Glorious Absurdities of Life in Uniform.

🤔🪖 PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 🪖🤔

The Morning Parade Nobody Ordered!

              A field anecdote in which the enemy was imminent, the terrain was hostile, and the chain of command was embarrassingly intact! Your humble Pongo was in the middle of a highly sensitive jungle operation when a cheerful voice rang out from behind the bushes:

        “Sat Sri Akal, Saab Bahadur Jee!” 🫡

              There are battles recorded in regimental histories, discussed over maps, and commemorated with medals. Then there are battles omitted from official dispatches because the survivors have too much self-respect to mention them before ladies and senior officers.

        This belongs firmly to the latter category.

              Welcome to the less glamorous side of Infantry life, where a soldier may face enemy fire without blinking, march for miles with a full battle load, and survive mosquitoes the size of reconnaissance drones - only to discover that his greatest challenge is the call of nature.

              Your humble Pongo has seen enough military life to know that the Army prepares you for almost everything - except perhaps a jungle toilet without walls, a roof, or even a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.

Operation Dawn : A Mission for Nature’s Cause

               It is somewhere in the small hours of a Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol, to ferret out and engage the CRG (China Returning Gang) of Mizo insurgents.

              Picture this: dawn is still a rumour, the jungle is tuning up its orchestra of chirps and rustles, and a battle-hardened Infantryman - your humble Pongo - crawls out of his ‘teniya’ (pup tent) on a Long Range Patrol… not in search of the enemy, but in pursuit of something far more urgent and utterly non-negotiable: a decent spot for morning 'operations.'

              In civilian life, one might proceed to a bathroom, switch on a light, turn a tap, and enjoy the reassuring presence of a door with a functioning bolt. In the field, such luxuries belong to the category of unserviceable stores. There is no bathroom, running water, flush, newspaper, or sanitary assistant waiting outside with a towel.

              There is only the jungle, a few trees, a patch of grass, and the faint hope that the Almighty has not posted another soldier to the same coordinates.

              The mission is clear: Locate a suitable site, establish temporary occupancy, complete the operation, and return to the patrol without compromising operational security or personal dignity.

              Simple enough on paper. But then, so is capturing a hill feature on a map.

🪖 Reconnaissance Before Occupation

              First comes reconnaissance. The ground must be firm, the vegetation dense enough for concealment, and the approach free of thorny surprises. A gentle slope is desirable; a sudden depression must be treated with the suspicion reserved for an enemy minefield. And, if luck favours, a bit of obliging moss.

              The canopy may harbour ants, spiders , tiger leeches or some other species of jungle pest whose idea of hospitality is to descend uninvited down one's neck. The undergrowth must be checked for snakes, scorpions, subterranean leeches, and other members of the local intelligence network.

              Then there is wind direction - a matter of importance in artillery warfare, chemical warfare and, as it turns out, personal hygiene.

              Even when civilisation has withdrawn its services, military training continues to function:

        Range. Cover. Concealment. Escape route. - The site is selected. The enemy is not in sight. Occupation is authorised.

🎯 The Morcha (Position) is sited

              Having identified a suitable patch, your Pongo occupies it.

              The process is neither elegant nor suited to a regimental documentary. One must negotiate wild grass, avoid thorns, keep weapon and equipment within reach, and prevent the uniform from entering unnecessary negotiations with the local ecosystem.

              The boots are awkward. The trousers have developed an independent personality. The ground is harder than anticipated. A particularly enthusiastic leech appears to be conducting close reconnaissance of one's exposed anatomy.

        Yet the mission must continue. With grim determination, he mutters the adapted war cry:

              “Akhiri dum, akhiri goli… morcha nahin chhodoonga!”

(Last breath, last bullet… this position shall not be abandoned!)

               It is a magnificent declaration of courage.

        Unfortunately, the enemy is not the problem. The terrain is. And the terrain is winning.

The Unexpected Arrival of a Visitor

               It is precisely when a soldier is most vulnerable that fate decides to test his character.

From behind the bushes comes a cheerful voice:

“Sat Sri Akal, Saab Bahadur Jee!” 🫡 (regimental greetings). The sound strikes the inconvenient Pongo like an unexpected mortar round.

              The jungle falls silent. The birds suspend their conference. The mosquitoes pause in mid-flight. Somewhere in the distance, even a langur appears to reconsider its life choices.

              The voice belongs to a young Munda  -  a cheerful, conscientious soldier whose devotion to duty is matched only by his inability to recognise an officer's occasional need for solitude.

              There he stands: rifle properly carried, 'pug banna hua' (donned his pugri correctly), salute delivered with the enthusiasm of a recruit who has just discovered the Commanding Officer inspecting his section.

              He has found his Sahib. Unfortunately, he has found him at a time when the Sahib is in no position to receive visitors.

              The Pongo attempts a response. It emerges as a faint, strangled sound somewhere between “Sat Sri Akal” (return greetings)  and a request that the earth open up and provide an emergency bunker.

              “Sab theek hai, Saab Bahadur Jee? (Everything all right, Sir?)

              What can an officer say?

              Instead, the Pongo manages a vague nod and diplomatic grunt. The munda, satisfied that all is well, salutes once more and disappears into the undergrowth. Peace returns. The mission resumes.

🚶‍♂️ When the Scene Becomes a Parade 🪖

              Barely minutes later come the crunch of boots, the rustle of equipment, muffled conversation, a suppressed giggle, and then a familiar command:

              “Squad! Bayen dekh… !” (Squad, look to your left…! )

              Your Pongo's blood runs cold. The voice belongs to the same enthusiastic munda. Only now he has company.

              A whole column approaches in formation - one abreast, rifles carried smartly, boots striking the ground with the rhythm of a ceremonial march. At their head is the very soldier who, minutes earlier, discovered the Sahib's secluded location.

              The wretched man has apparently decided he has found a useful navigational landmark.

One can almost imagine his briefing: “From here, we move along the nullah, cross the elephant grass, and take a slight left near the Sahib Bahadur's position.”

              Military reconnaissance has reached a new level of precision. The map may not show it, but the munda knows exactly where it is.

              The Pongo considers remaining still and hoping to be mistaken for an ugly tree stump, issuing a stern halt, or disappearing into the nearest bush. All three are rejected. The squad is too close, and a senior officer must maintain command presence - even when temporarily deprived of the means to demonstrate it.

              The column marches past. “Squad… saamne dekh!” Eyes front!

              The soldiers look ahead with magnificent discipline - or make a heroic attempt to do so. A few eyes wander. One jaw tightens suspiciously. Another soldier develops an intense fascination with a nearby tree.

              The munda looks pleased with himself. He has located the route, maintained formation, and conducted movement through difficult terrain.

        His morning is going splendidly.

              The Pongo, meanwhile, has become an involuntary participant in a live demonstration of infantry drill. There is nothing in the Standing Orders explaining how an officer should respond when his private ablution area becomes a regimental inspection point.

🫡 Dignity : A Tactical Casualty

              There is no alternative. The Pongo must terminate the operation, restore what fragments of dignity remain, and rejoin the world of rank and decorum.

              Combat trousers are retrieved from their negotiations with gravity. Equipment is checked. The surroundings are reassessed. The officer rises not quite like a phoenix from the ashes, but with more determination than grace. Then, in front of the squad that has transformed-  his retreat into a public landmark, he delivers a perfectly respectable military salute.🫡

              And yes - between you and me - finishing the morning call of nature in the field, sans water - may be with a pinch of moss, can sometimes feel tougher than facing a bullet.

              Because an officer is an officer, a soldier is a soldier, and the Indian Army does not suspend discipline merely because an individual's circumstances have become complicated.

              The squad returns the salute. The munda beams. The Pongo maintains a straight face. The patrol moves on.

              There were a few more days of this agony before we could accomplish our reconnaissance mission. The poor Pongo consequently learnt to answer the call of nature at odd hours of the night, to avoid the prying eyes of inquisitive mundas.

              Eventually, we were back at Battalion Headquarters, rendering our completion and after-action reports.

☕ The After-Action Report

              By breakfast, the next day the incident has acquired a life of its own. The munda discusses the morning scene in the patrol with his comrades. The squad, he insists, noticed nothing unusual. The Sahib was perfectly fine.

              He even returned the salute. This, apparently, proves excellent morale and sound leadership. Somebody grins. Somebody coughs into his tea. Somebody else suddenly remembers an urgent appointment elsewhere.

              Before long, the episode enters the unofficial archives of the battalion - records maintained through memory, exaggeration, and the remarkable ability of soldiers to remember an officer's most embarrassing moments long after forgetting his finest tactical appreciation.

              The war diary will record route, distance, weather and operational observations.

It will not mention the incident.

              But at a Bara Khana, (feasting with men) perhaps after a generous peg of Patiala rum (four finger measure), somebody will raise a toast: “To our gallant Sahib Bahadur - who held his ground against all odds, survived an unexpected inspection, and saluted the squad without losing his commission!”

              The laughter will be deafening. The Pongo will protest and threaten postings, disciplinary proceedings, and other official remedies.

              Nobody will be impressed.

              For, in the Infantry, the higher the rank, the greater the entertainment value of a good story. The best stories are rarely those in which an officer does everything correctly. They are the ones in which he discovers that, despite rank and command presence, he is still gloriously human.

🪖 The Philosophy of a Pongo🪖

              Jokes apart, these ridiculous little episodes conceal a deeper truth.

              Infantry life is not made up entirely of heroic charges, firefights, decorations and solemn commemorations. Much of it consists of uncomfortable marches, sleepless nights, damp socks, bad food, worse weather, inadequate facilities, and the constant business of remaining cheerful when circumstances provide little reason to be so.

              The soldier learns to laugh because laughter is resilience. He learns to tolerate inconvenience because complaining does not make the jungle less wet. He learns to accept embarrassment because tomorrow someone else will provide the entertainment.

              Camaraderie is forged not only in grand speeches, but in shared discomfort, mutual assistance, and the ability to laugh together at military absurdity.

              The munda who greets his Sahib at an unfortunate moment is doing what he was taught: acknowledge his superior, maintain discipline, and carry on. The squad is following orders, maintaining formation, and completing its patrol.

              Only the Pongo has failed to appreciate that, in the jungle, seclusion is a temporary privilege, not a guaranteed entitlement.

              The Army teaches you to defend your position, stand your ground, and never abandon a comrade.

 🪖The Infantryman’s Last Word🪖

              The Army never taught us how to choose a jungle toilet, survive an unexpected inspection, or return a salute while defending the last scraps of personal dignity.

              We learnt the hard way. We adapted. We survived. And, years later, we laughed.

        That is the peculiar magic of Infantry life: hardship becomes memory, embarrassment becomes folklore, and the men who shared both become family.

              The patrol ended. The squad dispersed. The Pongo and munda grew older. The uniform was eventually hung up.

              But the story survived - because soldiers preserve what official histories leave out.

        So here is to the Infantry: to the men who march, endure, improvise and laugh; to the comrades who turn discomfort into fellowship; and to the glorious absurdity of military life.

               May your boots stay dry, your water bottle remains full, your patrol route stays clear, and your chosen patch of jungle remain unoccupied, with plenty of moss nearby.

               And remember the golden rule of the Pongo:

        In battle, hold your ground. In the jungle, choose it wisely. And whatever happens, never lose your sense of humour. Because an Infantryman who can laugh at himself can survive almost anything - even a morning parade he never ordered.

        That's Infantry. That's camaraderie. That's resilience. That's life in uniform.🤔

                🪖 Deg Teg Fateh! 🙏

                                                                                                                                                                                   – Ravi Nair –