🪖🤔 PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 🤔🪖
LIVING WITH THE PIONEERS
A Tale of Ingenuity from Fighting First
‘Fighting First’ - Descendants of the XXIII Sikh Pioneers
Somewhere in the North, c/o 56 APO - to be precise, Meerut Cantonment, 1974–75
After a war, and having spent
more than four and a half years in counter-insurgency operations in the jungles
of the East and the high-altitude areas along the North-Eastern Frontiers,
Fighting First finally arrived at a much-sought-after peace station - Meerut.
Peace station, indeed! 😄
Before we could even unpack our
kit, we were launched into our first “Schema te Jangaan vich Fateh Bakshna” - (victory
in training and war!) - mission.
The orders from the Divisional
Headquarters were clear: the Infantry was to move “thur ke” – (on foot), as
part of the austerity measures then being implemented. The nation was still
grappling with the economic depression following the 1971 War, and the Army too
had to tighten its belt.
And which arm could contribute
most effectively to this grand national exercise in economy? Why, the ‘Queen of
the Battle’ - the Mighty Infantry, of course! 😄
Our first mission was to carry
out field firing at the Badshahi Bagh Ranges, Dehradun. No questions asked. As
the old military maxim goes: “Not to question why, but to do and die!”
And so, at vee hours on D-Day,
the Fighting First, straining at the leash for action, took its first step
forward towards Dehradun - nearly 300 kilometres away. After a solemn Ardaas at
the Unit Gurudwara Sahib, invoking the blessings of Waheguru Ji, and after
prashaad had been duly chhak ke, (after consuming the holy prasaad) munde,(soldiers)
Sardars (JCOs) and afsars (Officers) took to the road amid a resounding: “BOLE
SO NIHAAL!”(War cry of the unit) 👏💪
A thousand-mile journey begins
with the first step. We had taken ours. Reaching Dehradun after an arduous
five-day march is another saga altogether - one best reserved for another day! 😄
There was, however, one
comforting thought. We would be transported back in vehicles. Ah… promises!
Especially promises made by higher headquarters. They are often wonderfully
short-lived.
Our determined Divisional
Headquarters, apparently concerned that the troops might become too comfortable
on their return journey, decided that we should enjoy a few more “war games” en
route. And so the Fighting First played one exercise after another, culminating
in a full-fledged Divisional Exercise at Roorkee. Eventually, all the cards in
the exercise were played and, mercifully, the exercise was called off.
The Paltan then crawled into the sultry shade of a mango grove, alive with a multitude of insects, and collectively heaved a sigh of relief. It was exactly three weeks since we had taken our ‘prashaad’ at the Unit Gurudwara Sahib. The GOC, in a final act of infinite kindness, released second-line transport for the remainder of the journey back to Meerut.
THE COMMAND
With the exercise over, our
Commanding Officer (CO)was the first to peel off after handing over command to the
Second-in-Command. Being a large-hearted man, he also released the Company
Commanders on “compassionate grounds.”
And so, the entire responsibility
of getting the Paltan safely home fell upon the shoulders of the bachelor
Adjutant - yours truly. 😔 I had nobody waiting
for me in Meerut. Nobody… Except, of course… My first love - my gleaming Red
Royal Enfield — KLT 7724. ❤️🏍️
And that is where this little episode begins.
THE MOVE
Divisional transport - a platoon
of 3-ton trucks - reported as scheduled. The move plan had been meticulously
prepared. Halts were laid down, orders issued, speed limits prescribed,
de-induction tables prepared and movement orders forwarded to Brigade
Headquarters. There was one particular instruction which was repeated several
times: No wandering about during halts. No crossing the highway. Stay with your
vehicle. Simple enough.
After the customary Ardaas
(prayer) at our field Gurudwara Sahib, the Paltan moved towards Meerut. As
usual, the Adjutant - ensconced in his Ops Room (Operational Room), a 1-ton truck - was leading
from the front, keeping a watchful eye on the speed, discipline and general
conduct of the convoy. The Subedar Major (SM), meanwhile, was bringing up the
rear with the Unit Repair Organisation - (the URO) complement.
After about two hours of
traverse, the convoy halted for “rest and recuperation.” Headcounts were taken.
Vehicle commanders reported. “All OK” reports began trickling in. And yours
truly had already consumed his fifth cup of tea, courtesy of the persistent
Punjabi hospitality of various administrative representatives.
“Ghut ghut pee laiye, Saab…”
(Please have another sip, Saab Ji…)
But there was one report I was
still waiting for. The Subedar Major's. Time passed, my adrenaline began to
rise. Then, at last, the Nissan truck of the Subedar Major appeared on the
horizon. It rolled up majestically. Subedar Major alighted. Accepted the solemn
salutations of the assembled mundas. And, without the slightest sign of
urgency, walked away……for his tea!
I summoned him. “SM Saab, sab achha?”
And that was when the trouble began.
THE SUB MAJOR'S REPORT
The Sub Maj began: “Saab ji, main taan aakhiri gaddi vich aa reha si. Mere saamne apni RCL jeep si, jhinu Banta chalanda paya si, te Santa co-driver seat te ainakaan laai baitha si.” (Saab, I was bringing up the rear. In front of me was our RCL (Recoilless gun) jeep, driven by Sepoy Banta Singh, with Santa Singh sitting in the co-driver's seat wearing driving goggles.)
I knew instinctively that
something unpleasant was approaching. I held my breath. “Sab, jaldi bolo… agge
ki hoya?” (Tell me fast).
He continued: “Kujh vi nahin, Saab. Ik eetaan da truck agge
chal reha si.” (Nothing, Saab. A truck
carrying bricks was travelling ahead.)
I became even more apprehensive. “Okay…
phir kya hua?” (Then what happened?)
He replied: “Saab ji, eetaan de truck da b@##n c@#d driver
ne ekdam brake la ditti… te apne Sante ne gaddi nu iddan morh ditta!” (The
bloody truck driver suddenly slammed on the brakes… and our Santa turned the
jeep like this!) He demonstrated the manoeuvre with his hands. Ninety degrees!
I swallowed hard. “Saab… RCL gun
da ki haal hai?” (What is the state of RCL Gun?). That was the question
uppermost in my mind. The Sub Maj smiled reassuringly. “Oho taan bach gayi!
Sirf clamp khul gaya… hor gun maarra jeha mur ke iddan ho gaya.” (Oh, the gun
survived! Only the clamp came loose… and the gun turned slightly to one side.) He
demonstrated again. This time…Approximately 270 degrees!
My heart sank. The American-made
RCL gun was a controlled item. The boys handled it almost with reverence. If
that gun had been damaged beyond repair, the battalion could potentially have
been rendered unfit for war. I gulped. Then came the next question.
“Saab… gaddi da ki haal hai?”
(Whats the state of the vehicle?} The Sub Maj brought his hands together in a
namasthe posture 👏, held them about a foot apart and announced:
“Saabji… maarra jeha kloj ho
gaya.” (Sir… it got slightly closed!). He then brought his hands closer… and
closer… until they were barely six inches apart. He held them there. And left
the rest to my imagination. Six inches!
I stared at him. In my mind, I was already visualising an RCL jeep - complete with a mounted American-made gun - which had somehow been reduced from roughly twelve inches to six! The situation was clearly getting “serious.”
THE VANISHING RCL JEEP
I ordered him, somewhat less
ceremoniously, to stop drinking tea and accompany me to the site. We reached
the location where the accident was supposed to have occurred. There was no RCL
jeep. There was no brick truck. There was nothing!
My mind began racing. Had the
Corps HQ EME Recovery Detachment already arrived and towed the jeep away? If
so, the report would undoubtedly have reached Brigade and Division
Headquarters.
The GOC had insisted on a
zero-accident state. And if there had been an accident involving a controlled
weapon and its vehicle… Well… It was a command failure! I could already
visualise myself explaining the entire episode to the CO. 😒
Meanwhile, the CO - blissfully
unaware of the unfolding drama - was probably already at the Wheeler's Club in
Meerut, enjoying his third gin cordial with Angostura, surrounded by his
family.
My military career was beginning
to look decidedly shorter. 😕
I turned to the Sub Maj. “Saab,
gaddi te munde kithhe hai?” (Where are the vehicle and the boys?). Without a
word, he led me towards a wayside house on NH-3 (National Highway-3). We
entered through a narrow opening in a mud wall. And there, to my utter
disbelief, stood… MY RCL JEEP! The RCL gun was still mounted on it, sitting
proudly in a rather cocky position. And beside it stood Santa and Banta. Not
repairing the vehicle! Not examining the gun! Not even looking worried! They
were happily fraternising with the inmates of the house!
I looked at the narrow opening
through which we had entered. Then at the jeep. Then at the wall. Then back at
the jeep. How on earth had a jeep carrying an RCL gun entered that tiny
courtyard? There appeared to be no other entrance.
Before I could solve this military mystery, the occupants of the house descended upon me with classic Punjabi hospitality. The elderly lady of the house, with all the warmth of a mother, said: “Puttar, bai jaa. Garam chaa pee lo.” (Son, sit down and have some hot tea.) Before I could respond, Santa and Banta joined in:“Rottian nahi khaonge, Saab? Garam garam haigian… hor sabzi te taaji lassi!” (Won't you have lunch, Saab? Hot rotis, vegetables and fresh lassi!)
That was the last straw. Something
snapped.
All the Punjabi vocabulary I had painstakingly acquired during my years in Fighting First suddenly came pouring out. And I must say, even I was impressed by the fluency, pronunciation, diction and profanity of my newly acquired Punjabi military vocabulary! The old lady, however, was distinctly unimpressed. She quietly disappeared from the scene, taking all her maternal affection with her.
THE PIONEER SOLUTION
As expected in the First
Battalion, the mundas (boys) when faced
me immediately froze into “shun” - (attention posture) Heads cocked slightly to
one side. Eyes fixed somewhere towards infinity. Both suddenly assumed the
philosophical expression of men contemplating the meaning of life. Or perhaps
court martial proceedings.
Once I had exhausted my
vocabulary and cooled down somewhat, the Sub Maj cautiously approached. “Saab ji,
tussi ghusse nu chhaddo. Munde siyane hege.” (Saab, leave the anger aside.
These boys are sensible good boys.) I looked at him. “Then tell me - what is
the jeep doing inside this house? And more importantly: How did it get here?”
The Sub Maj then unfolded the
rest of the story.
After the accident, the boys had
caught hold of the brick-truck driver. There was apparently some vigorous
discussion. Then some more vigorous discussion. And then, as occasionally
happens in Fighting First……the discussion became somewhat physical.
The RCL gun was then manhandled,
levelled at the truck and subjected to a highly convincing dry-firing exercise.
The breech was loaded with an empty cartridge case. The firer was ordered to
get ready. ‘All-clear’ orders were given. And the trigger knob was about to be
pressed. The truck driver, who until that moment had been confidently quoting
traffic rules and regulations, suddenly became a model of humility. He was
practically prostrating himself before the mundas, offering to compensate them
for whatever damage had occurred. The Sub Maj then proudly pulled ₹1,000/- from
his breast pocket. Apparently, the matter had been satisfactorily settled.
But there remained one small
problem. The Division Headquarters convoy was due to pass that way within an
hour. And that was when the Pioneers displayed their legendary ingenuity. The
boys had dismantled a portion of the mud wall of the house. Pushed the jeep and
RCL gun inside. Rebuilt the wall. And even plastered it. That explained the
suspiciously damp patch I had noticed earlier!
The Sub Maj, now completely relaxed, reassured me: “Tussi fikar na karo Saab ji. Apaan poora convoy jaan deyange. CMP check posts de hatan ton baad, raat nu baapis aake jeep nu Shaktiman vich load kar ke Unit MT le jaange. CO Saab bahadur nu main appe dass deyanga.” (Don't you worry, Saab ji. We'll let the entire convoy pass. Once the CMP check posts are withdrawn, we'll return at night, load the jeep into the Shaktiman truck and take it back to the Unit MT (Mechanical Transport) park. I'll explain everything to the CO myself.)
The last sentence did little for my ego. “I'll explain everything to the CO myself.” 😠I wondered whether my appointment as Adjutant had already become merely ceremonial. 😠
THE RETURN TO MEERUT
I returned to the convoy and
proceeded towards Meerut - considerably more tense than when I had started.
On reaching the cantonment, I
checked in correctly and reported to the Commanding Officer:
“Sab Achha, Sir.” (All Okay). Then, with considerable
caution, I added: “Sir… there was a small mishap involving the RCL jeep.” I
explained the entire episode. The CO listened calmly. No explosion. No shouting.
No court martial. He merely asked: “Is the Sub Maj handling it?” I replied in
the affirmative. He thought for a moment and simply said: “Then relax.”
And that was the end of my part in the episode.
WEIRD ARE THE WAYS OF PIONEERS!
Looking back after all these
years, I realise that what appeared to me then as a near-catastrophe was, in
the eyes of the mundas, merely another minor tactical problem requiring an
immediate and innovative solution. The accident had happened. The RCL gun had
survived. The jeep had survived. The truck driver had learnt a valuable lesson
in road safety. ₹1,000 had changed hands. A mud wall had temporarily been
converted into a vehicle recovery gate. The jeep had disappeared into a
civilian courtyard. And, most importantly…THE CONVOY HAD CONTINUED!
That, ladies and gentlemen, was
Fighting First ingenuity. They didn't necessarily follow the road. If there was
no road… they simply made one!
“Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.” The moto of XXIII Sikh
Pioneers.
(I shall either find a way or make one.)
That, perhaps, was the true spirit of the Descendants of the XXIII Sikh Pioneers.
A LESSON FROM THE PALTAN
Even today, I occasionally get a
shiver when I remember the Sub Maj's immortal words:
“Maarra jeha kloj ho
gaya, Saab ji!”
For years I wondered how a jeep
carrying an RCL gun could possibly become “slightly closed.” But perhaps that
is the real beauty of serving with Fighting First. When confronted with an
impossible situation, you don't sit down and ask: “Can this be done?” You
simply find a way. And sometimes……if necessary… you break down a mud wall! 😂
The mundas of those days
possessed something no manual could teach: initiative, resourcefulness,
courage, camaraderie, loyalty - and an almost unbelievable ability to improvise
when circumstances demanded it. Their methods may occasionally have been
unconventional. Their solutions sometimes questionable. And their
vocabulary……certainly not suitable for publication! 😄But
their hearts were always in the right place. Those were the men who made life
in the Paltan unforgettable.
Those were the men who taught a
South Indian Adjutant how to speak Punjabi - including a vocabulary he had
never imagined he would acquire! And those are the memories that, decades
later, still make me smile.
Such incidents made us fit and
strong enough to survive amongst Pioneers - and eventually grow old, fade away
and smile, with a treasure chest of memories to savour for the rest of our
lives.
And finally, a word of advice to
anyone posted to Fighting First:
Never be too inquisitive when you
are with Pioneers! Because…“Curiosity killed the cat.” 🐈
But in Fighting First…the Pioneers may just put the cat inside a house, rebuild the wall, and report later that it had got… “MAARRA JEHA KLOJ!” 😂😂😂
- Col Ravi R. Nair (Retd.)-
23rd Commanding Officer
(“Fighting First”)
