Poem by an unknown soldier

Life in the Army, they say is mighty fine,
 Well..old rhyme, limited and confined.

 Today's Army is something different, Troops battling more in peace than on Front.

 Cadets are tech savvy and army is career,
 OG is life ..oh no Sir !

 Give me Supply, Ordnance, EME and anything other than infantry,
 I'm third generation proud officer, but fuck the family tree !

 Gimme me uniform and I'll show you how;
 Better than anyone I'll milk this cow.

 Helpers, vehicles, guest rooms and peace tenures;
 No one ever has enough, I'm sure.

 I've seen seniors dying for these things,
 Oh the orgasm a guest room, however shitty, brings.

 When did my seniors ever talk about weapons and wars,
 All I heard was " Cdr likes Nimbu ka achaar"

 Who knows Bulge, Iwo Jima or Agincourt;
 The focus my friend, is on annual report.

 Traditions are British and Indian attitude ;
 Cocktail samosas , our fortitude.

 Previous Boss was fool, ignorant, selfish and just made it;
 I'm here to rescue you my Army, I declare it.

 How can they be wrong, they have staff college degree;
 Give them 30 minutes, and they'll  drown you with Thesaurus spree.

 Don't know what they teach there;
 They go as soldiers, come back presenters.

 The bloated egos and nouveau class;
 Spare me God, of this farce !

 Licence to speak and grow, yes they earn ;
 The arm chair aristocracy, that's mostly they learn.

 Either a true soldier or an officer with career;
 Lesson No 1 in army, you live with that all your years.

 Cribbing is my birthright and everything is wrong;
 Keep blaming others for being Surdy group, Jat or Bong.

 Hateful boring social evenings with all formalities aboard;
 Laughing at boss's poor jokes, the only one way road !

 Wine and cheese, salads and soufflés;
 My Lord Commander, please see my style and acknowledge my play.

 I know naught of why NATO behaves so;
 Military officer that I am, where's the need to know.

 When will I ever debate anything intellectual and critical ;
 Juniors will keep agreeing to me, and with seniors, I never mull.

 The race to become civilian like cool;
 Well, needless to say, who's the fool.

 God save you from those who've been abroad ;
 The stories are never ending, nor is the fraud.

 Those duty free bottles, meant to be had ;
 Hang in personal bar for years, just to show and feel glad.

 "Arrey Ma'am.." Still confuses me a lot;
 Makes me think, to ruin our culture, was it a British plot?

 The ego is so small and insignificant,
 A pick up from station to cantt.

 If the world didn't know how awesome I am;
 Now I have Facebook, and there, I don't sham.

 What I read, eat, do, travel, watch and crap;
 I will tell all, leave no gap.

 Respect me, for I'm better than you;
 Look at all the shit I'm doing, it's true.

 I hate arranging these parties, golf, meets and setting up mess like banquet hall;
 Still, I can't say No, coz I lost my balls.

 I won't say the King is nude,
 I got AE to earn , and also..it's rude.

 Boss doesn't like my wife much ;
 She's professional, has a doctorate in some micro processors and such.

 Who cares what she does ,
 "You're married to OG, attend the Ladies meet, final, bas !"

 20 years in army, I still don't know if I have friends;
 Cut them all out for gradings, ACRs and favours , and never made amends.

 My gypsy , my house, my helper, my dog;
 That's all I think I'll write if I ever blog.

 Maybe there will be some mention of war games and Cold start;
 Which is also beer sessions and verbal fart.

 Doctrines keep getting revised and new teachings in place;
 Don't know why in combat they blow up in face.

 Every Commander, new rules and strategy for troops;
 Just to satisfy him COs jumping through hoops.

 Academy was different, I failed in every test;
 PT, cross country, jump, sports ..name it, life was GCI fest

 Thanks to messed up system of who cares what I did then ;
 I command troops and lecture on toughness , just coz I know how to move pen.

 People don't change, I still shit my pants if I'm made to run ;
 But now I can hop into gypsy and have all the fun.

 Yes, I don't need to run in battle and rather plan and strategise;
 And the bull I can add there, limits are skies.

 There's a reason why bullshitters love bullshitters;
 No one likes to be pointed out, gives then jitters.

 They keep moving from rank to rank fooling system and each other;
 They applaud each other and say " he's PSC, imtrat, UN, instructor..he's a brother "

 How we leave behind and cut off from those who don't make it;
 Their Hellos keep hanging in air and their questions are not deemed fit.

 Oh The Pyramid of ranks , selfish and singular;
 Wait..there is a Motherland, I never mentioned her.

 India it is , and we are the sons;
 Will die to defend her, and for that I got this gun.

 Honestly, I've never fired it except for some mandatory firing at range ;
 Decades in army, some things never change.

 Bureaucrats hate us and we hate them back;
 Why we hate them, that rail is little off track.

 They are more exposed, traveled, educated, powerful and have muscles to flex;
 So even though I don't like to admit, but it maybe inferiority complex.

 We maybe kings of cantonment and rulers of our men ;
 But with them lies the real authority and our swords are not mightier than their pen.

 Take a guess how many times my comrades mention if they go to five star hotel;
 No, you guessed it wrong, it's few more than whatever number rang your bell.

 It's not an army of soldiering, bandoleer and tents;
 It's showing off, being suave and metro sexual gents.

 The world is changing, and we've changed for worst;
 The money, technology, and ape mentality is all a curse.

 We want to snatch the respect from everyone and not respect them back;
 Humility, which even Montgomery and Patton had, we lack.

 Don't be amazed by the falling standards of everyone;
 There aren't any Rommels, Yo..don't expect no young guns.

 To judge a character, give a man power;
 One who still remains humble is the man of hour.

 The race is to please, appease and impress bosses;
 The respect you lose of troops and families, you never account for those losses.

 Everyone will salute you..that's the norm;
 Don't mistake it for respect, just see who the salute is coming from.

 It's his duty to do that, he's bound to it;
 Do you deserve it, to what limit?

 Stop bitching, stop sucking and stop the act;
 Be real soldier, genuine officer and deal with facts.

 The glory of army if from the fallen heroes and feats of bravery;
 If you aren't in either, don't mistake yourself for King Henry!

 This army was, is and will continue to run without you;
 Do something to improve it, leave a mark and that's what you should do.

 The more you bitch, the more you demoralise;
 What a negative effect you have on your troops, you never realise.

 Just take a step back and evaluate;
 What's more important, which character has more weight.

 We don't fight elections, we don't need to be popular, we don't need a fan;
 We were meant to fight, lead and simply be a manmy iPhone

I watched the flag pass by one day it fluttered in the breeze.
A young Lieutenant saluted it,And then he stood at ease..
I looked at him in uniform -
So young, So tall, So proud,
With hair cut square and eyes alert
He'd stand out in any crowd.
I thought how many men like him had fallen through the years.
How many mothers' tears?
How many pilots' planes shot down?
How many died at sea?
How many foxholes were soldiers' graves?
No, freedom isn't free.
I heard the sound of Taps one night,
When everything was still,
I listened to the bugler play,
And felt a sudden chill.
I wondered just how many times That Taps had meant Amen.
When a flag had draped a coffin,of a brother or a friend. 
I thought of all the children of mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and husbands with interrupted lives.
I thought about a graveyard at the bottom of the sea,
Of unmarked graves in valley,
Of the price they paid for you and me,
Oh! This Freedom Is'nt Free !

Salute !!!

I watched the flag pass by one day it fluttered in the breeze.
A young Lieutenant saluted it,And then he stood at ease..
I looked at him in uniform -
So young, So tall, So proud,
With hair cut square and eyes alert
He'd stand out in any crowd.
I thought how many men like him had fallen through the years.
How many mothers' tears?
How many pilots' planes shot down?
How many died at sea?
How many foxholes were soldiers' graves?
No, freedom isn't free.
I heard the sound of Taps one night,
When everything was still,
I listened to the bugler play,
And felt a sudden chill.
I wondered just how many times That Taps had meant Amen.
When a flag had draped a coffin,of a brother or a friend. 
I thought of all the children of mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and husbands with interrupted lives.
I thought about a graveyard at the bottom of the sea,
Of unmarked graves in valley,
Of the price they paid for you and me,
Oh! This Freedom Is'nt Free !

The military wife

The military wife can handle...

Lots of moving...
Moving...
Moving...
Moving far from home...
Moving two cars, three kids and one dog...all riding with HER of course.
Moving sofas to basements because they won't go in THIS house;
Moving curtains that won't fit;
Moving jobs and certifications and professional development hours.
Moving away from friends;
Moving toward new friends;
Moving her most important luggage: her trunk full of memories.

Often waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting for housing.
Waiting for orders.
Waiting for deployments.
Waiting for phone calls.
Waiting for reunions.
Waiting for the new curtains to arrive.
Waiting for him to come home,
For dinner...AGAIN!

They call her 'Military Dependent', but she knows better:
She is fiercely In-Dependent.

She can balance a check book;
Handle the yard work;
Fix a noisy toilet;
Bury the family pet...

She is intimately familiar with drywall anchors and toggle bolts.
She can file the taxes;
Sell a house;
Buy a car;
Or set up a move...
.....all with ONE Power of Attorney.

She welcomes neighbors that don't welcome her.
She reinvents her career with every PCS;
Locates a house in the desert, The Arctic, Or the deep south.
And learns to call them all 'home'.
She MAKES them all home.

Military Wives are somewhat hasty...
They leap into:
Decorating,
Leadership,
Volunteering,
Career alternatives,
Churches,
And friendships.
They don't have 15 years to get to know people.
Their roots are short but flexible.
They plant annuals for themselves and perennials for those who come after
them.

Military Wives quickly learn to value each other:
They connect over coffee,
Rely on the spouse network,
Accept offers of friendship and favors.
Record addresses in pencil...

Military Wives have a common bond:
The Military Wife has a husband unlike other husbands; his commitment is
unique.
He doesn't have a 'JOB'
He has a 'MISSION' that he can't just decide to quit...
He's on-call for his country 24/7.
But for her, he's the most unreliable guy in town!
His language is foreign
TDY
PCS
OPR
SOS
ACC
BDU
ACU
BAR
CIB
TAD
And so, a Military Wife is a translator for her family and his.
She is the long- distance link to keep them informed;
the glue that holds them together.

A Military Wife has her moments:
She wants to wring his neck;
Dye his uniform pink;
Refuse to move to Siberia;
But she pulls herself together.
Give her a few days,
A travel brochure,
A long hot bath,
A pledge to the flag,
A wedding picture,
And she goes.
She packs.
She moves.
She follows.

Why?
What for?
How come?
You may think it is because she has lost her mind.
But actually it is because she has lost her heart.
It was stolen from her by a man,
Who puts duty first,
Who longs to deploy,
Who salutes the flag,
And whose boots in the doorway remind her that as long as he is her
Military Husband,
She will remain his military wife.
And would have it no other way.
for all those nostalgic moments

A SOLDIER’S FATHER

A SOLDIER’S FATHER 

  


 The helicopter appeared over the late morning horizon. We were to receive Mr Lachhman Singh Rathore who was visiting our flight to perform the last rites of his son, Flying Officer Vikram Singh. 

 Only the day before, I had sent the telegram, “Deeply regret to inform that your son Flying Officer Vikram Singh lost his life in a flying accident early this morning. Death was instantaneous.” It was the first time for me, to meet and manage the bereaved next of kin. 

 While most wives and mothers insist on seeing the body, many a time there isn’t a body to show. Flying Officer Vikram Singh’s remains were only a few kilos – scrapped from what was left in the cockpit. We had to weigh the wooden coffin with wood and earth. 

 The pilot brought the helicopter to a perfect touchdown. Soon Mr Lachhman Singh Rathor was helped down the ladder. A small man of 73 years clad in an immaculate dhoti. As I approached him, he asked in a near whisper, “Are you Venki, the Flight Commander?” “Yes Sir.” “Vikram had spoken to me about you. I’d like to speak to you alone for a minute.” We walked to the edge of the concrete apron. ‘I have lost a son, and you have lost a friend. I’m sure that you have taken great care in arranging the funeral. Please tell me when and where you want my presence and what you want me to do. I’ll be there for everything. Later, I would like to meet Vikram’s friends, see his room and, if it is permitted, visit his work place. I then would like to return home tomorrow morning.” A commander couldn’t have given me clearer instructions. 
  
The funeral, with full military honours, was concluded by late afternoon. After the final echoes of the ‘Last Post’ faded away Lachhman Singh spent the evening talking to the Squadron Pilots. Vkram’s roommate took him to see Vikram’s room. Lachhman Singh desired to spend the night in his son’s room instead of the guest house we had reserved for him. Early next morning after a tour of the squadron area, my boss took him to his office. A while later the staff car took Lachhman Singh to the civil airfield two hours away. 
  
As the car disappeared round the corner, I remarked to my Boss, “A brave man he is. Spoke to me like a General when he told me exactly what he expected from us during his stay here. I admire him.” 
  
“Yes Mr Lachhman Singh Rathore is a warrior in his own way. He sired three sons. His first son Captain Ghanshyam Singh of the Gurkha Rifles was killed in Ladakh in 1962. His second son, Major Bir Singh, died along the Ichogil Canal in 1965. His youngest, Vikram Singh, who had the courage to join the Air Force, is also gone now. This simple farmer has contributed more to our country’s defence than any other I know.” 
  
Yes, he is a brave Indian 
  
But he does not  get a "bharat ratna". A millionaire who earned by endorsements gets it 

Tribute to Capt Vikram Batra by his brother

My brother Vikram - Vishal Batra

It's been ten years. A lot has changed. and a lot has remained the same. I have much more grey in my hair. Vikram is as youthful as ever. Time cannot touch him...

When I talk about Luv, I don't know where to begin. Capt.Vikram Batra PVC (posthumous) is Luv, and I, Kush. His identical twin. Ours was a childhood spent in the hills of Palampur making the most of our identical looks—playing pranks, filling in for each other and at times even getting punished for one another’s mistakes. The similarity ran deeper than looks. We also had the same interests. Both of us started playing table tennis at the age of ten. It’s another story that Vikram went on to become the school champion for five consecutive years. But I’d like to believe that I had a big hand in that. After all, I chose to lose to him in the semi-finals in the fifth year so that he could make the school record. But deep in my heart, I know that my brother—Shershah of Kargil—was a winner right from the start.

Shershah of Kargil. That’s what the enemy too called Vikram. That’s the mark he made on them on those unforgiving mountains of Kargil. I don’t know at what stage Vikram marched on way ahead of all of us. We’d grown up as regular kids, making our choices as we went along. The first different choice that I remember is when our father started giving us Rs 50 a month for the school bus fare. I chose to travel to school by bus. Vikram opted to walk it and instead spend those rupees in the canteen. As we grew up, Vikram opted for the Army, and I, rejected thrice by the Services Selection Board, settled for business administration. How thrilled he was when he made it to the Indian Military Academy (IMA), Dehradun.

It was 6 December 1997. Vikram Batra’s dream came true. He took the oath as an Officer of the Indian Army:

The Safety, Honour and Welfare of your country comes first, always and every time / The Honour, Welfare and Comfort of the men you command comes next / Your own Ease, Comfort and Safety comes last, always and every time. /
Mom and Dad pinned up the stars on his shoulder. He stood there smiling from ear to ear in his crew cut and several kilos thinner after the rigorous training. It was a grand moment. But it wasn’t going to be an easy life and Vikram knew that.

When he’d come home on annual leave, we would talk for hours about the challenges he faced in Sopore—the strife-torn town in Jammu & Kashmir’s Baramulla district—which was his first posting. He had been commissioned into 13 JAK Rif.

We would dream of the day he would command his regiment and I would get a chance to attend some of the regimental functions with his family and children. That dream is lost now.

Never could I have imagined, even in my wildest dreams, that the stories we saw in the famous TV serial, Param Vir Chakra, which we watched at a neighbour’s house in 1985 (we didn’t have a TV at home back then) would one day become so real for me. And Vikram would be the hero. Vikram was awarded the country’s highest gallantry award, posthumously. He was only 24. His famous words from the height of 18,000 feet: “Yeh Dil Maange More,” after victory over the enemy, still ring in my ears.

It’s been ten years. A lot has changed. And a lot has remained the same. I have many more grey strands in my hair. Vikram is as youthful as ever. Time cannot touch him. In these last ten years, I have longed to visit those mountains that he conquered. And then suddenly, out of the blue, I got a call to travel to Kargil and Drass. It was as if Vikram was calling me to have a chat with him. I didn’t look back, packed my bags and set out to meet him.

I landed in Leh at 10:30 in the morning on 2 July, five days before Vikram’s tenth death anniversary. The valley was more beautiful than it is made out to be in books. From the snow-capped hills surrounding it, I could almost sense Vikram looking at me. I then began the road trip to Drass to meet him. The mountain wind blew faster than the speed of the car and in my mind there was just one picture—of the bearded young man who had become a legend for pushing the enemy back at insurmountable heights where even life does not exist.

A little outside Leh, we reached Gurdwara Pathar Sahib. I said a prayer for Vikram and for all those great soldiers guarding those mountains and our motherland. I recalled what Vikram had written in one of his last letters before the attack: ‘Life is at total risk. Anything can happen here. Take care of yourself and Mom and Dad… My picture has appeared in The Times Of India. Keep a copy for me. I want to see it once I’m back.’ The picture had appeared on the front page of The Times of India on 2 July 1999. It showed him standing with an anti-aircraft gun and weapons he had captured from Pakistani soldiers. This was after the first ferocious attack on Peak 5140 launched after they performed pooja at the Ghumri Base Camp with the call of “Durga Mata Ki Jai”.

Vikram and his men captured point 5140 on 20 June 1999, and two weeks later, when his company launched the attack on point 4875 on 5 July, Vikram was fatally wounded—hit by sniper fire. The company captured the peak, but after 11 casualties. Vikram was one of them.

It was months later, at the Western Command headquarters, when I met the junior commissioned officer (JCO) who was with Vikram the day he was fatally wounded. He was the last man to speak with Vikram. Sub Major Raghunath Singh started wailing when he saw me. He solved the mystery of my twin’s death for me: a young officer, Vikram’s junior, was hit and crying for help. The JCO wanted to go out to help but Vikram stopped him. “The enemy was firing heavily. ‘You have a family and children back home, I will do this,’ saahab said. He stopped me with these words and went out,” Raghunath Singh told me as he wept like a baby, inconsolably. But Vikram was hit by sniper fire. Having realised that, the charged company went berserk, mad with rage at their leader being hit, and killed the enemy soldiers. The tricolour was planted atop point 4875—they call it Batra Top now. Vikram reached Palampur before the sun rose on 11 July 1999. He was wrapped in the tricolour, lying calm almost as if he was trying to catch up on sleep he had lost during these arduous assaults on those treacherous peaks.

Was I really so close to those peaks that I could almost see him fighting there? I wanted to reach up there as fast as possible, but the track was treacherous—the rocky mountain on one side and the sheer fall on the other. In some time, we had left the Indus River behind.

It was a breathtaking journey. A place so beautiful and yet caught in the crossfire of war a decade ago. Midway, at one of the military posts, we had lunch with the commanding officer of 4 JAK Rif. I also met an officer six months senior to Vikram—now a major—and a JCO, both of whom had fought the war together with Vikram. “You look so much like Vikram Sir,” the JCO said and hugged me. I’ve been told that a billion times in the last ten years. There are people now who know me as Captain Vikram Batra’s brother. Many of them even walk into my office at ICICI Bank in Delhi and stare at me as if they know me. Some of them even say, “We’ve seen you somewhere.” When I tell them I’m Captain Batra’s twin, they say, “Oh, ‘Yeh Dil Mange More,’” and shake my hand.

My dream of visiting Vikram as a commanding officer of a regiment couldn’t come true. But Vikram still commands. He’s there in the hearts of the soldiers posted in Kargil and Drass. In that mountain named after him (the Batra Top). And in the transit camp in Drass, called Capt Batra Transit Camp, where weary soldiers break their journey in the call of duty. 
‘Call of duty’, the mention of these words takes me back to the days he was to be commissioned as an officer. When he was in the IMA, the footnote of Vikram’s letter pad read, ‘If Death comes to me before I prove my blood, I promise I’ll kill Death.’ You kept your word, Vikram. My Brother, My Twin, I salute you.

Passage from Book 'Towards resurgent India'

A Salute to Soldiers-Hats Off !   Passage from the pages 110 & 111 of the book `Toward Resurgent India ' written by Lt. Gen. (Retd.) M. M. Lakhera, PVSM,AVSM,VSM, one time Lt. Gov. of Pondicherry and now the Governor of Mizoram.  "I had gone to UK in 1995 as Deputy Leader of the Indian Delegation to take part in the 50th Anniversary celebrations of the victory in Europe during the Second World War. I along with four other Army officers, had just stepped out after attending the inaugural session and were waiting on the roadside for the traffic to ease so as to walk across the road to the vehicle park. Among those with me was Honorary Captain Umrao Singh, a Victorian Cross winner (unfortunately, I have received the sad news of his expiry just two days back). All of a sudden a car moving on the road came to a halt in front of us and a well dressed gentleman stepped out. He approached Umrao Singh and said, "Sir, may I have the privilege of shaking hand with the Victoria Cross (winner)?" He shook hands with him. Evidently he had spotted Umrao Singh's medal from his car and had stopped his car to pay his respect to a winner of the highest gallantry medal of his country. Then he looked at me and said, "General, you are from Indian Army." When I replied in affirmative, he gave out his name, saying that he was Maichile Hailstine. I was absolutely astounded as the recognition dawned on me that he was the Deputy Prime Minister of UK . I was totally overawed by such courtesy shown by a dignitary of the second highest status in the British Government and humbly thanked him for having invited our delegation for the VE Day function. Again his reply was typical of his sagacity, "General, it is we the British, who should be grateful to your country and your Armed Forces, who had helped us win both the first and the second World wars. How can we be ever so ungrateful to forget your country's great contribution." Suddenly I became conscious that all the traffic behind his car had come to stand still.. I hurried to thank him and politely requested him to move along to relieve the traffic hold-up. He stated, "Sir, how dare I drive off when Victoria Cross has to cross the road." Realizing his genuine feeling I and my colleagues quickly crossed the road. Reaching the other side I looked back and saw that Mr. Hailstine was still standing waiting for the Victoria Cross to be safely across.  Ladies & Gentlemen, that is the type of regards they have for their decorated soldiers. I have always aspired that similar respect could be shown at least to a Param Vir Chakra or Ashok Chakra winner by the leaders and prominent figures in our country."

From a Soldier's heart

 Written by a Soldier, from the heart.

---

How you play with us, did you ever see?

At Seven, I had decided what I wanted to be;
I would serve you to the end,
All these boundaries I would defend.

Now you make me look like a fool,
When at Seventeen and just out of school;
Went to the place where they made "men out of boys"
Lived a tough life …sacrificed a few joys…

In those days, I would see my 'civilian' friends,
Living a life with the fashion trends;
Enjoying their so called "College Days"
While I sweated and bled in the sun and haze…
But I never thought twice about what where or why
All I knew was when the time came, I'd be ready to do or die.

At 21 and with my commission in hand,
Under the glory of the parade and the band,
I took the oath to protect you over land, air or sea,
And make the supreme sacrifice when the need came to be.

I stood there with a sense of recognition,
But on that day I never had the premonition,
that when the time came to give me my due,
You'd just say," What is so great that you do?"

Long back you promised a well to do life;
And when I'm away, take care of my wife.
You came and saw the hardships I live through,
And I saw you make a note or two,
And I hoped you would realise the worth of me;
but now I know you'll never be able to see,
Because you only see the glorified life of mine,
Did you see the place where death looms all the time?
Did you meet the man standing guard in the snow?
The name of his newborn he does not know...
Did you meet the man whose father breathed his last?
While the sailor patrolled our seas so vast?

You still know I'll not be the one to raise my voice
I will stand tall and protect you in Punjab Himachal and Thois.

But that's just me you have in the sun and rain,
For now at Twenty Four, you make me think again;
About the decision I made, Seven years back;
Should I have chosen another life, some other track?

Will I tell my son to follow my lead?
Will I tell my son, you'll get all that you need?
This is the country you will serve
This country will give you all that you deserve?

I heard you tell the world "India is shining"
I told my men, that's a reason for us to be smiling
This is the India you and I will defend!
But tell me how long will you be able to pretend?
You go on promising all that you may,
But it's the souls of your own men you betray.

Did you read how some of our eminent citizens
Write about me and ridicule my very existence?
I ask you to please come and see what I do,
Come and have a look at what I go through
Live my life just for a day
Maybe you'll have something else to say?

I will still risk my life without a sigh
To keep your flag flying high
but today I ask myself a question or two…
Oh India…. Why do I still serve you.