,
yes. Seems enemy has overrun the ambush. Kuch aur madad karo,” (Provide
some more help) he shouted in sheer panic and helplessness into his radio
set. |
| |
| Unit HQ, Mother Ridge |
| |
(Few Seconds Later)
“Mortar action,” the magnetic voice boomed out of the megaphone.
“Direction; 233°, height 56° and 30 minutes. Charge four,
three rounds, quick mortar fire,” the megaphone croaked again.
The 4.5 kg Mortar High Explosive bomb, slipped 61 inches down the length
of the barrel. As its tail fin hit the base plate, the static firing pin
struck the igniter cap. Heat and friction due impact initiated a small spark
side, igniting the primary cartridge. The small crescendo of a resultant
bigger fire and flash reduced to ash the retaining cardboard that held them.
The fire then raced through the steel transmitting tube where it was evenly
distributed to further ignite 30 grams of Xenon explosive. The slipped on
secondary charges burnt furiously exalted by Xenon, producing pressures
up to 400 tonnes per square inch, inside the confines of the mortars steel
tube chamber.
Gases finding no escape route, hurled the mortar bomb back, upwards the
barrel at a velocity of 372 metres per second, enough to cover 4000 yards
distance to the target. The sudden upward jerk allowed a small steel ball
inside the head of the bomb unhinge from its groove, freeing a striking
pin. Under the tension of a helical spring, the striking pin came out of
its encasement. Simultaneously the detonator cap rotating on its axis rested
when it came just below the striking pin. All these chemical and mechanical
forces executed in microseconds armed the bomb, as it was just about 15
metres from the mouth of the mortar tube.
The oval shaped 379mm long low-grade metallic body, gracefully flew up in
the air. The tail fins quivered and rotated the bombs to give it stability
in the flight. At 1300 metres above the ground, almost half way up to the
target, all sixteen of them, one by one, came momentarily to stand still
as gravitational forces conquered the chemical counter parts. The nose dipped
down and with increasing speed each second they raced down to meet the mother
earth. On impacting with the ground, the brass nose body buckled and the
striking pin crumbled into the detonator, which initiated 705 grams of the
main filling of TNT, into a blast of fire and death.
|
| |
| On The LoC
|
| |
(Thirty-Two Seconds Later)
They generally arrive without a warning, despite what all foggy old soldiers
say.
Gobar did not hear the expected distinctive shrill whine of overhead passing
bombs as they exploded hundred yards ahead of him. The earth suddenly seemed
to spew up smoke and fire from its bowls. The distinctive accompanying crunch
of simultaneously bursting bombs was deafening.
The belt of mortar fire caught the remaining infiltrators as they were running
down the slope.
They were plain unlucky. God was not in a mood to bestow any largesse upon
them.
The target registered earlier was the river they had crossed, at least three
hundred metres more distant. Due to the process of silent registration of
the targets (i.e., not active firing) the first shock of bomb discharge
bedded the mortars by additional two inches into the soft ground, reducing
the elevation by a degree, just enough for the bombs to fall two hundred
metres short, smack in their middle.
“Mortars again, three rounds, rapid fire,” boomed a voice three
thousand yards in their rear.
Thud, thud, thud, replied mortars in largo musical harmony.
Many mangled men had managed to reach the rivulet line.
The bad luck persisted.
Fate was anti them. God had chosen to abandon them.
Bombs now following the true trajectory due to the corrected bearings, fell
in an area of hundred yards square. Each bomb with a killing radius of about
nine metres, it completely saturated the crossing over the mountain rivulet.
Few who had reached it were riddled by millions of bursting steel shrapnel.
Human blood mingled with icy cold water of the Khuni Nallah, flowed merrily
down the mountain slope. Nothing disturbed its magical crystalline flow.
Its water had tasted similar blood in 1965, 1971 and at a few occasions,
of late. The silent river smiled. It had lived up to its name in totality.
Strangely the taste was all too familiar. Strangely, the taste was not religion
or army differentiating. Strangely, despite men of different armies falling,
its colour remained same – deep crimson red.
Gobar was flush with childlike excitement. These had been the most fascinating
minutes of his life. His hands were quivering as adrenaline pumped into
his veins. In fascination he kept on walking slowly down the slope. Oblivious
of the friendly fire raking the ground around him, he jumped with joy, when
the second salvo fell smack in centre of running shapes.
“Don’t ever come back this way, you swines,” he shouted,
waving the captured gun and his khukri in equal measure, with both hands.
Naik Deb Magar in number three ambush, observed a man wave hands, trying
to rally the running men. He quickly brought his sniper rifle to his shoulder
and aimed in the hue of his weapons night-sight. The maniac’s silhouette
was clearly visible against the silvery background. It had to be a side
shot, the issue he had no control over, except the dire necessity to kill
that terrorist herder. The crossbar in the telescope aligned with the shoulder
of the man. It would be a difficult shot at that range and an impossible
one at night.
The agitated figure stilled for a second.
But that was the reason that he had been an Army sniper champion for last
three years in running.
With weightless finger he then pressed the sensitive trigger.
The bullet traversed four hundred metres in less than 1/5th of a second.
Gobar felt as if a mule had kicked him.
Before he lost consciousness, he saw the proud face of his Baje smiling
from the heavens above.
|
| |
| Pak Post Kabul
|
| |
(2256h, 03 Mar)
Subedar Mastan Gillani, the commander of the Pakistani Post Kabul, after
a very gratifying meal, was about to open his second shoe, when he heard
the first stucco of fire. Instantly, his fat nose flared again much to his
discomfort. He ran barefoot outside his bunker and shouted, “Khan
man the MMG, Gul seems to be in trouble.”
Three kilometres behind, Major Irfan picked up the telephone after five
rings. Who could it be at 10.57 PM, he thought, picking up the telephone?
He was getting late for his date with that infidel low caste woman. Subedar
Mastan’s agitated voice came through the handset irritating his impatient
mind.
“Sir, I think Tirs group has been detected. I can hear a lot of firing
ahead.”
“Why the hell are you speaking to me, you fool. Go out and fire back.
Extricate the group. Move, move,” shouted back Irfan.
Mastan dropped the telephone like a hot potato. He hobnobbed with one shoe
outside his living bunker.
“Khan, you fool, open fire,” he screamed. Getting no response,
he rushed to the MMG bunker and saw Khan with his crew of three getting
the MMG belts out.
“Fire you bhainchod, fire, target the Indian post quickly,”
he thundered.
“But sir,” quipped in Khan.
“Magar kya, can’t you hear me, fire,” thundered Mastan
in total madness. Then he looked around. The men had started coming out
of their living shelters, curious to witness the sounds of battle raging
below. Oh God! They were not protected.
“Stop, stop Khan, wait. Everyone get back into your concrete bunkers
first. Those tin sheets don’t stop bullets,” he screamed running
along the crawl trench connecting various living huts and using choicest
expletives in urging everyone inside the bunkers.
“Get inside, we have to help jihadis, but get back inside the bunkers
first,” Mastan pleaded.
“Sentry, can you see where the firing is coming from,” he remembered
to ask and he went running past the post lookout man. He was perspiring
badly. His forehead was shining with sweat. His two eyes were darting left
and right in uncertainty, as he craned his neck forward to look in the direction
of his woes.
“It’s below and to my right, see those Para flares are illuminating
the area,” the sentry replied pointing with his extended arm.
“Khan now what are you waiting for, fire, fire,” thundered Mastan,
heading towards the MMG post, about fifteen metres behind.
“Sir, the MMG will not dip down to that elevation. This position is
unsuitable,” quivered Khan, totally confused.
“Then change the bloody location,” he screamed, slapping his
forehead with his right hand repeatedly in sheer frustration and ran puffing
and panting to speed up the whole issue by his personal intervention.
Khan and his bullied men had almost fed the belt of first MMG clip into
the MMG feed tray at the alternative firing position, when he heard the
unmistakable sounds of heavy mortars being fired. The resounding echo was
ominous.
“Wait, Khan wait,” he whispered, putting his arm on Khan’s
shoulder.
He stared into the darkness ahead. The salvos of mortar bombs falling thirty-two
seconds later dimmed his resolution further to fire back.
He had a very sudden urge to pee. No, he wanted to crap first, he thought.
These Indians, will give him ulcers. Since when have they begun to retaliate
so ferociously, thought Mastan? Earlier, they never used to fire back, and
now a days, at the slightest opportunity, they shower down heavy volume
of fire. Shit, he reminisced, his whole planning to serve calmly on the
LoC, in front of scared shitless Indians, based on his previous experience,
had badly misfired.
“Wait, don’t fire, don’t fire. Indians are firing mortars.
I am sure they will target us if we open fire. Remember what happened last
time. Major sahib does not know of the conditions in the front,” he
added irritably.
|
| |
| Near Post Khukri
|
| |
(2330h, 03 Mar)
Havaldar Tirath Nath, lying behind the bushes, on the flank of 1965 vintage
minefield, let loose a burst of AK-47 in the direction of the sound. In
fact he emptied his whole magazine in one single press of the trigger. The
crescendo of fire and bullets caught Risal simultaneously. His thighs fragmented.
Risal had catapulted back and fell into Reshab’s hands, even before
he could utter a stifled scream.
For Tirath, it was a very lucky shot.
He had not seen any target as such. He had fired in the approximate direction
of the scraping suspicious sound and on seeing some movement in the bushes.
It was against his Company Commanders’ personal orders to open fire
only when you can see the grey of enemy’s eyes. He was proceeding
on pension in the next two days and he be damned if he took any stupid chances.
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| Islamabad, Pakistan
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(0315h, 04 Mar)
“Hello, good morning, Malik here.”
“Yes, it’s Lieutenant General Tarik Mohammed,” replied
a sleepy voice.
“You might be interested in collecting some body-bags near Haji Pir
Sector, today.”
“What are you talking about,” wide-awake now, General Tarik
thundered.
“As if you don’t know,” came a quiet retort. “ If
you don’t,” the voice continued, “You can check with your
Brigadier Mustaq, Commander of 209 Brigade at Haji Pir.”
“Listen, General Malik, don’t beat about the bush. First you
wake me up at 0315h in the morning and then you talk nonsense,” Tarik
berated. He was annoyed at his counterpart giving the name of his Brigade
Commander. So much for confidentiality.
“Well, for your information there was an infiltration attempt from
your post 113, South West of Haji Pir at Grid Reference 789456 and if you
are interested in collecting a few remains please do let us know,”
replied Malik quietly.
“Mister Malik, we do not violate international boundaries or for that
matter any disputed lines. Nor do we infiltrate anyone across, for what
happens in your country is your business. I am sure they must have been
ingenious Kashmiri brethren, who would have attacked your post, to repel
an offending and obnoxious occupation forces. For freedom, people do fight.
I claim no responsibility for innocent people you may have butchered,”
he paused to take breath and continued, “Moreover, we are sure that
perpetuated massacre of innocent Kashmiris is in your territory. You want
us to react so India can sing to the entire world of our involvement.
“A good speech General,” Malik interjected and continued, “But
what about the body-bags. I am sure you would want a few families of your
service personnel and may be ISI to see their near ones, even if dead.”
“Well, in the name of humanity, I will instruct my post to observe
cease fire till 1200 Noon with effect from 0530AM today. You can search
for your dead soldiers or you wouldn’t have rung me up like this,”
rasped visibly offended General Tarik.
“OK, 0530 AM to 12 Noon today. Do instruct your post to fly a white
flag. Ours will do the same,” reconfirmed his Indian counterpart.
Lieutenant General Malik, quietly put down the phone, disconnecting the
hot line established between the Director General Military Operations of
both intransigent neighbours. He closed his eyes and pressed his palms on
them to relieve that throbbing pain and irritation in his eyes due to lack
of sleep. Picking up the fourth black phone from array of seven adorning
his desk, he quickly passed stream of instructions into it.
By count of hundred many were scurrying around like mad bitten rabid dogs
to meet the deadline. |
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| Indian Post Khukri
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(0500h, 04 Mar)
The dawn broke majestically over the Pir Panjal ranges.
Redolence of beauty was stunning, winds aromatic.
The sunrays caught and illuminated the lofty Himalayan peaks to the North,
in rich golden colours, first. The Kargil ranges to the North West stood
tall, stubborn and uncompromising in its cavalier arrogance, scoffing the
lowly human minnows below. Famous sacred lofts of Vaishno Devi to the South
East emitted their holy radiance from a halo formed by the sun’s reflection.
The Jhelum River in the centre of the vale, was winding down the Uri gorge,
like a silver strand, as it had been doing since ages, fed by thousands
of silent steams from above.
Beauty awed hypnotic trance, engulfed uncomplicated greys in dermatitis
infected cranium, affixed not very ceremoniously atop Colonel Thapa’s
lumbering body.
My God, what a beautiful sight, bewitching, he introspected. Beautiful enough
to behold any man and captivating enough to nurture brazen lust for it.
This was the nearest one could come to heaven on earth. Yes, this was what
we are fighting for. Any fool would fight for it with blood. This was an
ancient land where basis of his religion were tempered in soul searching,
by rishi’s and munni’s. The vale was magical in its purest omnipotent
form. It was breathtaking in its various manifestations. So why blame Pakistanis
for indulging in such a wishful dream. It would disrepute any part of a
society not willing to spilling blood over it. The wind had died down to
a slow gentle breeze and it did carry the sting of its chill along. The
snows had not melted fully. The soft patches of creamy flakes constructed
designs of gigantic white marble buildings in the foreground.
Colonel Thapa had rushed to the Khukri post at night when the battle in
Khuni Nallah was enjoined and was sitting cross-legged on a shivering wooden
bench at the OP location of his post. He looked down and to the left, across
his shoulder, towards Major Shamsher and asked, “Are all arrangements
in place?”
“Yes sir,” Shamsher nodded.
Colonel Thapa then turned his torso right and shifted his gaze on a small
dominating knoll within the company perimetre fence. Atop it flew a white
flag tied to a bamboo pole. The makeshift bed sheet of required size replicating
as a peace flag, was fluttering lazily in the wind.
“Are the battalion mortars on stand to?” He inquired further
scratching his dandruff-ridden baldhead.
“Yes sir,” shot back Shamsher.
“What about artillery effort?” he further quizzed scratching
the peppered red flesh even more furiously.
“Sir, the Brigade Major Zusti confirmed that 113 Medium Battery and
86 Heavy Mortar Battery have been instructed to provide support to us. In
fact, their OP officers have reached the ridgeline overlooking Khuni Nallah.
They were in position by 0445 hours,” said Shamsher in one breath.
“Good,” muttered Thapa leaving the itchy bald dome alone to
the mercy of fate and lifting his binoculars he peered toward the enemy
post. He could spy a similar white flag against the pale blue-sky line.
“You can move now, but remember be alert. Don’t approach any
dead body directly. Cover each body with two men each, and then one person
should approach from one side. Remove the weapons and grenades first,”
he paused to shift his legs, which were getting cramped in the cold and
before he could look up or kill more erupting itch, Shamsher intervened.
“Yes sir, all the boys have been instructed accordingly. Two officers,
two JCOs and fifty-two men are ready to move out sir,” replied a crisp
military voice with an equally crisp salute and then Shamsher turned back
to vamoose towards his standing comrades. That’s the best way to disengage
from the old man, mused Shamsher or his instructions will never end. The
old goat still treated him like a toddler he cuddled with a few generations
back. I know how to deal with an unclaimed body. Shoot a round into that
dead corpse to confirm his total inertness. Balls if one or two men will
approach them without firing. Hadn’t one presumably twenty hour old
dead terrorist got up and shot one Lieutenant Colonel, in another sector,
only recently. Yes, he should use silencer carbines as not to create ruckus
near the LoC.
“In single file, move forward,” he shouted further instructions
to his men, gathered in three rows deep, in a hollow square formation.
Each file, turned left and in its order of march, headed out of the company
post. The leading man was carrying another white flag as a precautionary
measure. One by one the soldiers crossed the company perimetre gate and
dipped their heads in abeyance to “Goddess Kali” whose small
idol had been placed in a small wooden structure, at the exit. The leading
man turned to his right away from the gravelled road into a well-beaten
foot track going down to Khuni Nallah. As Shamsher crossed the gate, he
glanced at his Rolex watch, a present from his sister settled in the U.S.
It read 05:29 AM.
All staff officers, holding any worthwhile portfolio, had already started
eating his and his adjutant’s head. They all wanted the complete story,
exactly as it had happened, even before it had been concluded and were aghast,
when he shut them up by saying, “Wish I knew.” They were already
rumbling at the inefficiency of reporting after seven hours of the incident.
Only if they could pass their silly slips of papers, in pitch dark night,
from one desk to another, without using their massive generators, expeditiously,
he would tell them how information flows at night, from ambushes facing
the real enemy, specially when one is totally wiped out, reflected Thapa
irritably. Staff officers were the bane of this not-so-bad army. Their efficiency
was proportional to production of information where none existed.
The ambushes had come back at 0400 hours just before the first light.
It was remarkable that Subedar Gurung had brought back all men safely, without
an incident, when he had made an impromptu rendezvous at night and even
had searched non-responding ambush party site to discover unconscious and
wounded three soldiers. All men alive or wounded had been accounted for
except one Rifleman Gobar Singh. The thought had millions of ants sprinting
across his sensitive top hide. He only prayed that he had not been captured
by those barbarous Afghanis who constituted the bulk of Kashmiri militants.
He was sure they would send back his body minus all his vital parts. Those
barbarians loved mutilating bodies, an apt reflection of their rich culture
and religious beliefs. Very intriguing was the fact that Pak post had not
opened up as on earlier occasions. No fire support to infiltrating columns?
What was their game plan now? Were they infiltrators or their regulars coming
to attack his post? In this madness, Pak was capable of doing anything.
Only the search will reveal the complete truth.
More interestingly, he had seen company boys dragging an unconscious man,
when he had entered the post yesterday night. According to Havaldar Tirath
there were two of them, but one had managed to escape. The unconscious terrorist
had been dutifully disrobed and each nook on him was checked. From his combat
pouch, they had recovered a coded signal matrix and crisp Indian five hundred
rupee notes, whose counting had stopped at one thousand and thirty. He also
had the latest Japanese Kenwood radio set, like he had not seen earlier.
He must be an important person, an organizer, and provider or otherwise
so much cash on the person was unexplainable.
He would love to interrogate him, but first, he had to survive. |
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| Khuni Nallah
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(0530h to 1200h, 04 Mar)
Lieutenant Thapar had been searching continuously for over five hours.
He had not slept for the last thirty-six hours, being out for night ambushes
first and then being quickly inducted for search. Well, fatigue disappears
when actions are live, he reasoned. He had slowly enlarged the area of the
search, fanning out tactically, but the tale of violence had been confined
to a small quadrant. Till now, they had discovered twenty-six dead and initial
few interesting ones had their bodies cleaved. Finally, more evidence of
severed limbs, led them to where Rifleman Gobar Singh lay. His left shoulder
was a bloody mess, but surprisingly there was life in him. Gobar along with
two other wounded but unconscious mujahids, had been evacuated, half an
hour back. Now he was almost at the tip of Khuni Nallah’s famous bend
from where the whole nightmare had begun. As he topped a small rise before
the embankment, he saw another macabre sight.
In the riverbed lay sixteen corpses. The water in their immediate surroundings
was still deep crimson red which slowly retained its natural blue tinge
further down the stream.
“Bayen dushman, position,” warned his section commander and
all quickly dived for any available cover.
Thapar cautiously peered over a stump of a tree, and assessing the void
of any perceivable threat, slowly brought up his binoculars to scan the
hazardous zone right ahead. Across, he made out a kneeling person in Khaki’s,
almost aping his actions. From his opponents position to the right and above
from a rock face vertically thirty metres up, a bipod and the barrel of
a light machine gun was protruding out, menacingly. Bravado apart, none
ventured without their pet henchmen.
Their binoculars, locked on each other simultaneously, trying to fathom
any hidden threats. There seemed none.
Instantaneously the hands of both went up in air, lingered for a few seconds,
then waving in exaggerated manner for an assured sighting. Recognizing the
unique officer clan, the forty-metre divide between them disappeared suddenly.
Tall, well-built Major Irfan, with unmistakable Pathani built, nursing a
pistol in his left hand, shook hands with Thapar, who had slung his INSAS
rifle across his shoulders casually, in a cocked position.
“Well it seems your chaps had a terrible night,” said Irfan,
disengaging his hands and casually looking over Thapa’s shoulder to
discern any unpleasant observations. You could never trust these Indians.
Thapar eyed him squarely and replied, “Well the misery is all yours
to reap.” He simultaneously adjusted the slant of his beret; an innocent
gesture picked up immediately by his section commander, indicating all was
fine up to now. You could never trust a Pakistani.
“You will be picking up the bodies now,” inquired Irfan smiling
but a bit peeved at counter-part’s flamboyant answer.
“Yes immediately, but technically those two are in your territory,”
he replied, pointing to two mangled masses on the further edge of the stream.
“Well you can dump them anywhere as far as I am concerned. These are
not our people. By the way how many casualties did you suffer,” Irfan
inquired, staring expectantly at Thapar.
“Sir, definitely less than what you lost last month at your post.
By the way including them, it will be forty-two dead infiltrators,”
Thapar quickly added ten more, just for an effect.
And the effect was clearly visible.
“What? You must be fibbing,” paling Irfan countered in typical
Queen’s English. Holy shit, he thought. The whole group had been wiped
out. Only three badly injured jihadis had limped back till now to tell the
shocking tale of the gory ambush.
“Major, we do not lie. It’s not in our military ethics,”
shot back Thapar.
“Then you better work fast. Only an hour is left, before the guns
boom again my friend,” said Irfan cockily and then turned back.
It was exactly four minutes to twelve when the parties trudged back over
the crest line. Shamsher turned left for the company post. It had been a
very tiring and a cumbersome task, lugging the dead bodies and recovered
equipment. He had reprimanded Thapar for so impulsively walking over to
meet the Pak Major, but what Thapar had narrated was worth writing in the
Battalion War Book. As he had covered about hundred paces up the rocky path
he looked towards the Pakistani Post. The white flag was coming down and
red one had temporarily been installed. A similar gesture was being reciprocated
by the Indian post Khukri.
The temporary man-imposed truce was over, and the war zone was declared
red, redder, hot red and deep red once again. One could also coin hot, hotter,
hottest, piping hot, burning hot, scorching hot, seething hot, steaming
hot, sizzling hot, scalding hot or any other wishful hot and jumble them
in any haphazard manner and be right in intention all the time. Shoot to
kill; live to shoot, shoot at sight, kill at will, the madness was back
in business, in its full gusto.
Back in his ten feet deep and ten feet thick bunker, tucked inside his warm
cozy down feather-quilted bed, Shamsher amusedly went over his dear ex-academy
pal Jesse’s letter. He incidentally would be relieving him at the
same location in a few months. What caught his fancy was his friend’s
one of the famous quips, which he had noted as one of his universal laws.
It read; that a successful ambush is equal to the total sum of, the hand
of god, lots and lots of luck, abundance of careless and overconfident enemy
multiplied by and to the power cube to the total number of brainless dodos
you can muster to go where the enemy actually treads.
He had a hearty laugh.
Assuredly they had not been very intelligent.
|
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| Khukri Post
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(1700 h, 04 Mar)
General Rocky Dass was going over the line of dead bodies. “Who did
that?” he inquired about the headless corpse.
“Sir, I believe when our ambush ran out of ammunition, Rifleman Gobar
Singh charged the enemy with his khukri,” replied Colonel Thapa.
“How come did the ambush run out of ammunition? Weren’t they
carrying adequate in the first place? What scale did they carry?”
inquired the General staring at Thapa.
Thapar quickly bit his tongue for stupidly blabbering more information than
required. This chap pounces on you like a hawk hardly giving you a breather
to recover the lost ground. “Well sir the ammunition is as per on
the weapon scale, but it seems that due to infiltrators retaliation our
party got neutralized and only Rifleman Gobar was fit enough to carry on
the battle. The use of under barrel grenades came as a surprise,”
muttered Thapar, a little incoherently.
“Ahm, I see,” reflected the General nodding. “What else,”
he again asked.
“Sir, we have killed thirty-two infiltrators, captured two in wounded
state and as regards arms and ammunition, there are twenty-six AK-56 of
Chinese origin, six 51mm mortars, three rocket launchers, eight sniper rifles,
ninety-nine kg of RDX, fifty-six detonators, seventy-eight grenades, fifteen
Kenwood radio sets and approximately five thousand rounds of assorted ammunition,”
said Thapa, consulting a little notebook off and on, “Worst is this
launcher. I believe it’s a Stinger anti-aircraft missile,” he
further stuttered, pointing at it, accusingly. His brain fidgeted whether
to report about the cash recovered. His heart was not in tune with this
moralistic blurting all the facts. He was already lagging behind in the
payment schedule to his sources and more dough was not visible in the horizon.
If army trusted him with lives of about eight hundred souls, then a lakh
of cash will not corrupt his mind. Report, the money will go into the government
treasury to be misused by corrupt contractors and other palm greasers. He
had better intended use for it to fight the terrorists.
“What there to believe colonel. It is an anti-aircraft launcher. Enough
arms to start a bloody war,” observed General Dass examining perhaps
the first catch of such a missile tube and its assortments. He then searched
visually for his staff officer who was busy scribbling something in his
notebook, as usual. “Tell Colonel Intelligence to give me an update
the moment I reach the headquarters and also call Mushtaq of Liaison Unit
along with him,” he instructed. Turning back to Colonel Thapa, he
added, “Ensure all boys are properly recommended and where’s
Shamsher. Ah, there you are. Come here my son,” clasping his hands
he continued, “that was an excellent show. Keep up the good work.
I want his name too,” nodding towards now beaming Thapa.
“Subedar Major shabash, ladkon ko meri badhai dena. Morale up rakho,”
(Subdar Major congratulations, give the boys my fecilitations. Keep the
morale high) : he said before moving out.
“Yes sir,” in a blur of movement, Subedar Major saluted the
General, stiff as a rock. |
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