THE GARUD STRIKES (4 page)

TALLY HO

S
everal hours had elapsed since they had reached the International Border (IB). And even now no one had a clue if they would be going ahead with the offensive or not; and if so, when.

Map signed by Lieutenant General JFR Jacob, PVSM, then Chief of Staff,
Eastern Command

However, surprisingly, there was no tension in the air. Most of the men and younger officers had dozed off; exhausted by the intense burst of activity that erupts when any military unit receives the orders to mobilize for war. The others, still riding out the adrenaline surge, and now bored with this lingering inactivity, were trying to sleep. A few were chatting, but in really low tones, mindful of the border outposts not too far away. Some were eating; a very select some… basically the die-hard (and quite literal) followers of Napoleon’s an-army-marches-on-its-stomach philosophy.

For the senior lot, of course, it was a different story. Most of them had seen battle before. In the two decades since Indian independence, the country had seen more than its fair share of war, not surprising, considering its unusually belligerent neighbour. This (senior) lot had been through one or more of these wars, and had experienced the terminal impact of bullets, bayonets and bombs on life and limb. They were busy introspecting and contemplating. Perhaps also because the older ones are more prone to thinking and worrying, as are those who command men into battle. Perhaps it was the knowledge of the carnage that was inevitable. Perhaps it was the uncertainty of whether their planning would stand the test of the battle ahead or not. Or perhaps it was simply the certainty that if it did not, their men would pay for the misjudgment with their limbs, and maybe even their lives.

Battalion ‘O’ Group receiving orders from the Commandant at
Agartala on 1 December 1971
Standing (L-R) Captain Harmohinder Singh, Major S. Mehta,
Captain V.K. Dewan and Lieutenant Colonel Himmeth Singh
Sitting (L-R) Captain Surinder Singh, Major Kharbanda,
Major Marwah and Major Chandrakant

There were over three thousand heavily armed men strung along the border, mostly in small, tight clusters. Barring the occasional man going to discreetly answer nature’s call, there was little to give them away.

To mask the movement of these men from the rear areas to the IB, several one tonner trucks had removed their silencers and had been revving their engines to the north of Agartala airport. However, the enemy must have sensed that something was up. It is hard to conceal the movement of so many men. But, the Pakistanis probably didn’t know which axis the Indians would exploit, and when the strike would commence.

The sun sets early in this part of the world. Soon it dropped below the horizon and a blanket of darkness rendered even these sporadic movements invisible.

Now cocooned in the fragile shell of darkness, the men of the Indian 311 Mountain Brigade waited… poised on that thin, poorly demarcated line that lay between India and East Pakistan… soon to be Bangladesh.

Com
manders (of divisions, brigades, battalions and companies) paced restlessly near telephone sets. The tension coursing through them was directly proportionate to the rank they wore on their shoulder boards. The higher the rank, the heavier the responsibility, and the more fearsome the tension coiling inside them.

Everyone was waiting for two words.

‘Tally Ho!’

Two words that would unleash the brigade, along with the other brigades of the 4th Corp of the Indian Army, also poised along the border, and send it hurtling down an uncertain, perilous road, which would eventually lead to Dacca.

Two simple words: that would forever alter the destiny of three nations; one of them yet to be born.

Two tiny words: that would impact the lives of several thousands of men on both sides of the Indo-Pak border.

Two words: the echoes of which would reverberate down the corridors of history forever.

Life, death, the guns, the darkness, the silvery moonlight, even the chill of the winter night: everything seemed to be holding its breath.

At approximately 1730 hours, telephone sets crackled to life.

Tally Ho!

A dozen commanders, scattered in a dozen locations, acknowledged the command. Immediately apprehension, uncertainty and doubt were swept aside as men and machinery rumbled to life, like an ungainly giant uncoiling slowly.

Guns were cocked. Rounds chambered. Bayonets fixed. Boots laced more firmly. Belts tightened. Water swigged to soothe parched throats. Fluttering stomachs settled as adrenaline slithered into the system.

At approximately 1800 hours, the first set of combat boots stepped across the undrawn line of the Assembly Area that had been designated for them and went forward to meet their tryst with destiny.

The date was 1 December 1971.

Once again, Pakistan and India had gone to war.

Lost somewhere in this quagmire of armed men moving forward to engage in battle were the eight hundred plus warriors of 4 Guards (1 Rajput).

Once again they marched under the watchful eye of the Garud.

Battle Ready
The officers of 4 Guards – D- Day, 30 Nov 1971 at Lichibagan, Agartala
Kneeling: 2nd Lieutenant B.B. Midha, Lieutenant Pradhan, Lieutenant Karmarkar,
Lieutenant R Mohan (63 Cavalry), 2nd Lieutenant Madappa, Lieutenant Yadav,
Captain RAK’ Maneck (SIKH LIGHT INFANTRY)
Standing: Captain Sahni, Captain Sutradhar, Major Uppal, Captain V.K. Dewan, Lieutenant Colonel Himmeth Singh, Major S Mehta (63 Cavalry), Major
Kharbanda, Major Marwah, Captain Sundaram (Artillery OP), Captain Surinder,
Lieutenant L.M. Singh, Major AS Chauhan and Major Chandrakant

Standing at their helm was Lieutenant Colonel Himmeth Singh. Feisty, enigmatic and charismatic; yet for all that a man with all the fears and feelings that all men have.

This is how the strike of the Garud unfolded.

DAY ONE

1
December
1971

‘T
o be honest with you, it felt as though we were going for just another training exercise.’ Colonel Surinder Singh was returning home early that day and hence he had asked to be interviewed first. And that was the first thing he said to me.

We were all sitting in one of the young officers’ room. It was not very big; small enough to be really crowded with nine of us in it—eight retired, wizened veterans of the war and me. It looked, felt and even smelt like the typical Army bachelors’ quarters: yellow walls, a large part of those adorned with Madonna, Christina Aguilera and the posters of some other strangely done up women I was not familiar with. The aroma of Old Spice after-shave and some other very soothing essence, which I could not identify, mingled with that of the two large dogs sprawled by the bed, an Alsatian and a Golden Retriever. A computer stood in one corner, surrounded by a host of books, on topics as varied and weird as some of the women on the walls.

We were just settling down to begin when the door creaked open and two more veterans walked in. Now the room felt really small. A few minutes passed as I was introduced to the newcomers: Lieutenant Colonels B.B. Midha and A.S. Chouhan.

‘For so many months now we had been training for this; digging foxholes, man-packing mortars and RCL (Recoilless) guns, moving self-contained for days, and learning to use all modes of transport, mostly improvised. The unit had received almost a hundred new recruits from the Regimental Centre, so there was a lot to be done to get them up to speed. After months of training
every
day, that is what it felt like when we went across the border that night.’

Colonel Surinder’s voice tugged me back. His tone was so matter-of-fact that I was unable to stop my laugh. He did not take umbrage.

Major A.S. Chauhan

‘You see, this was my very first time in action. I had never imagined what war would be like, he paused, looking at something in the distance, as though trying to marshal his thoughts, or perhaps recall that feeling. Then he shrugged and nodded, more firmly this time. ‘Yes. It felt just like any other exercise.’

A moment later, he added, as though by way of further explanation, ‘You must understand, I was a youngster in those days, with barely three years of service. And then, all these months, ever since the problem began in East Pakistan, and refugees began to flood into India, we had been preparing for operations. Every day we would spend hours on the firing range, because our Commandant, Colonel Himmeth Singh, believed that the prime duty of every soldier was to shoot straight. And of course, carry a full battle-load and be able to dig in within minutes. The Old Man laid a lot of stress on this because he had appreciated that in case of any operations in East Pakistan, considering the soft topsoil, artillery would be able to inflict heavy casualties. That is why each of us had to practice digging daily.’

‘And if you look at the list of people wounded, you will see that’s how it turned out eventually. Most of the injuries were splinter wounds caused by the air burst,’ he added.

Major Chauhan, then Adm (Administrative) Company Commander, was about to speak when Major Chandrakant preempted him: ‘In fact Chauhan was one of the first to be hit by an airburst. He had actually been talking to the Commandant when he was hit. This was sometime in July or August 1971.’

Chauhan made a deprecating gesture, but Cha
ndrakan
t continued: ‘I’d like to share something about the airburst. Henry Shrapnel, a Britisher, invented it in 1780, to increase the effectiveness of the canister shot. However, it was the variable time fuse and proximity fuse added to it during the Second World War by the Americans that brought out the true, devilish potential of this weapon. They used it to deadly effect during the Vietnam War. In fact, it is safe to say that it was one of the game changing weapons that turned the tide during the Second World War. They relied on it so much that once, in Europe, the Americans even delayed their advance when the consignment of airburst shells did not reach in time. Now Pakistanis had truckloads of these shells, and used them freely. They were what caused the maximum casualties to Indian troops.’

I glanced through the 4 Guards casualty list handed over to me by Major V.K. Dewan. ‘Splinter Wound’ seemed to be the recurring theme in that list. And it was a sadly long list.

I wondered how their Commandant had handled it. Curious, I asked, ‘Tell me about Colonel Himmeth Singh.’

‘Take a look at this,’ Major Chandrakant handed me some papers. ‘They will give you a complete idea of what Himmeth was all about.’

I took the papers he was offering me. Right on top were two photographs. The first looked familiar. Then I remembered why; Himmeth’s son had shown it to me recently. I also remembered his answer when I had asked him the same question about his father.

‘It is hard to talk about one’s father,’ Mrityunja Singh Ajairajpura, a pilot by profession, who told me he preferred being called Meetu, had replied.

I wondered if he realized he was displaying the same reticence to seek the limelight that his father had been known for.

‘The most prominent thing I remember about him was that he taught and led by example. Whether it was helping the servants clear up after a party, or something far deeper, like living within one’s means, dad always led the way. All in all, he was a fabulous embodiment of the maxim, ”If your father isn’t your role model, you’re both fixed!” I was really lucky. I don’t think any son could have asked for a better role model.’

The words ‘role model’
struck me. This was the third time in as many days that I had heard Himmeth being referred to as one. First by Brigadier Mac Devaiah, who, as a Captain, had served as Himmeth’s ADC (Aide-de-camp). And then, the very next day, by General Shamsher Mehta, who had served with 4 Guards during the war. Unaware of my thoughts, Meetu proceeded.

‘The other thing was that he was a very self-effacing man.’ Perhaps he realized that was not a very self-effacing statement, and elaborated: ‘The best example I can give you is when I was in college and had gone to visit my parents in Dehradun, where dad was posted as the Commandant of the IMA. During my tour of the Chetwood Hall, the curator informed me that father had been the only cadet to have commanded two passing out parades, that of the batch senior to him and his own. Dad never talked about such things. Even when I asked him about it, he casually brushed it aside.’

‘Tell me more,’ I prodded, keen to get a picture of the man, not the soldier.

‘Just what are you looking for?’ Meetu looked puzzled. ‘Background stuff?’