A distant “PHATAK!!!...
...and then “FIZZIT!” a 7.62 mm tracer bullet draws
a momentary streak across the carbon sky, only to get embedded in the
darkness of the brush.
A distant thunder burst of 155 mm high explosive artillery shells pounding
the barren wasteland, tells me, war is
just an ugly dusk away.
Just
this morning a volley of 12.7 mm steel core bullets tore through my post’s best machine gunner. The same round after whisking off tissues and muscle from his
right arm, had butchered and burst through his thigh bone. God knows what’s in
store for him. GSW (Gun Shot Wound) - that is what they had labelled him. A routine military medical jargon abbreviation that had changed the life of “my best machine gunner”.
Its
0115 hours, inky black all around, with the freezing January winds piercing with ease through the
fabric of my synthetic camouflage jacket and further down through layers of
clothing, hitting my skin like shards of ice. My toes are numb & my fingers feel brittle as stabs of pain
ripple across my chilled body. My bunker’s been hit by more than a hundred
rounds from the enemy post a mile away in the last couple of hours. The day’s incident sure has ignited nerves
on the both sides of the no mans land. Already more than a thousand rounds have
been spoofed off on the shadows of the enemy tree line.
“Batta
tata-r-atata-a-tak !” and then “keeeeeneeee!"
My ears are singing as another burst of cursed 7.62mm copper coated, steel core
messengers of death take their flight from the lips of my angst ridden barrel.
Seconds later a thumping “bhud- bhud- bhud! Sends an army of 12.7 mm heavy calibre enemy bullets across my bunker, tearing through the sand bags and narrowly missing
the 'SOLDIER' brand FM/AM radio that hung to the side of
my wall bunker.
I think to myself a bit disgruntled – “the night is still
young”
It’s
been just over a week since I’ve been commissioned into the Infantry. Two stars
on my shoulders and no moon in my shadowed sky. In living the birth of history
as the torrents of war tears through it’s pages leaving in its wake bloody tales
written in glory.
I’m
scared, a simple and naive fear, a totally human stimulus to intangible danger. My thoughts are
a hazy conglomeration of questions.
Why am I here-destiny or choice?
Am I
cut out for this life?
Can I face the horrors as people fall like autumn leaves
all around me?
Can I, a lieutenant all of 21 yrs, live through this hell of war?
Will anyone ever hold my hand, whisper
words of dew like solace, share my fears or lend a shoulder?
Will anyone
ever know what happens here today? Or will they even care?
Ha! Alas an officer is a lone wolf. A
solitary aura, sans friends. Just a shade of seniors, juniors, followers and
our load of blood loyal troops looking upto you for that divine strength. But
then, each of them too is living a lonely battle of his own. For some it is the
worry of their aged parents hounded by local goons to grab land and property,
while for others it is the future of his children and for many the oblivion
of what tomorrow brings.
It is in situations likes these, when
courage sure does not come easy. Nothing for that matter, stays easy and then
perhaps it is only the lessons from your tough times buried in the past that comes to a humble rescue.
It is a painful past that for me had happened only about eight months and seemingly a 100 years
ago. As a part of the rigours of military training.
It’s
been five days and we have been conducting exercises on defence & attack
on the baked banks of a dry riverbed. Lack
of sleep and too many of the “warming sessions” (the usual load of Army's bundle of physical
punishments), had eaten away a couple off kilos off my already skinny body.
Sunken cheeks, burnt skin and brutal bug bites, had misery encrypted on me. The
sweat and coats of dirt on my skin did not make things any better. The dust had
blanketed everything around with a dull brown - the landscape, our green dungarees, web
packs, boots and drill rifles. For as far as your disillusioned eyes could see,
there lay the same upset terrain and scatterings of that God dammed prickly
bush that kept tearing your skin as you moved through them. We looked like
ghosts from Mars; burnt, hungry, disgusted, bruised and abused. Zombies in a
dull nightmare, very much like tortured prisoners of war. In training’s name, we are
roughing it out like blasted dogs.
This is when the going gets tough…and the
tough have to get going.
The
bruised cadets have been walking for hours now. It’s the Runback, a 24 hour
route march in battle loads with personal weapons, no water & no food while
speeding through miles of rivers, ridges, hills & peaks, only to finish off
with the battle obstacle course, which is further followed by rifle firing at
300m and not to forget the never ending disgust of contents and equipment check
parades.
A
couple of hours back. The runback had just started as cadet after cadet marched
on towards the first check point. The morale high, as the snaking trail ahead of
us led to the first stop, a check point atop a 2250m high devil of a mountain. It gazed at us
likes a phantom; calm, unshakeable, yet seemingly quite close. Deep inside I
gave myself a maximum of two and a half hours to touch the top.
An
hour and a half later, we were still walking. Still walking towards the base of
the hill on the same road, gradually sloping towards the enormous mountain.
Enroute one of the exhausted cadets, not being able to keep pace with his
remaining company had collapsed along the road in exhaustion as his dry lips
went about cursing the organization, the merciless officer instructors who were their ruthless platoon commanders. Eventually he gave up, only to be picked up by his buddy & helped to his
feet.
“Let me carry
your rifle for you man, don’t you give up”, were the gung ho words from another cadet. Tears rolled
down his cheeks while he fought the shame of crying by belting out hollow
abuses.
The relentless heat is draining me. There is a fleeting thought when I’m
surprised that anybody could sweat like that as torrents of sweat trickle down
my brow and into my eyes, momentarily blinding me.
My mouth is dry; my empty
water bottle carries no solace. Dried,
exhausted and tired, we carry on, like POW’s marching to an unknown
destination. The gradient of the climb
kept getting angrier and slowly the pace of the dreary cadets simmered to
laborious sloth-like records.
For each it was a battle of endurance versus failing
strength.
The darkness now was complete. Even
the stars shied away in the otherwise clear night sky. The chilly wind tearing down on us, split nerves
running down your spine. To walk on was
better than to stop and fall prey to the freezing winds. The spur emanating from the mountain was like
a never ending back of some ancient monstrosity, gloriously splattered with
numerous false ridges.
Each time you
thoroughly convinced yourself, as you pettily gazed at the faraway mount, that
this had to be the top of the mountain. “Yes! Just another half an hour to the
top.” But alas, it so wickedly turned
out to be just another damn false ridge. A
brutal joke on the half alive cadets. It
was easier to fool the mind in that conglomeration of desperate souls. The heat had snuffed out all traces of rationality
and focus from our roasted brain. All
along the way lay the fallen ones. The ‘Tough’
get broken by the treacherous climb. For
them the pain was worse than the shame of being a ‘Shaggo’. (Sissy in human terms).
I overhead someone cribbing in a daze, “There
are three types of human - man, Woman and then the lowest of all creations a Cadet”.
One of the younger looking
cadets dropped in his tracks, right over his rifle. His breathing was laboured,
his sweat - large beady blobs, as quietly tears made way through defeated
eyes. That overwhelming pain and exhaustion was a
silent killer. He lay there, shivering in
the vulpine winds, plonked right by his rifle. It was heaven as he lay there. So
easy to give up and lie down than to join the masquerades of fools marching up
the never ending ghost of a mountain.
Paradise was short lived as a Company Senior Cadet walked up, half lifted the fallen cadet and barbed out expletives. “Move on you #%$#@ moron, don’t pull
the company down”.
It was an Inter-company competition. Every
soul had to live through it. Slowly the lifeless carcass of the grounded cadet
lifted itself up, clamping shut all cries of physical pain and out of sheer
dignity, he put one limping feet ahead of another. The shame of letting the company down was more
sinful than self mutilation.
In such circumstances, where
misery was common - yet lay hidden within, If someone had devised an easier way
to let the soul retire, then many would
have given up and be walking the stairways to providence.
HA! But life is never easy. The sun seldom does warm your feet when you are stuck in slush.
We have just reached a
seemingly dead end. A 15 Meter cliff where
a climb seems like a thread walk over the isles of life everlasting. The ensuing chaos was a blessing. Finally some rest! As
many cadets fall over and put down their 16.5 Kg and a hundred megaton backpack. On either sides of the narrow spine of the
ridge, lay a roll of almost a thousand feet.
The wind had become even more chillier and menacingly deviant with its speeds making sounds like a banshee. The sudden halt, let the sweaty cadets have
some rest, but soon the single digit temperature started making it a Siberian
hell as the hour long wait started a hum of shivering cadets with chattering
teeth.
It took some time when after
all the shouting and abusing, people finally became too engaged in their own
frozen misery to talk. Time seemed to
have frozen as the only sound was that of the wind blowing over the fallen
cadets. The wailing wind seemed to bore
right through the sweaty overalls of the fallen ones.
God why have we been forsaken.
Now and then my
torch starts flickering. This was the second set of new battery cells that have
reached its grave. The climb over the cliff had been completed almost half
an hour ago yet the destination seemed like an elusive giant beanstalk with no
end. If we keep going at this rate, it wouldn’t be too soon that we bump
into St Peters at the pearly gates.
The darkness is pierced only by the beams of torches scanning
the boulder littered track to the top. All along there are shouts from those
ahead in the human chain, that water is available on the top. Some call out
with conviction that lemonade is being served
on the top. For most the idea of
a little water was the only motivating thought,
else many would surely have let go & wait for the chopper to pick up
what was left of them the next day. The stronger fear was of being left behind
enroute without water and left facing the cold.
