Locked down behind the enemy lines
“Son, my contribution to the 1965 war has not been given its due in the regimental history book you edited.” Having returned home after a long day at the ranges, it was not the best of times to receiveacallfromaveteran.The commanding officer’s appointment is one post where patience becomes the first casualty.
“Sir, I did mention your becoming a prisoner of war and subsequent release,” I retorted to cut the conversation short. “Then, you need to elaborate on it a bit more,” he said assertively. Given his age and regimental association, I had to give him a patient hearing. Moreover, this gentleman happened to be my father’s colleague during the war in the regiment I was now commanding.
“Preponderance of enemy Patton tanks forced our troops to fall back in the initial fog of war. I was the observation post officer providing artillery fire support to an infantry battalion during the war,” he started. Listening to a war veteran is like reading a military history book. “The unwieldy and cumbersome communication paraphernalia we carried on our shoulders made our movement on foot sluggish and my party got separated from the rest.”
As he spoke, I tried to visualise his predicament in the war zone. Barely a year in uniform and lost in a perilous situation, all he had was a map and his wits to rely upon and navigate back to safety.
He heaved a sigh of relief on sighting a convoy of vehicles driven by men in khaki, possibly of the Central Reserve Police Force. “Those days, some posts on the ceasefire line were manned by them,” he continued. He rushed forward waving at the column for a lift, they too were possibly withdrawing from the front, he thought.
Reality dawned upon him when he was close enough to recognise them but distant enough from his party that had stayed back camouflaged in the undergrowth. “The rascals in khakis turned out to be Pakistanis and I was promptly taken prisoner of war,” the despair in his voice gave out his remorse.
He was produced before the General commanding the Pakistani division. Other than some mundane information and personal details of his being an emergency commissioned officer who had got married a few days ago, nothing worthwhile came to the enemy from this war trophy.
In his frustration, the General even slapped him for his obduracy. “However, he relented given the solitary star on my shoulder that was enough to certify my ignorance. The General after all had held the same rank in the same army two decades ago and realised how much could be extracted from a second lieutenant,” the wit in his voice was palpable.
“Sir, I think this information isn’t quite suited for our history books,” I said in exasperation. “Well, you must mention that during my lockdown behind the enemy lines, I’ve had the unique distinction of being interrogated and subsequently spanked by the future president of Pakistan!” he hung up, leaving me dazed. That General was Yahya Khan and I had no option but to update our war history!
BARELY A YEAR IN UNIFORM AND LOST IN A PERILOUS SITUATION, ALL HE HAD WAS A MAP AND HIS WITS TO RELY UPON