Merry Christmas

Twas the night before christmas
in a war over seas
a soldier said a prayer
by his bed on his knees
He said 'I don't wanna be here
but i can not leave
Lord please let my family
have a great christmas eve'
This soldier I speak of
Will Have Christmas alone
all that he has
is a package from home
Inside of the package
was a great surprise
it was a picture of his family
he wiped the tears from his eyes
His wife left a note that said
we are all alone
the kids miss their daddy
please hurry back home
his six year old daughter
gave a teddybear to her dad
along with a note
that said this will help when you're sad
The soldier picked up his gun
and went back out to work
and then he noticed a kid
that looked like he was hurt
the soldier said
'What's the matter kid, what is your bother?'
the kid responded by saying
'They just shot my father.'
The soldier said
'I've got something for you, to make you less sad'
Then he pulled out a teadybear and said
let this remind you of your dad
The soldier went on his way
to continue to fight
and said 'Merry Christmas to all
and to all a good night

A SOLDIER DIED TODAY

He was getting old and paunchy
And his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion,
Telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he once fought in
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies;
They were heroes, every one.

And 'tho sometimes to his neighbours
His tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened quietly
For they knew where of he spoke.

But we'll hear his tales no longer,
For ol' jimmy has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer
For a Soldier died today.

He won't be mourned by many,
Just his children and his wife.
For he lived an ordinary,
Very quiet sort of life. 
He held a job and raised a family,
Going quietly on his way;
And the world won't note his passing,
'Tho a Soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth,
Their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing,
And proclaim that they were great. 

Papers tell of their life stories
From the time that they were young
But the passing of a Soldier
Goes unnoticed, and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution
To the welfare of our land,
Some jerk who breaks his promise
And cons his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow
Who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country
And offers up his life?

The politician's stipend
And the style in which he lives,
Are often disproportionate,
To the service that he gives.

While the ordinary Soldier,
Who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal
And perhaps a pension, small.

It is not the politicians/news reporters
With their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom
That our country now enjoys. 

Should you find yourself in danger,
With your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out,
With his ever waffling stand?

Or would you want a Soldier--
His home, his country, his kin,
Just a common Soldier,
Who would fight until the end.

He was just a common Soldier,
And his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us
We may need his like again. 

For when countries are in conflict,
We find the Soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles
That the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honour
While he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage
At the ending of his days.

Perhaps just a simple headline
In the paper that might say:
"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
A SOLDIER DIED TODAY."

 

"Freedom has a taste, and those that have fought for it,

the taste is so sweet the protected will never know…"

• ~ General George Patton

ODE TO AN INDIAN ARMY OFFICER

ODE TO AN ARMY OFFICER

Dedicated to all those unknown unsung and unwept soldiers ,
Who were killed at the first sight by the dead drop looks ........
... For you contours are easy to read than the city maps ,

You feel comfortable in jungles and get lost in metros.
For you time is in hundred hours, 3 ' O clock is a direction,
Distance is always in multiples of hundred meters and you keep on loosing North.
When people meet near pubs, cafes and discs.
You meet near water tanks, bridges and culverts.
For you Kenwood and Motorola are familiar brands of Radio sets
and Apple and Blackberry are fruits.
You never knew cars, mobiles and bikes also had series.
The only series you know is the AK's.
You remember names of all Tanzeems,
but do not know the name of IPL teams.
Stamps on your passport are of Congo and Sudan
where as others go to US, UK and Japan.
You remember the raising days,
but forget the anniversaries and birthdays.
When others talk of CEO and COO,
You only know C with only one O.
For you lol and asap is greek
and you even look for them in Appx 'C'.
When others talk of Pune, Bangalore and Gurgaon
you talk of Poonch, Lalgarh and Bongaigaon.
For you , The Safety Honour and Welfare of your Country comes first ,
Always and Every Time
and women will be from Venus and not from Mars,
always and every time.
For you green and blue are own,
Red and pink are danger zones.
For you the choice of arms was more painful than the break up
and chasing girls tougher than the march up.
You will travel 500 miles to meet her ,
But will expect her to walk the last five steps.
You can take darbar of 120 rusty men for three hours,
But will be afraid to speak three magical words.
You will crack any code or language ,
But one line message of her's
with few dots and exclamation marks will confuse you.
For all those who thinks he is a flirt ,
He will be the last man standing ,
True to his vows and words.........

Guilt and Emotional Trauma – an Army Wife’s Tale

Guilt and Emotional Trauma – an Army Wife’s Tale

This is a true story. This is my story. This is the story of Indo-Pak War of December 1971.

This is the story of the trauma that families undergo when soldiers go to war. This is a story of complex inter-play of human emotions and sensitivities that defy description.

This is the story of a medium sized town in North India where a career in the armed forces is the first choice of the progeny of most families. Preparation for NDA commences soon after secondary level examination. As a result, every family has more than one member in the services.

My husband, a young Captain, was at the battle front. I was 22 years old and expecting my first child. I had come to stay with my parents. Ours was a joint family. There were three more women – my grandmother, my mother and my aunt.

In addition to my husband, brothers of my father, my mother and my aunt were also taking active part in the war. Understandably, there was palpable anxiety in the atmosphere concerning their wellbeing.  

Although my grandmother put up a brave front to provide comfort to others, she spent most of her time praying to all sundry Gods, hoping someone would care to listen to her prayers. In addition to her own son and my husband, she was concerned about the other two members as well.

My mother and aunt went about their routine household chores without any display of the emotional turmoil that they were experiencing. Both were worried about the safety of their brothers. In addition, my mother was deeply concerned about her son-in-law’s wellbeing. I was perhaps too young to grasp the full gravity of the situation.

At times the frightening thought of my husband becoming a war-casualty did cross my mind – ‘will he never see our child’. However, recalling the spirit and confidence with which the troops had departed for the war front, I brushed such thoughts aside. Soldiers’ wives must be equally brave.

During those war-days, a telegram always meant bad news.  Arrival of the postman was dreaded by all families whose members were fighting the war. Ringing of the door-bell or even a casual knock on the door made their hearts skip a beat. Nights were full of anxiety as the postman invariably arrived at that time. Every dawn made them heave a sigh of relief.  The same was true of our family as well.        

It was 8^th of December and the war was at its bitterest worst. The night brought the much-dreaded postman to our door with a telegram. All four women huddled with trepidation in a corner of the verandah to await breaking of the most chilling news. It was certain that one of the four men had been killed in action. The suspense about his identity was nerve-wracking. 

In times of such extreme distress, we humans are forced to make our priorities clear to God while seeking his protection. Can there be anything more trying and agonising than having to make such a choice? Why should we be asked as to who should live and who is dispensable? We, the women of our unfortunate family were also subjected to the same ordeal.

As is human at such times, all of said our silent prayers – “Please God; I hope it is not him”. For all of us, him meant a different person – not that we were not concerned about other members. It is just that all of us have our own set of quotient of emotional attachments.

The eerie silence was finally broken after what appeared to be an eternity – my aunt’s younger brother had made the supreme sacrifice. While she broke down, the others involuntarily heaved a sigh of relief and said a quiet thank-you to their Gods.

Once relieved of our personal anxiety and agony, we controlled our own emotions of reprieve and started calming the grief-stricken lady. Loss of the young brother had shattered her inconsolably. In hindsight, our sudden makeover from petrified weaklings to compassionate consolers appears somewhat odd – maybe it was spontaneous human response on release from intense emotional trauma.  

The news of the ceasefire on 16 December ended our two-week long nightmare. We had been through ‘hell’ was our consensual refrain. Perhaps, our suffering was as severe as the privations faced by our soldiers in war. Whereas soldiers are eulogized for their acts of bravery, their women remain unsung and unrecognised. 

To date, I wonder about the preference my grandmother conveyed to her God on that fateful night – her son or grand-daughter’s husband. It would have been far harder for my mother to choose between her brother and son-in-law. Comparatively, I had an easier choice to make. It is another matter that to date I suffer pangs of guilt for having abandoned my uncles in favour of my husband. Was I being selfish? I have not found any answer as yet.

 

                                             -  by an Army Officer's wife

Soldiers poem

Soldiers poem:

If I die in the war zone,

Box me up and send me home.

Put my medals on my chest,

Tell my mum I did my best

Tell my dad not to bow,

He won't get tension from me now

Tell my brother to study perfectly,

Keys of my bike will be his permanently.

Tell my sister not to be upset,

Her bro will not raise after the sunset

And tell my love not to cry,

Because I'm a soldier,

born to die....... ?

The Final Inspection

THE FINAL INSPECTION

The soldier stood and faced God,
which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.

'Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?'

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
'No, Lord, I guess I isn’t.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny,
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand.

There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.

'Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell.'

Our Son the Soldier
How great a man he must be
To be joined in the fight to
set another part of the world free
Our Son the Soldier
So very proud of you we are
To all of us who love you,
you will always be our shining star
Our Son the Soldier
So far from home and in a foreign place
Just close your eyes to
see a familiar smiling face
Our Son the Soldier
So very far away
We will all be waiting with open
arms on your coming home day

Nikaah & Janaaza

You will love this reality of life... NIKAAH & JANAAZA........ The difference between a wedding and a funeral ! (FARQ SIRF ITNA SA THA) Teri doli uthi, Meri mayyat uthi, Phool tujh par bhi barse, Phool mujh par bhi barse, FARQ SIRF ITNA SA THA Tu sajayi gayi, Mujhe sajaya gaya. Tu bhi ghar ko chali, Main bi ghar ko chala, FARQ SIRF ITNA SA THA Tu uth ke gayi, Mujhe uthaya gaya. Mehfil wahan bhi thi, Log yahan bhi the, FARQ SIRF ITNA SA THA Unka hasna wahan, Inka rona yahan. Qazi udhar bhi tha, Molvi idhar bhi tha, Do bol tere padhe, Do bol mere padhe, Tera NIKKAH padha, Mera JANAAZA pada, FARQ SIRF ITNA SA THA Tujhe Apnaya gaya, Mujhe Dafnaya gaya

The Final Inspection

THE FINAL INSPECTION The soldier stood and faced God, which must always come to pass. He hoped his shoes were shining, Just as brightly as his brass. 'Step forward now, you soldier, How shall I deal with you? Have you always turned the other cheek? To My Temple have you been true?' The soldier squared his shoulders and said, 'No, Lord, I guess I isn’t. Because those of us who carry guns, Can't always be a saint. I've had to work most Sundays, And at times my talk was tough. And sometimes I've been violent, Because the world is awfully rough. But, I never took a penny, That wasn't mine to keep... Though I worked a lot of overtime, When the bills got just too steep. And I never passed a cry for help, Though at times I shook with fear. And sometimes, God, forgive me, I've wept unmanly tears. I know I don't deserve a place, Among the people here. They never wanted me around, Except to calm their fears. If you've a place for me here, Lord, It needn't be so grand. I never expected or had too much, But if you don't, I'll understand. There was a silence all around the throne, Where the saints had often trod. As the soldier waited quietly, For the judgment of his God. 'Step forward now, you soldier, You've borne your burdens well. Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets, You've done your time in Hell.'

Soldier

MY SOLDIER You probably don�t know his story Most will never speak his name You won�t see him in your dreams tonight But you owe him just the same Since that awful day in September He�s proudly stood to fight To serve his grieving nation He needed to do what was right He�d never admit to being a hero That�s not was heroes do Instead of basking in the limelight He�s fighting for the red, white, and blue Every moment he misses his family Every day brings another fight But, it�s a small price to pay for freedom To let his son sleep safe at night He never asked to leave his family He didn�t ask to go to war Never once has he asked himself �What in the hell am I fighting for? Let somebody else fight for freedom! I�m tired of getting low pay! This is what I get for the sacrifice, Of giving my life away?� He proudly serves his country He wears his ribbons for all to see He�s served Old Glory with honor And he�s fought for our liberty.

MP has very vivid memories of his early life as a quadriplegic and about how he learnt to accept the disability, pick up the threads again and start living his second innings. His journey is one of immense courage, and has been described in his own words in an article he wrote titled 'Airborne to Chairborne' which, incidentally, kick-started his writing career.

In the piece he writes how he conquered the bouts of depression and began the second phase of his life in the paraplegic home, thousands of miles away from his native Chirayinkil in Kerala. He slowly and painstakingly taught himself to write by holding a pen in his mouth and finally learnt to use the keyboard of a PC with his mouth.

So inspirational was this article that it found place in the English textbook of schools affiliated to the Maharashtra board and an abridged version has recently been included in the English Reader in Kerala. This has won him many young fans and friends.

I leave you with a few lines from MP's piece 'Airborne to Chairborne:'

'Believe it or not, every cloud has a silver lining. To surmount even seemingly insuperable barriers one has to shun the thought of disability and muster the remnant faculties and canalise ones energies purposefully and whole-heartedly it isn't just physical ability and intelligence but an insatiable appetite for success and unstinted will power that would texture the warp and woof of fabric called human destiny. Greater the difficulty, sweeter the victory.'

The Tea Shop

THE TEA SHOP........ Another tale reflecting the character & high values of brave men guarding the nation... They were on their way to the post where they would be deployed for next three months. The batch being relieved, was waiting anxiously for their arrival so that they could fall back to safer confines of their parent unit. Some would proceed on leave and meet their families. They were happy that they were to relieve a set of comrades who had done their job. It was a treacherous climb and the journey was to last till the next evening. Cold winter month with intermittent snowfall added to the torture. If only some one could offer a cup of tea the Major thought, knowing completely well that it was a futile wish. They continued for another hour before they came across a dilapidated structure which looked like a small shop. It was locked and their was no other house nearby where the owner could be located. It was 2 o'clock in the night and there was no house close to the shop where the owner could be located. In any case it was not advisable to knock any doors in the night for security reasons. It was a stalemate. No tea boys, bad luck. The Major told the men to take some rest since they had been walking for more than three hours now. Sir, this is a tea shop indeed and we can make tea. We will have to break the lock though. The officer was in doubt about the proposed action but a steaming cup of tea was not a bad idea. He thought for a while and permitted for the lock to be broken. The lock was broken. They were in luck. The place was a shop indeed and had everything required to make tea, and also a few packets of biscuits. The tea was prepared and it brought great relief to all in the cold night. They were now ready for the long and treacherous walk ahead of them and started to get ready to move. The officer was in thoughts. They had broken open the lock and prepared tea and consumed biscuits without the permission of the owner. The payment was due but there was no one in sight. The Major was not however moving out without doing what was to be done. He took out a Rs 1000/- note from his wallet and kept it on the counter, pressed under the sugar container, so that the owner sees it first thing when he arrives in the morning. He was now relieved of the guilt and ordered the move. The days, weeks and months passed by. They continued to do gallantly what they were required to do and were lucky not to loose any one from the original group in the intense insurgency situation. And then one day, it was time to be replaced by another brave lot. Soon they were on their way back and stopped at the same shop, which was today open with the owner in place. He was an old man with very meager resources and was happy to see eight of them with the prospect of selling at least eight cups of tea that day. All of them had their tea and spoke to the old man about his life and experiences in general, selling tea at such remote a location. The poor, old man had many stories to tell all of them, replete with his faith in God. Kya Baba, yadi Allah hota to kyaa aap ke jaisa 'Allah kaa bandaa' is haal main hota, said one of them; moved by his poverty and faith in God. Nahin Sahib, aise mat kaho, God actually exists. I got the proof a few months back. I was going through very tough times because my only son had been severely beaten by the terrorists who wanted some information from him which he did not have. I had closed the shop early that day and had taken my son to the hospital. There were medicines to be purchased and I had no money. No one would give me a loan from fear of the terrorists. There was no hope, Sahib. And that day Sahib, I had prayed to Allah for help. And that day Sahib, Allah walked into my shop. When I returned to my shop that day and saw the lock broken, I thought someone had broken in and had taken away whatever little I had. But then I saw that 'Allah' had left Rs 1000/-under the sugar pot. Sahib, I can't tell you what that money was worth that day. Allah exists Sahib, he does. I know people are dying every day here but all of you will soon meet your near and dear ones, your children, and you must thank your God Sahib, he is watching all of us. He does exist. He walked in my shop that day. I know he did. The faith in his eyes was unflinching. It was unnerving. Seven set of eyes looked at their officer and read the order in his eyes clear and unambiguous. 'Keep quite'. The officer got up and paid the bill and hugged the old man. Yes Baba, I know, the God does exist, - and yes the tea was wonder full. Seven set of eyes did not miss the moisture building in the eyes of the Major, a rare sight.

The Unsung Hero - Surjan Singh Bhandari

The Unsung Hero ! Shaheedon ki chitaon par lagenge har baras mele, Watan par mar mitne walon ka yahi baki nishan hoga. Shaheed Surjan Singh Bhandari N.S.G. Commando During The Attack on Akshardham temple on 24th September 2002 this Brave Man fought the greatest battle of his life. Yes he was the N.S.G. Commando Late Mr. Surjan Singh , who sacrificed his life for the Nation. Sadly On 19th May 2004 he lost the Toughest and Longest battle against life exactly after 600 Days being in Coma, he lost this life. The Bullet which hit him in the head made him Unconscious for almost 600 days. His family members were hoping that one day their Hero will open his eyes but he didn't. It was the Longest Wait for the family members of this Brave Man. When the whole India was busy in Guessing Who will be the Next PM of the country - Will it be Sonia or will it be Manmohan Singh, This man was fighting his Last battle. But it's so sad that in the hype of all the Political Drama, the News about his Death was Lost like a needle in a hay stack! Even the leading News Papers & So Called Best News Channels of India which Works on 24 X 7 basis, failed to highlight this story of the Brave Man. Unfortunately it was mentioned somewhere on the middle page of some newspaper.....This was the Reward for the Brave task for which he lost his life. Besides his Family members, only one thing was there with him during those toughest 600 days. It was there near his bed till the last Moment. Can you guess what it was?............... It was the "Tiranga", yes! Our National Flag, which was saluting him for his Great cause. Absolutely No words can suffice our Gratitude towards him... Salute ! Jai Hind

Sacrifice

Today We Again Lost Another Soldier, I Dont Know His Name, I Dont Know From Were He Came..... This Was A Soldier Fighting In A War, As So Many Other Soldiers Had Done This Before... It Matters Not From What Countries The Soldier Is From, Once The Soldier Is Gone, The Family Must Live To Carry On... Wondering If Its All Been In A Vain, And If There Was Anything To Gain.... The Pains And The Memories The Families Must Bear, And With Each Other These They Share... A Smile,A Joke A Laughter Or Two, These Were The Things They Shared With You.... A Love Story Or An Realtion Gone Bad, These Were The Things That Made Them Happy Or Sad..... A Mother Who Inwardly Cries, For It Is Soo Hard To Say Good Bye.... Nine Months In Her Stomach,Then Tending And Caring For Them And Watching The Child Growth, This Is What Every Mother Knows...... A Soldiers Life Is Lost,But Its Not Just Any Soldier You See, For This Is The One That Came From The Father And Me.... Yes My Child Was A Soldier And On The Battel Front He Died... Trying To Protect The Freedom For You And Me.... But Let Us Mourn For All The Soldiers,For They Are Comrades, Who Fought Side By Side Until The Moment That They Died.... They Cry For Their Childrens The Same As We, And Their Hearts They Do Bleed..... If We As Parents And Family Would Be United As One, We Would Have These Governments Under Our Guns..... Until That Day We Will Always Be A Soldiers Family........

The Last Prisoner of War -Joe Swittens

Story of the last POW (Prisoner Of War) -1971 - Joe's Story (then 2nd Lt )..... Life journey of Late Col AGJ Swittens (37 NDA), of the Indian Army by his course mate & close friend, Gp Capt Unni Kartha (Veteran) There is a Prisoner Of War (POW) story of my course mate Joe I would like to tell. He passed away last year in Pune of brain haemorrhage. My story below is what I recollect of it from what he told me about it in 1973-74. Afterwards he never talked about it despite my repeated urging him to write an auto biography because his life’s story from beginning to his end was one of tenacity and resilience against incredible odds which would have made you cry on every page. I have never known life to f*** any one with such zest on daily basis as it did to Joe. I first met AGJ Swittens (Joe) when I was returning home during term break after my first term in NDA in Jun/Jul 1967. While haunching and front rolling in the corridor of the first class special compartment, simply to entertain a few bored seniors, I discovered that Joe and I came from the same place in Kerala. He from the coastal town of Alleppey and I from a village called Ambalapuzha, about 13 km further south. During the front rolling and haunching in confined space, around three feet of the compartment’s corridor, we bumped into each other many times and as a result we fused into a lifelong friendship that surpassed the ordinary feeling of brotherhood. Because neither of us had any meaningful friends at home, during the holidays in that term break, as well as all the other term breaks that followed, Joe and I travelled the 13 km coastal strip to and fro to meet practically on daily basis. We did many interesting things together including joining a typing school because a large number of pretty Mallu girls were found going to the typing school. As a result of this very innovative idea we not only learnt to type but also the use of ‘Brail’ for man-woman communications after the sun set on Alleppey beach. Sometimes we managed to get hold of a ‘Pauwa’ Rum (smaller bottle with just 6 pegs) and learnt to drink it neat because the sea water did not taste good with Rum. It was difficult to climb a Coconut tree for coconut water and Coke was too expensive on our meagre pocket money. Hence, it was cheaper and more stimulating to sip neat rum, passing the bottle from one to the other, swearing everlasting friendship between each sip. Licking lime pickle in between helped tone down the euphoria. The packet of lime pickle came free with the Pauwa. Joe and I were just 16-19 yrs old when we were in NDA. Joe was the eldest son of the keeper of the lighthouse at Alleppy beach and had more than a dozen siblings of all shapes and sizes, mostly girls who giggled loudly from behind closed doors when I visited their house. His younger brother Johnny (now an AF officer) was just a tiny toddler then. It was only natural that both our parents soon began to treat us like twins because of the NDA induced behavioural pattern that made us indistinguishable one from the other. While my father thought of me as someone incapable of earning a livelihood, Joe’s father was counting the days when Joe would get a commission and add something to the family pot. In our 4th term, ‘Rangila’ the terrible, in the equitation lines kicked Joe in the face and he lost four of his front teeth and had to get dentures when he was 17 yrs old, a compulsive reason he had to use Brail to communicate with our GFs from the typing class. I think it was a blessing in disguise, probably the only time God was kind to Joe and I. His troubles were just beginning. We passed out of NDA in Dec 1969, he from J Sqn and I from F Sqn. The war clouds were beginning to rise in East Pak (now Bangladesh) border, but we had no idea of such things then and were single-mindedly interested only in the tactical manoeuvres of typing and Brail at Alleppey without misfiring our guns in the cockpits, a condom was unheard of those days. The tactical manoeuvre we had to master ourselves at our young age was ‘Coitus Interruptus’, a failsafe military tactic, not taught in NDA, but which we believed was perfected by the Roman army of Julius Caesar on their visit to Alexandria (Cleopatra). While I went to the flying school in Bidar, Joe went to the Military Academy in Dehra Dun. He was commissioned into the Gorkha Rifles on 20 Dec 1970. After a short break he joined his Battalion (I think 1/4 GR). His unit at that time (I think) was deployed right on the Indo Pak border in Chamb sector somewhere near Mole and Phagla ahead of the Munawar Tawi river with Sikhs (5 Sikh ?) on their northern flank and Assam Rifles (5 AR ?) on their southern flank facing Koel and Bakan Paur, a few km ahead of them, probably held by the 111 Brigade of the Paki army. Joe went through the usual initiation ceremonies in his battalion and by end of Nov 1971, he was already a hardened soldier and had endeared himself to his company commander. His company was deployed some 2 km away from the Unit HQ - rear administrative location with his CO and the 2 i/c. For tactical advantages Joe’s Company Commander had established an observation post (OP) about 400 mtrs ahead of the company deployment area ahead or almost on the Cease Fire Line (CFL) of 65 war which was at that time the border. The OP was around 50 feet higher than the surroundings and hence had a commanding view. The company itself was deployed in well prepared bunkers and trenches. The OP was simply a fox hole behind a low bush about four feet by three and around three feet deep, very painstakingly and surreptitiously dug over a period of time, at night, using helmets and Khukris so that it’s existence would not be noticed by the enemy. Every night the Company Commander would send someone or the other crawling forward towards the OP and they would replace the OP crew who had been there for the previous 24 hrs. The OP crew generally consisted of a junior officer (or an NCO) with two Jawans simply for company and for time pass, usually playing cards while staying hidden and surreptitiously observing enemy movements and deployments across the LOC. The enemy was deployed in depth and hence there was not much that one could see from the OP foxhole. So the OP duty was considered a boring and unproductive job, though it gave 2nd Lt AGJ Swittens some respite and relaxation from the daily rigours of infantry life. On the evening of 3rd Dec 1971, a Friday, it was Joe’s turn to do the OP duty. So after sunset, after an early dinner, he collected his two Shakarpara packets (next day’s breakfast and lunch), filled his water bottle, and along with a Naik and two soldiers crawled to the OP to replace those who had spent the previous night and day there. Everything looked peaceful, there was no noise or activity or any lights from across the border and so Joe called up the Company Commander and reported, ’All quiet on the western front.’ He could not have been more mistaken, it was the lull before the storm. To his horror, Joe also discovered that the battery discharged and soon afterwards the ANPRC radio set went completely dead. But Joe was not too concerned, his entire Company was deployed just 400 mtrs behind him and that gave him a tremendous sense of security, adequate to fall asleep in the fox hole, a habit inculcated in NDA, to sleep instantly, anytime, anywhere, in any position. Unknown to Joe, around 1800 hrs while he was on his way to the fox hole, the Paki AF crossed the border and launched a massive pre-emptive strike on various Indian airfields in the western sector. But all was quiet around the fox hole and Joe slept and dreamt, the kind of dreams that a healthy happy 20 yr old would have, I presume the Brail kind. At around 2020 hrs Joe was rudely woken by incredible explosions of heavy calibre artillery shells. There was nothing that fell on him, but when he looked back he could see that his Company position was being obliterated systematically, inch by inch by a creeping barrage. He could not see from where the guns were firing, they were located beyond comprehensible distance in the west. However, he could see the entire sky filed with artillery shells streaking like meteors, each going overhead with shrieking banshee wail. Some were aimed at his Company position, but most of them were going deeper eastwards towards the other deployments of Indian infantry and armour. There were more than 150 enemy guns, probably 105 mm variety firing at them with deadly accuracy. Soon a similar number of Indian guns, probably of bigger calibre, began to return the fire. Heavy calibre artillery shells were firing to and fro, hundreds of them every minute over Joe’s head, but none fell on him. Joe and the three soldiers with him lay flat in the foxhole, one on top of the other for lack of space, cringing and shivering, covering their ears from the unbearable and most frightening sounds. After about 30 minutes, they felt the ground begin to tremble like a mild earthquake. They heard clanking and grinding noises. When Joe peed out of the fox hole he saw a Paki Sherman tank about fifty meters ahead, heading straight for him. Joe ducked back into the fox hole and the tank rolled right over them almost crushing the fox hole and burying them into the ground. Soon there were other tanks going over them or around them and after a while he lost track which way they were coming or going, there were shouts and battle cry, soon he could hear soldiers running about, but he had no idea whether they were friends or foe. This went on all night. In the twilight hours that arrived after an eternity (4th Dec 71), Joe poked his head out. He found himself surrounded by Paki soldiers and two Sherman tanks. When he looked backwards, he could not find any trace of his company. Unknown to Joe, when the shelling started, the Company along with the entire Indian Brigade had been ordered to withdraw, leaving poor Joe and his companions in the foxhole. In the Foxhole the Naik took out his Khukri. ‘Shhaab’, he advised Joe, ‘Kafar Hunu Bhanda Marnu Ramro (Better to die than live like a coward)’. The three soldiers took out their Khukri and Joe took our his revolver. ‘Ayo Gorkhali’, they screamed at the top of their voice, jumped out of the fox hole and charged out. They caught the Pakis completely by surprise, they were brewing or sipping tea with their weapons at ease. One of the tank crew jumped up, climbed his tank and let fly a burst of MMG fire at them. Joe tripped and fell down. The burst of bullets miraculously went by Joe, but cut up the other three Jawans into pieces. By then the Paki soldiers had grabbed their 303 rifles and formed a ring around Joe, twenty to one. Joe kept pointing his revolver from one to another, he turned round, fired one round and because his hands were shaking, the round went over the enemy’s head. The circle of enemy soldiers got closer and closer. Finally Joe gave up. He unhooked the revolver from his lanyard and put it on the ground. He raised his hands in surrender. A Paki JCO gestured to him to kneel. They ripped out the lanyard and bound his hands behind his back. For next half an hour they played ‘Russian Roulette’ with his own revolver. They would insert one round, twirl the drum and empty the gun on Joe’s head. Each time the gun clicked but did not fire, the Paki soldiers would laugh aloud, pass lurid comments and poke him with a bayonet several times. This went on and on and Joe died a thousand deaths. After about half an hour, a Paki officer, probably a Colonel came by in a jeep. First he was unmoved by the fun that the Paki soldiers were having. Then better sense seemed to have prevailed. ‘Stop it,’ he ordered. ‘Put him behind my jeep.’ Joe was then taken to what he perceived as 111 Brigade HQ, large number of tents under camouflage netting, for interrogation. He was also given field dressing by a Paki MO who stitched up 64 bayonet wounds without the use of any morphine. Joe realised the futility of resistance, he was far too gone, he was just 20 yrs old, and he probably was the first helpless Indian POW of 1971 war. About an hour later, there was a flurry of activity and the Pakis began dismantling the tent. Their HQ was being moved elsewhere. He was handed over to two villagers who put him into a bullock cart and took him westwards, he had no idea where they were taking him. His hands were put around his legs and tied tightly with his lanyard so that he was in a very uncomfortable yoga posture, completely immobile. En-route, along the villages where they stopped, children pelted him with mud and stones, while their parents watched with disdain. He was not given any water or food. After a long ride, he was taken to a police station and locked up, probably at Kakian Wala. The Military Police visited twice. They stripped him naked, hung him on a hook and beat him with a thin Malacca cane. All the bayonet wounds which had been stitched up, tore open once again and he started to bleed profusely. Joe gave them his life history, that he was just twenty years old, that his father was a light house keeper, about how Rangila kicked him and how he lost his teeth, how much he yearned his typing class in Alleppey and probably about a stupid friend called Unni in the AF, but he stuck to his story that he had joined his unit just two days earlier and that he did not even know the name of his company commander leave alone deployment locations or strength of the Indian army in Chamb. They beat him some more, just for the heck of it, but they fed him tea and rusk twice a day and two chapatis with dal at night. A local civilian compounder was called and he applied raw Iodine on his wounds, just as bad and painful as the beating. After a day he was put into a local bus handcuffed to a policeman and taken by road to Rawalpindi jail. He was incarcerated there along with common criminals. He was issued prison clothing. However Joe did not throw away his OG jersey, a memento of his Indian army uniform. Around the 7th or 8th Dec 1971, because Joe’s name was not announced on Paki radio as a POW, or the names of the three soldiers in the OP with him, his unit presumed that he was ‘missing believed killed’. Soon afterwards, the Army HQ sent a terse telegram to his father. ‘Your son/ward missing / believed killed in action’. For several nights, though the lighthouse continued to go round and round beaming high power lights to the ships at sea, there was gloom and darkness in the household below the lighthouse. The war had extinguished their aspirations and livelihood. Seven months later, on 2 Jul 72 the Shimla accord was signed by Madam I Gandhi and Mr Bhuto. The two armies, both Indian and Pakis, went back to business as usual with their guns pointed at each other. A new Line of Control (LOC) was defined, doing away with the earlier CFL of 65. All captured territories by both sides were returned, except that in Chamb where Bhuto managed to convince I Gandhi that it was to be gifted to them. Sacrifices, blood sweat and tears, in Chamb and at Hajipir Pass were soon forgotten and in the diplomatic circle at Chanakyapuri both the Indian and Paki envoys began to once again have Mushairas and Mujras, excuses to hug and kiss each other as well as each other’s wives. Everyone went home happy and there was large acclaim internationally about how well India had handled the handing back of 98,000 Paki POWs. No one asked how many Indian POWs were still in Paki jails. Who cared, everyone was celebrating, writing their own citations and congratulating each other in Delhi. Joe managed to make friends with his ‘Ward Supervisor’ in Rawalpindi jail, a convict with a life sentence for murder. He was very tall and well built sympathetic Pathan who was ‘desperately seeking Susan’. In Joe he found his Susan, a life’s companion. As Joe told me later with a sad smile, ‘What did it matter, what difference did it make, I was just 21. What choice was there, it was either being public property or exclusive private property. God probably decided that it was payback time for what we did to the typing girls on Alleppey beach’. Despite his going around wearing his OG Jersy with two pips on either shoulders with 4 GR written on the epaulets, no one asked who he was, what crime he had committed and whether he had ever been tried for any crime in any court of law. He had no access to any news papers, magazines or a radio. In the Pathan’s cell, which Joe shared, he had a Paki calendar in Urdu on which he kept ticking the days and months as they flew by. Several times he wrote to the jail authorities, advising them that he was a POW, an Indian being kept in a civil jail with convicts without any trial and that he should be moved with other Indian POWs if there were any in Pak. But because the application had to be routed through the Pathan ward supervisor, who knew no English and who did not want to lose his Susan, none of his appeals were ever given to any one in authority. Two years went by. Everyone including me forgot about Joe Swittens. Joe had no idea that the war was over, that there was a Shimla accord and that 98,000 Paki POWs had been returned to Pak and in reciprocity all known or publicly acknowledged Indian POWs had been sent back to India. Then one day, in Feb 1973, the Pathan told Joe that there was a team from ‘Amnesty International’ who was to visit Rawalpindi jail, to check for human rights violations. He wanted Joe to act as the interpreter. Joe really had no choice, he had to do whatever the warder told him to do. So he went and had a haircut, shaved, got his prison clothes pressed, rubbed toothpaste on his 2nd Lt’s cloth pips on his OG jersey so that it looked bright, rubbed shoe polish on 4GR to get it to lose the faded look, polished his torn and tattered shoes and was ready for the Amnesty team when they arrived. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, follow me, I shall take you on a conducted tour of the prison’, he announced like Dev Anand in the movie Guide, smartly saluting the ladies and shaking hands with the gentleman. The Pathan had briefed him that he was to make all efforts to show off and to make belief that there was no human rights violation in Rawalpindi jail. ‘Of course not, everyone is treated well here’ Joe kept saying with a sad smile whenever someone questioned him. There was an elderly Swiss woman from the Red Cross in the team who was more curious and inquisitive. She took Joe aside. ‘Mon Ami’, she asked, ‘Who are you and why are you wearing an army jersey with a pip on each shoulder, were you in the Paki army ?’. ‘No Mam’, replied Joe vehemently. ‘I am a POW. I am 2nd Lt AGJ Swittens of the Indian Army.’ ‘Arme de terre l’Indianne ? Incredible’, the lady exclaimed. ‘Don’t you know that the war finished two years ago and that all POWs went back home last year ?’. The Pathan did not like Joe having a private conversation in a language which he did not understand, he sensed that something was going wrong. He quickly herded the lady away. But before they left the jail, the lady asked the Pathan, ‘May I take your photo and one of this young man for my personal album ?’. The Pathan had no choice because there were Paki jailors present at that time who desperately wanted to please the foreigners. The lady took several photographs of the Pathan and one of Joe too. ‘Please send one photo to my father, he is at Alleppey light house in India,’ Joe whispered to the Swiss lady from Red Cross. So it was that one fine morning in Jun or Jul 1973, a Photo card came by ordinary post, addressed simply to ‘Mr Swittens, Light House Alleppey, India’, on which there was an address and tel number of the person who sent it from Switzerland. And the photo at the back was a black and white close up of a smiling Joe Swittens with no teeth, in a torn OG jersy, but with shining pips and 4GR on his shoulder. Below the photo was inscribed ‘Rawalpindi Prison’. There was much consternation as well as incredulity at the light house. Mr Swittens, Joe’s father immediately sent a telegram to Army HQ and MoD describing the event. It took MoD almost four weeks to send a reply by normal post. ‘You son/ward missing/believed killed in action’ the Under Secretary simply said. They had not even bothered to type it – it was a cyclostyled unsigned letter and left it to the recipient to cross out what was not applicable. Mr Swittens went to see the local MLA in Alleppey who then had an agenda of his own. He raised the issue in Kerala assembly and soon there were questions asked by MPs in Delhi. It became a starred question in the question hour. The defence minister Jagjivan Ram sought time to reply. The R&AW were told to go and investigate in Rawalpindi Jail. They embarrassed the Pak Govt, the system in Pak did not want to accept that they had made a mistake by sending POWs to ordinary jails. They did not wish to proclaim that that POW camps were set up only after 15 Dec 71 and that there could be others who had suffered the same fate as Joe. ‘There is no 2nd Lt AGJ Swittens in Rawalpindi Jail’ was their reply. ‘There is no 2nd Lt AGJ Swittens in Rawalpindi Jail’, Jagjivan Ram announced in parliament with a sense of finality. Mr Swittens, Joe’s father, did not give up. He mobilised a few sympathetic Mallus and they in turn mobilised some more Mallus. There was a demonstration outside the Pak embassy in Chanakyapuri. The press picked up the news. Someone, (I think the ‘Hindu’ paper) managed to get a sworn statement from the Swiss lady that she had indeed met a person in Rawalpindi jail who claimed that he was Joe and corroborated it with several photographs that she had taken. MEA asked the US Ambassador to intervene. Finally Pakis bowed to international pressure. They admitted that they did indeed have a person in Rawalpindi jail named ‘Wasim Khan Akram’ or such a name arrested for murder in general area of Kakian Wala and if the Indians think he is one of their army officers, Indians were welcome to have him. 2nd Lt AGJ Swittens walked through the Wagha border into the waiting arms of Indian military police (MP) sometime Sep Oct 1973. He was the last POW to be exchanged after 71 war. Promptly, as soon as he set foot in India, he was arrested and incarcerated in Red Fort in Delhi. He was accused of being a spy, that he voluntarily stayed back in Pak and that he was brain washed. Joe told me afterwards, ’I did not mind what they did to me in Pak, after all they were the enemy. But what the MPs did to me afterwards in Red Fort was completely unjust’. He said all that with a smile. A man who had been to hell and back had much resilience and tenacity. There were more protests by Mallus in front of the Red Fort and after a month of ill-treatment by our own MPs, Joe was asked to go and join his unit in Arunachal, at a post called Gelling which took about 22 days to back pack (walk) from the Unit rear. I think that is where I met him in 1973 or 74, and where he told me his POW story. Gelling was another POW camp of sorts, at least for a 23 yr old. The last time I met Joe was in his flat in Hinjewadi in Pune, around two years ago (2010). He only smiled, and said very happy things about our life and times while we passed the same Pauwa back and forth. After 1973 Joe Swittens lived to fight again and again, with tenacity and resilience, and with the same chant ‘Ayo Gorkhali’ , the last time in Kargil war in Jul 99 after which he retired and settled in Pune. Col Swittens spoke perfect Gorkhali besides several other languages. The last time I spoke to Joe was around three days before he died. Joe died of a brain haemorrhage last year in the middle of the night with just his Alsatian dog for company. He died a lonely man. I can say this with certainty that his last words may have been the same, ‘Kafar Hunu Bhanda Marnu Ramro’. I went to the lighthouse in Alleppey, With half bottle of rum looking for the youth that I miss. They looked at me with suspicion, ‘Are you a terrorist ?’, they asked. I went out into the setting sun and to the beach where we learnt to Brail, The Typing Girls are all grand moms in Dubai, The sea water tasted just the same. So I passed the bottle from left hand to right hand And took sips from each hand, one for Joe and one for me. Joe my friend, I am glad you are gone, A prisoner of life no more. Set a table for me, where ever you are, And keep the chair tilted for me, I am bound to come after this life. I walked back in the dark, the sun had set. The band began to play Sare Jahan Se Acha, Hindustan Hamara, The band began to play.............. With an apology to Rudyard Kipling as well as Joe. I stole the story from both of you. Please forgive me. Cyclic ETERNAL VIGIL In the National Defence Academy (NDA) at Khadakwasla , at the entrance of the dining hall there is a small round table, all by itself, with the table set for one. The chair is tilted forward. This is a special table, set in the honour of those missing in war, those believed to be still Prisoners of War (POW) somewhere amongst the enemies. The wars are forgotten quickly and missing persons forgotten even faster by all except the soldiers and comrades who fought alongside them. They cannot and will not forget, the soldiers hang on to their undying hope and confidence that the missing persons will return one day. The table shall await them too if such a fate was to befall them. The Placard on the table reflects the sentiments of a soldier for his fallen comrade, it has the following written on it. ‘The table set is small, for one, symbolizing the frailty of one prisoner against his oppressors. The single rose displayed is to remind us of the families and loved ones of our comrades-in-arms who keep their faith awaiting their return. The Red Ribbon on the vase is reminiscent of the red ribbon worn upon the lapel and breasts of thousands who bear witness to their unyielding determination to demand a proper accounting of those missing in action. The candle is unlit, symbolizing the upward reach of their unconquerable spirit. The slice of Lemon is on the bread plate, to remind us of the bitter fate. There is salt upon the bread plate - symbolic of the families’ tears as they wait. The Glass is inverted, they cannot toast with us this night. The chair – it is empty. They are not here. Remember ! All of you who served with them and called them comrades, who depended upon their might and aid, and relied upon them, for surely, they have notforsaken you. Remember them until the day they come back home...... The table was installed on instructions of Air Mshl Randhawa (38th) when he was the Commandant NDA around 2007-08. Personally I think it is a most touching, emotional and motivating tradition that he started. Reminds me of Joe Swittens.

Shame on Indian Media

Something to think about..!! Shame on Indian Media??? Really what a shame... * By the time u guys read this news, the body of Major Manish Pitambare, who was shot dead at Anantnag, would have been cremated with full military honors. * On Tuesday, this news swept across all the news channels 'Sanjay Dutt relieved by court'. 'Sirf Munna not a bhai' '13 saal ka vanvaas khatam' 'although found guilty for possession of armory, Sanjay can breath sigh of relief as all the TADA charges against him are withdrawn' Then many personalities like Salman Khan said 'He is a good person. We knew he will come out clean'. Mr Big B said "Dutt's family and our family have relations for years he's a good kid. He is like elder brother to Abhishek". His sister Priya Dutt said "we can sleep well tonight. It's a great relief" In other news, Parliament was mad at Indian team for performing bad; Greg Chappell said something; Shah Rukh Khan replaces Amitabh in KBC and other such stuff. But most of the emphasis was given on Sanjay Dutt's "phoenix like" comeback from the ashes of terrorist charges. Surfing through the channels, one news on BBC startled me. It read "Hisbul Mujahidin's most wanted terrorist 'Sohel Faisal' killed in A nantnag , India .. Indian Major leading the operation lost his life in the process. Four others are injured. It was past midnight , I started visiting the stupid Indian channels, but Sanjay Dutt was still ruling. They were telling how Sanjay pleaded to the court saying 'I'm the sole bread earner for my family', 'I have a daughter who is studying in US' and so on. Then they showed how Sanjay was not wearing his lucky blue shirt while he was hearing the verdict and also how he went to every temple and prayed for the last few months. A suspect in Mumbai bomb blasts, convicted under armory act...was being transformed into a hero. Sure Sanjay Dutt has a daughter; Sure he did not do any terrorist activity. Possessing an AK47 is considered too elementary in terrorist community and also one who possesses an AK47 has a right to possess a pistol so that again is not such a big crime; Sure Sanjay Dutt went to all the temples; Sure he did a lot of Gandhigiri but then.......... .. Major Manish H Pitambare got the information from his sources about the terrorists' whereabouts. Wasting no time he attacked the camp, killed Hisbul Mujahidin's supremo and in the process lost his life to the bullets fired from an AK47. He is survived by a wife and daughter (just like Sanjay Dutt) who's only 18 months old. Major Manish never said 'I have a daughter' before he took the decision to attack the terrorists in the darkest of nights. He never thought about having a family and he being the bread earner. *No news channel *covered this since they were too busy hyping a former drug addict, a suspect who's linked to bomb blasts which killed hundreds. Their aim was to show how he defied the TADA charges and they were so successful that his conviction in possession of armory had no meaning. They also concluded that his parents in heaven must be happy and proud of him. Parents of Major Manish are still living and they have to live rest of their lives without their beloved son. His daughter won't ever see her daddy again. So guys, please forward this message around so that the media knows which news to give importance, as it is a shame for us since this Army Major's death news was given by a foreign TV channel!!! *

Soldier & Software Engineer - conversation

A Real Story ... A Discussion Between A Soldier And A Software Engineer In A Shatabdi Train...! Vivek Pradhan Was Not A Happy Man. Even The Plush Comfort Of The Air-Conditioned Compartment Of The Shatabdi Express Could Not Cool His Frayed Nerves. He Was The Project Manager And Still Not Entitled To Air Travel. It Was Not The Prestige He Sought, He Had Tried To Reason With The Admin Person, It Was The Savings In Time. As PM, He Had So Many Things To Do!! He Opened His Case And Took Out The Laptop, Determined To Put The Time To Some Good Use. 'Are You From The Software Industry Sir,' The Man Beside Him Was Staring Appreciatively At The Laptop'. Vivek Glanced Briefly And Mumbled In Affirmation, Handling The Laptop Now With Exaggerated Care And Importance As If It Were An Expensive Car. 'You People Have Brought So Much Advancement To The Country, Sir. Today Everything Is Getting Computerized.' 'Thanks,' Smiled Vivek, Turning Around To Give The Man A Look. He Always Found It Difficult To Resist Appreciation. The Man Was Young And Stockily Built Like A Sportsman. He Looked Simple And Strangely Out Of Place In That Little Lap Of Luxury Like A Small Town Boy In A Prep School. He Probably Was A Railway Sportsman Making The Most Of His Free traveling Pass. 'You People Always Amaze Me,' The Man Continued, 'You Sit In An Office And Write Something On A Computer And It Does So Many Big Things Outside.' Vivek Smiled Deprecatingly... Naiveness Demanded Reasoning Not Anger. 'It Is Not As Simple As That My Friend. It Is Not Just A Question Of Writing A Few Lines. There Is A Lot Of Process That Goes Behind It.' For A Moment, He Was Tempted To Explain The Entire Software Development Lifecycle But Restrained Himself To A Single Statement... 'It Is Complex, Very Complex.' 'It Has To Be. No Wonder You People Are So Highly Paid,' Came The Reply. This Was Not Turning Out As Vivek Had Thought. A Hint Of Belligerence Crept Into His So Far Affable, Persuasive Tone. 'Everyone Just Sees The Money. No One Sees The Amount Of Hard Work We Have To Put In.. Indians Have Such A Narrow Concept Of Hard Work.. Just Because We Sit In An Air-Conditioned Office Does Not Mean Our Brows Do Not Sweat. You Exercise The Muscle; We Exercise The Mind And Believe Me That Is No Less Taxing.' He Could See, He Had The Man Where He Wanted, And It Was Time To Drive Home The Point. 'Let Me Give You An Example.. Take This Train. The Entire Railway Reservation System Is Computerized. You Can Book A Train Ticket Between Any Two Stations From Any Of The Hundreds Of Computerized Booking Centers Across The Country. Thousands Of Transactions Accessing A Single Database, At A Time Concurrently; Data Integrity, Locking, Data Security... Do You Understand The Complexity In Designing And Coding Such A System?' The Man Was Aw Stuck; Quite Like A Child At A Planetarium. This Was Something Big And Beyond His Imagination. 'You Design And Code Such Things.' 'I Used To,' Vivek Paused For Effect, 'But Now I'm The Project Manager.' 'Oh!' Sighed The Man, As If The Storm Had Passed Over, 'So Your Life Is Easy Now.' This Was Like The Last Straw For Vivek.. He Retorted, 'Oh Come On, Does Life Ever Get Easy As You Go Up The Ladder. Responsibility Only Brings More Work.. Design And Coding! That Is The Easier Part.. Now I Do Not Do It, But I'm Responsible For It And Believe Me, That Is Far More Stressful. My Job Is To Get The Work Done In Time And With The Highest Quality. To Tell You About The Pressures, There Is The Customer At One End, Always Changing His Requirements. The User At The Other, Wanting Something Else, And Your Boss, Always Expecting You To Have Finished It Yesterday.' Vivek Paused In His Diatribe, His Belligerence Fading With Self-Relisation What He Had Said Was Not Merely The Outburst Of A Wronged Man, It Was The Truth. And One Need Not Get Angry While Defending The Truth. 'My Friend,' He Concluded Triumphantly, 'You Don't Know What It Is To Be In The Line Of Fire ..'. The Man Sat Back In His Chair, His Eyes Closed As If In Realization.. When He Spoke After Sometime, It Was With A Calm Certainty That Surprised Vivek. 'I Know Sir, .... I Know What It Is To Be In The Line Of Fire.......!' He Was Staring Blankly, As If No Passenger, And No Train Existed, Just A Vast Expanse Of Time. 'There Were 30 Of Us When We Were Ordered To Capture Point 4875 In The Cover Of The Night.. The Enemy Was Firing From The Top. There Was No Knowing Where The Next Bullet Was Going To Come From And For Whom.. In The Morning When We Finally Hoisted The Tri color At The Top Only 4 Of Us Were Alive.' 'You Are A...?' 'I'm Subedar Sushant From The 13 J&K Rifles On Duty At Peak 4875 In Kargil.. They Tell Me I Have Completed My Term And Can Opt For A Soft Assignment. But, Tell Me Sir, Can One Give Up Duty Just Because It Makes Life Easier? On The Dawn Of That Capture, One Of My Colleagues Lay Injured In The Snow, Open To Enemy Fire While We Were Hiding Behind A Bunker. It Was My Job To Go And Fetch That Soldier To Safety.. But My Captain Sahib Refused Me Permission And Went Ahead Himself . He Said That The First Pledge He Had Taken As A Gentleman Cadet Was To Put The Safety And Welfare Of The Nation Foremost.. Followed By The Safety And Welfare Of The Men He Commanded....... His Own Personal Safety Came Last, Always And Every Time.' 'He Was Killed As He Shielded And Brought That Injured Soldier Into The Bunker. Every Morning Thereafter, As We Stood Guard, I Could See Him Taking All Those Bullets, Which Were Actually Meant For Me.. I Know Sir.... I Know, What It Is To Be In The Line Of Fire.' Vivek Looked At Him In Disbelief, Not Sure Of How To Respond. Abruptly, He Switched Off The Laptop. It Seemed Trivial, Even Insulting To Edit A Word Document In The Presence Of A Man For Whom Valour And Duty Was A Daily Part Of Life. Valour And Sense Of Duty Which He Had So Far Attributed Only To Epical Heroes. The Train Slowed Down As It Pulled Into The Station, And Subedar Sushant Picked Up His Bags To Alight. 'It Was Nice Meeting You Sir.' Vivek Fumbled With The Handshake. This Hand... Had Climbed Mountains, Pressed The Trigger, And Hoisted The Tricolour. Suddenly, As If By Impulse, He Stood Up At Attention And His Right Hand Went Up In An Impromptu Salute. It Was The Least He Felt He Could Do For The Country. PS: The Incident He Narrated During The Capture Of Peak 4875 Is A True-Life Incident During The Kargil War. Capt. Batra Sacrificed His Life While Trying To Save One Of The Men He Commanded, As Victory Was Within Sight. For This And Various Other Acts Of Bravery, He Was Awarded The Param Vir Chakra, The Nation's Highest Military Award. Live Humbly, There Are Great People Around Us, Let Us Learn! Winners Are ...... Too Busy To Be Sad, Too Positive To Be Doubtful, Too Optimistic To Be Fearful And Too Determined To Be Defeated

The Final Inspection

THE FINAL INSPECTION The soldier stood and faced God, which must always come to pass. He hoped his shoes were shining, Just as brightly as his brass. 'Step forward now, you soldier, How shall I deal with you? Have you always turned the other cheek? To My Church have you been true?' The soldier squared his shoulders and said, 'No, Lord, I guess I isn’t. Because those of us who carry guns, Can't always be a saint. I've had to work most Sundays, And at times my talk was tough. And sometimes I've been violent, Because the world is awfully rough. But, I never took a penny, That wasn't mine to keep... Though I worked a lot of overtime, When the bills got just too steep. And I never passed a cry for help, Though at times I shook with fear. And sometimes, God, forgive me, I've wept unmanly tears. I know I don't deserve a place, Among the people here. They never wanted me around, Except to calm their fears. If you've a place for me here, Lord, It needn't be so grand. I never expected or had too much, But if you don't, I'll understand. There was a silence all around the throne, Where the saints had often trod. As the soldier waited quietly, For the judgment of his God. 'Step forward now, you soldier, You've borne your burdens well. Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets, You've done your time in Hell.'

एक सैनिक जो कम उम्र में शहीद हो गया.. और मरते वक़्त उसने अपनी माँ को क्या खत लिखा होगा....!! सीमा पे एक जवान जो शहीद होगया, संवेदनाओं के कितने बीज बो गया, तिरंगे में लिपटी लाश उसकी घर पे आ गयी, सिहर उठी हवाएँ, उदासी छा गयी, तिरंगे में रखा खत जो उसकी माँ को दिख गया, मरता हुआ जवान उस खत में लिख गया, बलिदान को अब आसुओं से धोना नहीं है, तुझको कसम है माँ मेरी की रोना नहीं है। मुझको याद आ रहा है तेरा उंगली पकड़ना, कंधे पे बिठाना मुझे बाहों में जकड़ना, पगडंडियों की खेतों पे मैं तेज़ भागता, सुनने को कहानी तेरी रातों को जागता, पर बिन सुने कहानी तेरा लाल सो गया, सोचा था तूने और कुछ और हो गया, मुझसा न कोई घर में तेरे खिलौना नहीं है, तुझको कसम है माँ मेरी की रोना नहीं है। सोचा था तूने अपने लिए बहू लाएगी, पोते को अपने हाथ से झूला झुलाएगी, तुतलाती बोली पोते की सुन न सकी माँ, आँचल में अपने कलियाँ तू चुन न सकी माँ, न रंगोली बनी घर में न घोड़े पे मैं चढ़ा, पतंग पे सवर हो यमलोक मैं चल पड़ा, वहाँ माँ तेरे आँचल का तो बिछौना नहीं है, तुझको कसम है माँ मेरी की रोना नहीं है। बहना से कहना राखी पे याद नकरे, किस्मत को न कोसे कोई फरियाद न करे, अब कौन उसे चोटी पकड़ कर चिढ़ाएगा, कौन भाई दूज का निवाला खाएगा, कहना के भाई बन कर अबकी बारआऊँगा, सुहाग वाली चुनरी अबकी बार लाऊँगा, अब भाई और बहना में मेल होना नहीं है, तुझको कसम है माँ मेरी की रोना नहीं है। सरकार मेरे नाम से कई फ़ंड लाएगी, चौराहों पे तुझको तमाशा बनाएगी, अस्पताल स्कूलों के नाम रखेगी, अनमोल शहादत का कुछ दाम रखेगी, पर दलाओं की इस दलाली पर तूथूक देना माँ, बेटे की मौत की कोई कीमत न लेना माँ, भूखे भले मखमल पे हमको सोना नहीं है, तुझको कसम है माँ मेरी की रोना नहीं है।..

Papa's Day - A soldier's daughter

Today was Papa's Day at school, and she couldn't wait to go.


But her mommy tried to tell her,
that she probably should stay home;
why the kids might not understand,
if she went to school alone.


But she was not afraid;
she knew just what to say.
What to tell her classmates
of why he wasn't there today.

But still her mother worried,
for her to face this day alone.
And that was why, once again,
she tried to keep her daughter home.


But the little girl went to school,
eager to tell them all.
About a dad she never sees,
a dad who never calls.

There were daddies along the wall in back,
for everyone to meet.
Children squirming impatiently,
anxious in their seat.


One by one the teacher called
on a student from the class.
To introduce their Papa,
as seconds slowly passed.


At last the teacher called her name,
every child turned to stare.
Each of them was searching,
a man who wasn't there.


"Where's her Papa at?"
she heard a boy call out.
"She probably doesn't have one,"
another student dared to shout.

And from somewhere near the back,
she heard a Papa say,
"Looks like another deadbeat dad,
too busy to waste his day."


The words did not offend her,
as she smiled up at her Mom.
And looked back at her teacher, who
told her to go on.


And with hands behind her back,
slowly she began to speak..
And out from the mouth of a child,
came words incredibly unique.


"My Papa couldn't be here,
because he lives so far away.
But I know he wishes he could be,
since this is such a special day.


And though you cannot meet him,
I wanted you to know
all about my Papa,
and how much he loves me so.


He loved to tell me stories,
he taught me to ride my bike;
he surprised me with pink roses,
and taught me to fly a kite.


We used to share fudge sundaes,
and ice cream in a cone.
And though you cannot see him.
I'm not standing here alone.


'Cause my Papa's always with me,
even though we are apart;
I know because he told me,
he'll forever be in my heart"


With that, her little hand reached up,
and lay across her chest.
Feeling her own heartbeat,
beneath her favorite dress.


And from somewhere there in the crowd of dads,
her mother stood in tears.
Proudly watching her daughter,
who was wise beyond her years.

For she stood up for the love
of a man not in her life.
Doing what was best for her,
doing what was a right.

And when she dropped her hand back down,
staring straight into the crowd.
She finished with a voice so soft,
but its message clear and loud.


"I love my Papa very much,
he's my shining star.
And if he could, he'd be here,
but heaven's just too far.


You see he was an Indian Soldier
and he died just this past year,,
when an enemy bomb hit his bunker
and taught all Indians to fear.


But sometimes when I close my eyes,
it's like he never went away."
And then she closed her eyes,
and saw him there that day.


And to her mother's amazement,
she witnessed with surprise,
a room full of daddies and children,
all starting to close their eyes.


Who knows what they saw before them;
who knows what they felt inside.
Perhaps for merely a second,
they saw him at her side.


"I know you're with me Papa,"
to the silence she called out.
And what happened next made believers,
of those once filled with doubt.


Not one in that room could explain it,
for each of their eyes had been closed.
But there on the desk beside her,
was a fragrant long-stemmed pink rose.


And a child was blessed, if only for a moment,
by the love of her shining star.
And given the gift of believing,
that heaven is never too far.

God Bless

There must be many children in the same boat as this little girl, thanks to our servicemen and their families for the sacrifice they are making to keep our country Free.
The ULTIMATE sacrifice is being left behind. Don't forget them.
PRAY FOR OUR TROOPS!!!

Poem !!! A Soldier Died

He was getting old and paunchy
And his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the family,
Telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he once fought in
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies;
They were heroes, every one.

And 'tho sometimes to his neighbours
His tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened quietly
For they knew where of he spoke.

But we'll hear his tales no longer,
For ol' Natha Singh has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer
For a Soldier died today.

He won't be mourned by many,
Just his children and his wife.
For he lived an ordinary,
Very quiet sort of life.

He held a job and raised a family,
Going quietly on his way;
And the world won't note his passing,
'Tho a Soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth,
Their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing,
And proclaim that they were great.

Papers tell of their life stories
From the time that they were young
But the passing of a Soldier
Goes unnoticed, and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution
To the welfare of our land,
Some jerk who breaks his promise
And cons his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow
Who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country
And offers up his life?

The politician's stipend
And the style in which he lives,
Are often disproportionate,
To the service that he gives.

While the ordinary Soldier,
Who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal
And a pension, meagre & small..

It is not the politicians
With their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom
That our country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger,
With your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some Neta,
With his ever waffling stand?

Or would you want a Soldier--
His home, his country, his kin,
Just a common Soldier,
Who would fight to the skin.

He was just a common Soldier,
And his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us
We may need his like again.

For when countries are in conflict,
We find the Soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles
That the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honour
While he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage
At the ending of his days.

Perhaps just a simple headline In the paper that might say:
"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,A SOLDIER DIED YESTERDAY.."

Army In Democracy

What is civilian control of the military?
Armed forces were under the king
Who was usually a soldier himself.
Alexander commanded by virtue of his
Military abilities.
Napoleon was a soldier
Who became Emperor.
Where is “civilian” control?
That is something new.

II
Then came Democracy,
Checks and balances
And Separation of Powers.
People with no military experience
Like Barrack Obama
Who could mobilise votes
Became elected leaders.
In many countries
The Elected Head of State
Is Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces.
The power to declare war lies with the legislature
How to conduct it lies with the government.
Without military experience such a Supreme Commander
Works on the advice of a government.
This power is exercised indirectly through
The inherent powers of the Head of State.
This brings in a bureaucracy
Which should function legally and ethically.

III
In India serious issues come to a
Confrontation
In a ridiculous way.
Government misuses Air India
Does not even pay its pilots
And when they strike
Blames them for a mess it has created.
That is the only way the pilots can get paid.
The arrogance refuses to fade.

IV
There is a mess up about one entry
In a form by a young man
Nearly 40 years ago.
The documents we use to settle such matters
Are clear.
There was an error in that form.
That young man become
The Chief of Army Staff.
He tries to correct it.
But the written word
Even if erroneous
Is sacrosanct.
The bureaucrats who deal with these matters
Are insensitive, arrogant, adamant.
The error will prevail.
The officer is once told
Accept in 24 hours
We are right
Or the promotions of many will be out of sight.
Hobson’s choice.
He accepts
Then the Press goes viral
He is called a liar.

V
The Army Chief
Having exhausted all possible
Remedies
Goes to court.
People are horrified.
How can a serving General go to court
Against the Government?
He should ‘gracefully’ accept the
Erroneous Government decision.
Or he should first have resigned
So that the basic issue becomes
Irrelevant.
This is dignity.

VI
No one asks
How can the Government put up with its
Ridiculous ways
Against all evidence?
Only when cornered and under duress
Will it consider acting properly.
If this is what the Army Chief has to put up with
What is the plight of the more than million soldiers
In the Indian Army?
They face insensitive arrogance
From the bureaucracy every day.
It has now been challenged.
Legally and properly
It is good for our democracy.

VII
There will be twists and turns in this case.
Minor matters will be pontificated upon.
Whatever happens
Institutions are being tarnished
Because a few nameless bureaucrats
Are accountable to no one.
When will that change?

VIII
This is no overstatement or hyperbole.
Look at the ridiculous situation
The Government created
In the appointment of
The Chief Vigilance Commissioner
Not very long ago.
The adamant bureaucracy got away
Embarrassing the Prime Minister
And the entire Government was
Made a laughing stock.
And not for the first time.
It happened over the award of an
Honorary doctorate
To chess great Vishwanathan Anand.
This was embarrassing to the university
Wasn’t it reputation tarnished?
But the babus got away.
We never learn.
We must control the bureaucracy
For the good of the country.

IX
In the warrant of precedence
A Brigadier is equivalent to a
Deputy Commissioner.
One has 30 odd years of service
The other is a youngster in the civil service.
This is a symptom of what is wrong
It is not that we disrespect institutions
It is that we have an unaccountable bureaucracy
That exists only for itself.
And interferes everywhere.
This is Incredible India.

X
That Army Chief has done well
In fighting this issue.
He has shown he is a soldier
Fighting for honour.
Vested interests will criticise him
They may still hound him.
But he has raised his voice
On behalf of a million men
Kudos to the Chief
A true leader of men.

Heaven & Hell

HEAVEN & HELL



Last night while sleeping I died...
or so it seemed,
Then I went to heaven
But only in my dream

Up there my Record Keeper met me
Standing at the Entry Gates,
He said, "I must check your record...
Please stand here and wait."

He turned and said "Your record
Is covered with terrible flaws,
On earth I see you rallied
For every losing cause."

I see that you drank rum,
smoked and killed too,
Fact is, you've done everything
A good person should never do.

We can't have people like you up here....
Throughout your life all you did was hear,
You carried out orders without pausing to think.
You never asked for instructions in ink..

Then he read the last of my record
And his eyes grew moist.
He took my hand gently and said,
"Come in.

'You stood in isolated places and shivered alone
You left your kith, kin, hearth and home
You come from an unresponsive, ungrateful nation
You were denied your rights by every Pay Commission'

He led me up to the Caretaker of Heaven ...
"Take him in and treat him well,
He has served in the Indian Military ...
He's already done his time in Hell. "

Ode to Soldier

He was getting old and paunchy
And his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the family,
Telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he once fought in
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies;
They were heroes, every one.

And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors
His tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened quietly
For they knew where of he spoke.

But we'll hear his tales no longer,
For ol' Natha Singh has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer
For a Soldier died today.

He won't be mourned by many,
Just his children and his wife.
For he lived an ordinary,
Very quiet sort of life.

He held a job and raised a family,
Going quietly on his way;
And the world won't note his passing,
'Tho a Soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth,
Their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing,
And proclaim that they were great.

Papers tell of their life stories
From the time that they were young
But the passing of a Soldier
Goes unnoticed, and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution
To the welfare of our land,
Some jerk who breaks his promise
And cons his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow
Who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country
And offers up his life?

The politician's stipend
And the style in which he lives,
Are often disproportionate,
To the service that he gives.

While the ordinary Soldier,
Who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal
And a pension, meagre & small..

It is not the politicians
With their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom
That our country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger,
With your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some Neta,
With his ever waffling stand?

Or would you want a Soldier--
His home, his country, his kin,
Just a common Soldier,
Who would fight to the skin.

He was just a common Soldier,
And his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us
We may need his like again.

For when countries are in conflict,
We find the Soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles
That the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honor
While he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage
At the ending of his days.

Perhaps just a simple headline
In the paper that might say:
"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
A SOLDIER DIED YESTERDAY.."

A soldiers Wife

A Soldiers Wife

I wear no uniforms but I am in the Army because I am his wife.

I'm in the ranks that are rarely seen, I have no rank upon my shoulders.
Salutes I do not give. But the military world is the place where I live.

I'm not in the chain of command, Orders I do not get.
But my husband is the one who does, this I can not forget.

I'm not the one who fires the weapon, who puts my life on the line.
But my job is just as tough. I'm the one who's left behind.

My husband is a patriot, a brave and prideful man.
And the call to serve his country not all can understand.

Behind the lines I see the things needed to keep this country free.
My husband makes the sacrifice, but so do our kids and me.

I love the man I married. Soldiering is his life.
But I stand among the silent ranks known as the Army Wife

THE INDIAN ARMY WE GREW UP IN - THEN AND NOW By Brig Bajaj

THE INDIAN ARMY WE GREW UP IN – THEN AND NOW

1971 –the June 1971 Regular Course is commissioned, goes to battle stations within six months of commissioning and emerges as a band of young war hardened veterans christened as the ‘Born to Battle Course’. Now that each and every member of our course has honourably retired and the last of the 1971 War Veterans has hung up his uniform, we nostalgically reminiscence that though life in the Army was never a bed of roses, most of us enjoyed our three to four decades of service without too many heart burns/hiccups. One really heartening aspect of our ‘life encompassing journey’ was the bonding and camaraderie developed at the National Defence Academy or the Indian Military Academy and thereafter nurtured over decades of service. These bonds grew not only amongst the officers and the men but transgressed the uniform and emerged as an even more unique and amazing kinship between the wives and children of officers and jawans!
One never imagined that these relationships between the officers, ladies and children developed so early in life, would transcend decades and become stronger over the years. Thanks to the social networking sites available today and the instant connectivity via mobile phones our generation and that of our children enjoys an unbelievable camaraderie, bonhomie and kinship even though we retired years ago! The very mention of the word ‘Army’ or ‘Services’ and ones hand automatically reaches out in a gesture of warm greeting and if required support !
Last month my daughter and son -in- law located at Gurgaon told us that they have a week off and would like to visit Rajasthan and see places like Jodhpur and Jaisalmer – places one had operated in for the better part of our lives. Since my son –in-law is from a totally civilian background I was keen to help him acquire a flavour of the army we had served in for almost forty years. I, therefore, decided to tie up accommodation for them in army areas in Rajasthan.
The children, along with our two little granddaughters drove from Delhi and, needless to say, had a wonderful holiday with the army extending hospitality at Nasirabad, Jodhpur and Jaisalmer. Through the children’s own connectivity, courtesy regimental networking, they came to know that one of my then young regimental officers, now the Commandant of an Armoured Regt was out with his Regiment on training in that area and therefore they arranged to meet over lunch enroute to Jaisalmer.
On 29 Dec 11,on their way back from Jaisalmer, they had decided to have breakfast with the Commandant but about 10 km short of his location they became the victims of a horrific accident trying to avoid a wayward car driver. So severe was the impact that their car turned turtle twice over and our four month old granddaughter flew out of the broken windscreen and landed on the sand providentially totally unscratched. Fortunately, the family emerged from the accident badly shaken but, with the grace of God, safe. My daughter immediately called up the Commandant and informed him of the accident.

Reacting as only the army can, he with a medical team and a recovery vehicle rushed to the spot, evacuated the hapless victims on the bitterly cold morning and took them to the Regiment where an army doctor attended to them. Though in a camp environment, he ensured the best of comfort possible for the badly traumatized family. Sacrificing his own comfort, the officer housed them in the warmest place available in the camp - his own caravan. He ensured that they were comfortably housed till they were fit enough to travel and also made alternate arrangements for them to travel to Jodhpur. He also took pains to ensure that the car was recovered and brought to the camp till it was evacuated to Delhi a day later.

The story does not end here. By some coincidence the news of the accident reached the Divisional HQ at Jodhpur where the GOC was informed about the unfortunate accident wherein the children of one Brig Bajaj, a retired Armoured Corps officer, had a miraculous escape. The General Officer Commanding , who happened to be an old student of mine and a younger colleague, did not lose time and rang me up to reassure me that all was well with the children. I was concerned about a detailed medical checkup for the four of them since all doctors in Rajasthan were on an indefinite strike. He promised me that he would personally ensure a proper medical checkup for all of them at MH Jodhpur and also make sure that they are comfortable and safe till they depart for Delhi. When the children arrived at Jodhpur they were escorted to the hospital, thoroughly examined and housed comfortably till their departure for Delhi the next afternoon. As if all this was not enough, the GOC and his wife were gracious enough to visit the children and personally enquire about their well being.

Where else can one dream of such kinship and camaraderie? It is indeed reassuring that notwithstanding all the bad mouthing, neglect and indifference suffered by our Army (read Armed Forces) at the hand of the Government, the Bureaucracy, the Media and some unscrupulous senior officers our wonderful organization is flourishing and the present day officers and men still cherish and live by the value systems we grew up with. We veterans can, therefore, rest reassured that with the current generation in place, our Services and, therefore, our country men are in safe hands!!

Can any organization be it the elitist (nose in the air) IAS, IPS or for that matter any other organization in India boast of such bonding or brotherhood ???


Brig Deepak Bajaj,VSM,(Retd)