THE HELMET AND THE WATER BOTTLE : REMEMBERING THE FORGOTTEN SOLDIER
LOG BOOK EXTRACT |
It was, I think Sept 1986.
I was a rookie pilot with barely 450 hours, flying with my Squadron CO, a taciturn disciplinarian, accustomed to explode suddenly and grab the controls after watching you struggle to keep the speed constant, height maintained and flying balanced; ball and string aligned (didn't they teach you anything, this aircraft flies with a tilt).
Anyways, it was a long flight. We had taken off from Srinagar onwards to Kargil-Leh- Chalunka- Tangtse-Chushul.
There was an officer from 13 Fd Regt who was to accompany us to Chushul. He had been tasked by his unit to lay a wreath on the 13 Fd memorial there. It was the 'old boy' grid working and since his CO was a friend of my CO, a sortie was arranged ---- and there was another gunner CO located at Chushul who was a friend of both these CO's!!
We crossed the Zorawar Wall, flew along the C 1 axis (yes, I was told that this axis is normally forbidden, being under Chinese observation), skirting and admiring Pangang Tso and finally landing at Chushul. All arrangements had been made by a local artillery unit. A welcome cup of tea was waiting and so were a couple of jeeps and guides.
A good gunner friend of mine from the Advance Gunnery days had specially come to meet me.
T/O was after a couple of hours and while the CO and the 13 Fd officer went off in one direction, I thought it prudent to hop into the jeep with my friend who had agreed take me for a conducted tour of the area.
We drove around the desertfic terrain, over humps, mounds, hills -- as he pointed out all the landmarks including the old airstrip where US Airforce Hercules' had landed in 1962.
And since I had wanted to see the famed Rezangla feature and the battlefields around Chushul, my day was made.
As we drove past some old defended locality, abandoned now, I noticed crawl trenches and half filled slit trenches dotting the gravelled type kutcha track on both sides.
Valiant and brave soldiers would have made a stand somewhere around.
So many years back.
We stopped the jeep and stood quietly, looking around. Silence.
I picked up a rusted helmet and a water bottle, the canvas cover of which was now tattered and about to fall off.
I still have it.
In memory of men who were better soldiers than us.
How can a man die better,
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And temples of his gods