On the Use of Punitive Air Strikes

Yes, Pakistan's Army especially its senior leadership needs to be punished. Severely.

It is my ardent belief that our military leadership and our rank and file have always understood this. My first few years in the IAF coincided with the commencement of the ‘War of a Thousand Cuts' (WOATC). My CO was a well-read, articulate officer and an exceptional professional. The Boss had been through a unique career. As No 1 on the list of ETPs to become an astronaut, an ECG abnormality detected in Russia during the training, moved him out of fighters. He then proceeded to command two helicopter units, an Airborne FAC Flight and IAF’s sole Mi-35 Sqn.  He was very Catholic about the need for young officers to develop an understanding of the macro picture. Ruthless about the need for us young ‘Piloos’ to read, discussion on the strategy to counter this WOATC that we faced daily in the valley, was a daily affair. But more about Chakku Mulay some other time.


Our Helicopter Flight subscribed to IDSA and Vayu. Late Air Cmde Jasjit Singh’s books and articles were discussed in great detail and reviews and ppts (the Blackboard Versions) were mandatory. One book that I read was Ravi Rikhye's ‘The War that Never Was’. While I have nothing complimentary to say about that book, the starting few pages made a lasting impression. He wrote an imaginary account of a Mi-25, cutting into Pakistan through Rajauri, with an SF team on board; the target being the Kahuta Nuclear Complex. 

While the fictional strike was a success, in reality, we lost a huge opportunity. Imagine!

This was the time when Col John A Warden published his seminal book ‘The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat’. While seldom acknowledged, this classic treatise on Air War Strategy laid the foundation for the USAF’s Shock and Awe campaign of Desert Storm.

I remember coming across the term Punitive Air Strikes around that time. It has taken us 30 years to use this. Despite seeing the first-hand result of a similar strike of 128 rockets on Government House in Dhaka in 1971.

The problem perhaps lies in our inability to convince the political leadership that the Indian military capability needs to be developed and utilised as an instrument of state policy. The bureaucracy that assists our polity in its constant ‘Election Mode Governance’ is perhaps the most sinister evil.

We too are blameworthy. Our legendary turf wars between the Army and the Air Force are responsible for a great deal of this. And these two squabbling siblings rarely acknowledge the Navy.

If we look into ourselves, we will find that we have always been reactionary to the Pak military’s upgradation programmes.

The MiG 29 and Mirage 2000 came after PAF acquired F-16.

When the Pakis acquired the AH-1 S, we got 2 x sqns of Attack Helicopters. We need perhaps 10 squadrons and we still have only two (even with the induction of the Apaches). The LCH equipped 116 HU is yet to be weaponised.

I remember Air Cmde Jasjit Singh advocating that the first use of heavy artillery by the Pakis should have been replied to by air strikes. This was way back in the early 90s.

This then is our tragedy.

And so we continue to lose young men, especially officers, who are forced to take unacceptable risks in order to keep our land free and our people secure.

That said, there is an increasingly distasteful trend of veterans foolishly succumbing to either a sickening so-called liberal thought or a distasteful anti-Muslim/Christian view. 

The bureaucracy is very quick to quote Georges Clemenceau saying war is too serious a matter to leave to soldiers. I have always countered with Gen Charles de Gaulle's quote saying politics is too serious a matter to be left to the politicians.

As serving officers, we were advised to always remain politically inactive but to be acutely politically aware. And the way to do that is by good staff work. Read the background on all these issues. Do not blindly believe in Mass Media. Research the issue. Social Media is another demon that needs to be tamed. Fake news is often spread like wildfire.

My request to all of us is to deliberately keep ourselves neutral. Avoid these smart quips. And do not label your brother offrs as Sanghis or bhakts or sickulars or CONgressis.

Jai Hind ki Sena

Grace and Supercession

 If you notice, I have opted for an older version of the spelling. This version is what has been most in vogue, at least in our part of the world. My research reveals that the reason for using this spelling is due to the association with similar words such as intercede or accede.

         If even the spelling of this word has so much of baggage and difference of acceptance, small wonder that supercession has a huge impact on the military. I have known about officers contemplating if not attempting suicide. I have seen Commanding Officers break down in the open. I have witnessed brave gallantry award winners look shell-shocked and lose all sense of purpose.

So have each one of you, those in the military.

         It is difficult for those not in the profession of arms to understand it. Let me try and put it across as simply as I can.

As soldiers, you are taught from the first day that we live, breathe and fight as a team; but always with a leader. You must be that leader. You want to become the Division Cadet Corporal in your first term in NDA Wing. You must become the Squadron Sergeant and you are God if you lead the Passing out Parade as Wing Cadet Captain as a callow lad, all of seventeen.

At the lowest end of the combat chain is the single aircraft multi-crew team, with the captain as the leader. Like the two-man sniper team, with the senior as the leader. All throughout fighting formations and peace establishments right to the Fifth Floor Corner Room with a view of the Rajpath at Vayu Bhawan, there is a team at each stage and there is a leader. You as an officer have to be that leader. At every stage, as you go through your life, you will be a leader.

As you go through your career, the fauj gives you several chances. You make it to a Coy cdr, you get four-ac lead, and you command that patrol boat. Then comes the big daddy of all these jumps. Command of a Combat Unit!

It differs across the three services. For the Army, the cliff edge is the Select Colonel Rank, which will give you command of your battalion. In the Air Force, you have a Command Board as a Wing Commander, and you will be selected to that cherished command of that Mirage Squadron. In the Navy, your superior performance amongst your peers will give you ‘sea-time’ that will pave the way to command a fighting ship. Heady stuff!

But there are limited seats on this bus. If you don’t make it to the next stage, you will not be a leader. That doesn’t mean that you are not good enough. It just means that there was only one gold medal and you didn’t get it. Now you will get a few more chances but the gold medal is not for you. Unfortunately, it also means that you lose the respect associated with being a leader. Passed-over officers get staff jobs, and they do not bring you the respect that is your life breath. It is a curious thing; this respect. It translates into everything in your military life. The jobs you will be entrusted with, the ranks you wear, where you sit, what orders you pass, and most importantly how your juniors look at you.

         In the olden days, once you got superceded, you put in your papers and went home. You walked your dog and if your parents had left you an inheritance, you tilled that land and managed to make ends meet. When you returned for the Battalion Battle Honours Day, the youngsters greeted you with respect. You had left with your honour intact.

However, as life got increasingly complex and expensive, once you got superceded, you continued till you got a pension and then you went home. It was still okay at the Annual Dinner on Air Force Day. After all, you needed that pension.

It wasn’t greener pastures, and it will rarely be greener.

Ask any of the guys who quit early in service, even without a pension. They are the most active in our course groups. They pitch in the maximum for OROP and Veteran Welfare and know that they won’t gain a naya paisa. Several of my coursemates are dollar millionaires, one counts his millions in pounds sterling. They are winners and not sorry losers. They commanded repect for hanging up their boots when they got disillusioned.

You leave the fauj because you can’t bear being treated as an also-ran. Ask an officer the difference of pay between a Flt Lt or a Sqn Ldr, or a Colonel and a Brigadier, or a Rear Admiral and a Vice Admiral. Most officers don’t know their basic pay. Okay, ask an officer’s spouse. He or she wouldn’t know it at all, they just know the amount that gets credited each month's end.  Ask her about the difference in rank and privileges, and she may tell you about the difference in Aiguillettes also. That is because the fauj is all about rank and appointment and honour and responsibility and leadership.

It was not and never will be about pay.

         I admit that there was a period, especially during the end 90s. That was the time when there was an aviation boom in the country when a reasonable number of transport and fighter pilots contemplated Premature Separation from Service. (Yes ma’am, that is the correct nomenclature, not VRS and not PMR) Statistics exist to show that those who left were again, officers who knew they were not making it due to a variety of factors. Rare was the High Alpha Shooting Star Fighter Pilot who quit command of a Mirage Squadron and went off to fly an ATF for Kingfisher. The larger numbers were transport and helicopter pilots who had not been cleared for command and who were not going to become Group Captains.

So if you got superceded, you quit and it was the deep hurt of not being able to put on your next rank or get your next command- and not then, not now not ever, about your paygrade.

         And if you left, it was to bow out gracefully, almost always.

         That brings me to the vexing question. Surely you don’t want a substantially large number of passed-over, demotivated officers holding onto ranks till they superannuate. Then do you not want them to retire gracefully? Or would you rather that they hold onto the rank of a select Colonel or Gp Capt for another seven years after being superceded.

         Faced with seven years more to superannuation to get that elusive OROP, to me his decision is a given. I am certain he will doff his hat and bid adieu to the OROP that he may get on superannuation, hang up his uniform and fade away. The only issue is, that you, in the service and you in the government took unfair advantage of his state of despair.

Let them retire gracefully and with OROP.

         

A Thousand Words

Life was oh so cool that time! I was flying Mi-17 helicopters with the Siachen Tigers in good ol’ Bari. With air maintenance tasks nearly over for the month, the only thing to do was pick teeth after a gigantic breakfast. So that very innocuous task to “Just, sling that darn engine out of a rice field”, was welcome.

Little did I know!

Sometime earlier in that November of 2003, a MiG 21 trainer aircraft on downwind at Bagdogra had flamed out. Making sure that the aircraft would crash in an uninhabited area, both pilots ejected safely. Some superb reflexes and high-quality training apart, thank God for that!

The Court of Inquiry blamed the HAL serviced engine. Something that the HAL suits fiercely disagreed. They asked for a strip examination of the engine at Koraput (I think). Now, the R-3 engine weighs one and a half tons. It was sunk in a flooded rice field. No crane could go into that slush to pick it up. The station offered to drag it over the 30 odd metres to the road. The suits agreed only too readily. Luckily, the Presiding Officer smelt a rat. Digging into earlier files, he found out that this was an oft used ploy. After testing, the suits would argue that the engine was damaged by the dragging. The test would be inconclusive and the HAL would be home and free.

The Cheetah Commanding Officer (CO) at Baghdogra suggested that he could fly over to the site, hover and sling the engine out. A quick call to the Command and they said, "Sure thing". When he attempted to sling it out, he was in for a rude shock. The darn engine was too close to the trees and electrical wires. A few game attempts and he gave up wisely.

And that’s how this shitload sortie landed up on our plate.

Our crew composition was good. While I held an A MG, I was pretty new to the east. So to compensate, there was my Co Joe, a rustic Jat lad with bags of experience in the Eastern Air Force. His hands could make a helicopter dance. Co Joe loved to talk and in a language peppered with delightful and quaint swear words with that typical harsh accent. The Flight Engineer was a fearless Bong. Psycho and I had served together in Kargil. He thought nothing of crawling onto the saddle of a Mi-17, with the ROTORS ROTATING! Finally, as Flight Gunner, I had an experienced Sergeant. The Glacier, deserts, the East, Toughie had operated everywhere.

We had a small powwow. Let’s plan wheels-roll at sunrise, I said. Ferry to Baghdogra and do a ground recce the same evening. Fly the under-slung sortie the next day. Wrap it up and dash back home for the weekend. That’s when the CO’s orderly came to me. In that typical mysterious way with that typical horrible sinister smile, something all CO’s Orderlies get trained in a special course in some secret darn place, he told me that the old man had enquired if I may be inclined to find the time to see him. 

Inclined? Find the time? Fucking, when the CO calls, you fucking hop, run and jump, and all at the same time. 

Now our CO was an all-knowing, benevolent, and battle-hardened decorated old warhorse. He’d been everywhere and done everything. He asked me about my plan. I laid it out straight and simple. He smiled and asked, “Would you like to take another Gunner, one of those rookies?” I bobbed my head and said that it was the most brilliant piece of advice anyone had ever received, including the verses of the Holy Book. Deep inside I thought, damn, why another guy? 

I realized the value of this piece of advice later on.

Co Joe made sure we got to Baghdogra uneventfully. We saw land the odd time en route to Guwahati. We even managed to avoid rain in some places. All pretty humdrum for the place and time of the year. 

The station was all geared up. The Chief Operations Officer was a Jalebi Jock. A nice guy, but pretty sceptical since he had seen the Cheetah’s failed attempt. The Station Flight Safety Officer was a mud crawler, like us. He briefed us and then suggested a ground recce. 

We went in a Gypsy and saw the place and damn, reality hit us. The engine was lying on the edge of a flooded field, surrounded by trees and squeezed tighter than a rat’s ar*e by wires. I sat down on the nearby road, dumbstruck. Co Joe too for once is silent when Psycho Bong says, “I think it can be done”. I raise my eyebrows. Toughie adds, “Yeah we could make an approach from the side and do a real high hover. I’ll then talk you down”. Rookie chips in with, “Sure thing, I can crawl to that place and hook up the sling when you get down.” Psycho then says, “Could be just a little tight, but it’s a doable thing”. 

Co Joe now finds his voice and says, “BC, G may danda dalwaney ka shauk hain to phir mota patla kya dekhna”. There is no way that I can accurately translate this piece of typical Haryanavi philosophy. It means that if you love to shove a stick up your ar*e, why worry about the thickness. I nodded furiously and squeezed out a, “Yeah, that’s the Josh, guys”.

It was dark by the time we got back. Downed the customary two large, ate the standard scramble eggs with Paruts (that’s the cool way to describe parathas). The air conditioning in the rooms was noisy but effective. We fought back with lusty snoring for those eight hours of beauty sleep. The next day we chatted some more about the sortie seriously, very very seriously. Then we got airborne.

A picture, they say is worth a thousand words. The word count is now exactly that. Let these ten pictures talk. 

We set up a hover a*se-ways to the damn wires because of strong winds. Rookie is sitting at the white spot in the centre.

Rookie comes crawling through slush under the downwash and attaches the sling to the cables wound around the engine. The blessed engine up, I turn cross for a circuit.

Gingerly, I approach the truck, Co Joe is whistling while looking for poles, wires, damn everything.

Steady now, says Toughie

Steady now, says Toughie

DCO

The engine is back at the base.

Exactly on the tires, not bad, huh?

Hmm, not bad at all.

How to get your Application Attested by Judicial Magistrate First Class

The battle for getting your application attested by a Judicial Magistrate First Class starts with having to buy a Rs 100 affidavit.
Head across Rajiv Chowk through the underpass to a small dirty little market opposite the Mini Secretariat. There are a hundred small little shops that sell these stamp papers. You need to fill in details such as name, father's name, address and purpose. The vendor will then download a form, stamp it and you are off.
After printing the matter on your Rs 100/- Affidavit, now head to the lawyer bazaar on the premises of the Dist and Sessions court adjacent to the Mini Sectt. Get hold of a lawyer (they sit in huddles under the Tin Shelter. One of them will identify you for a steep steal of Rs 100/-.
Then head to the Counter Hall on the first floor opposite Room No 121 which is the Office of the Badshahpur Naib Tehsildar. Go to COunter No 1 (Registration Clerk). For a sum of Rs 25/- he will take a digital picture and stamp and sign your affidavit.
Incidentally, the Naib Tehsildar is the Executive Magistrate.

Old School

My parents are old school. And so are yours, I am sure. After all, if you are Indian and reside here and are still reading this, you are in the 74 % literate community and the 125 million that have access to the net. So the likelihood of you having parents who went to a school is 100 %.

But what I mean by old school is the no-nonsense variety. My Dad was a Menon - translate to tough malayali guy. Add second generation military. Result - A father who solved issues immediately with a thick black IAF leather belt. In fact, I feel that the behaviour of Air Force brats has been severely damaged by the change of the IAF uniform belt. My mom a devout Iyer, felt this was the correct manner in which severe crimes were to be dealt with. The ordinary issues were dispensed with a quick slap. Children were to be seen rarely and never heard.

This system of immediate justice was reserved almost exclusively for me; being the elder son. My brother, younger by almost three years was a cute kid. Very naughty, but super cute. So he escaped this legal system. My father by exercise of his ultimate authority had exempted my elder sister from this punishment. "Real men don't hit girls". (In my teenage years he explained to me while we don't hit girls, we ALWAYS hit on girls)

Now before we go ahead, please don't get me wrong. Dad was great; actually make that present continuous tense- Dad Is Great. It was his quick fire method of dealing with any and every of the weird things that the three of us would keep doing. Chopping up the entire banana grove in a game of 'chor-pooleece' - BAM, eating an entire bottle of Pork Pickle on mom's Santoshi Ma Friday fast - WHACK,  bunking school and going swimming - THWACK, outside the house in bathroom slippers - major crime - KA BANG.

The thing that I remember the most is there was no difference between the rules for us two boys and my elder sister. Restrictions were plenty and across the board with no gender bias. Kids will be home before dark - all of you. Likewise, all kids will wipe the kitchen counter, dry the dishes, set the table. My brother and I were taught to do the dishes, make tea, set beds, broom, mop - everything. Housework was OURS, and it better be done well - punctuated with a loving cuff on the ears.

That is why when some neo liberal lady says her husband helps her with HER housework, I see red. If some guy condescendingly says he makes the tea on f&%*ing Sundays, my blood boils. There is a couple i know; the guy proudly claims to have boiled eggs, all while grinning like Mr Bean - his wife listens to this with that glowing smile. Excuse me, I need a barf bag. And with the guy who says he takes his kid for a walk in the pram on the fourth Thursday of  every month, I wanna get violent.

Because, that is so damn wrong. I mean she is your wife. That is your kid. I used to hate Poha and I detest Sabusana Khichadi. But Leela loves this stuff. So I learnt it from the You Tube and with tips from Shyam, my chef brother, I have pretty much aced it. My mom taught us kids to do the bathrooms. The result is that today Leela knows that I can get a very sound post retirement job as a safai kaaramchari. I cook, cut, clean chop, dust, wipe and mop like a professional. And it is no big deal. 

There are several who think that by this kind of house work stuff makes them a little un-macho . To them I say fuck you. The people who know me, can tell that I am an Alpha male. So was my dad. So is my younger brother. But our women mean the world to us.

As I said, my parents are old school.

Woman - Life to this Earth

My ode to women on 08 March 2012 - Womens Day

In this our world of today,

If you women decide to stand fast,

There is nothing that you cannot achieve.

With you tough times don’t last.

You can run that grueling marathon, 

test fly a chopper or a plane.

You can climb the highest mountain.

You are stars and you will win fame.

You are who gives life to this earth.

There is strength in your sinews.

Compassion, beauty, thought and wisdom,

Families are because of you.

So to you all my lovely women friends,

Nieces, sisters, mother and my wife,

On this Woman’s Day as on every day,

Thank you for the beauty in life.

I Fear a Fear

I wrote these lines in a flood of emotion in December 2012, when a young  girl was brutally raped in Delhi. She died subsequently having been assaulted with rods. The family and society continue to wait for justice. It is as relevant now as it was then.  

I Fear a fear

Does it have a name, this rage?

Anger so cold 

That is yet burning me.

As I struggle to make sense,

seek answers to questions

a torrent of doubts is drowning me.

I am gasping for breath.

There is a lump in my chest,

a sorrow that is choking me. 

The brutes, the man that does ravage,  

stays hidden, 

even kith and kin, 

yet inside a savage. 

Fathers and brothers, uncles be they may

shame them for being this way.

For smothering our lives, that should have been free 

for crushing us so brutally. 

They must be given a face

For only then will this surface. 

Only then will I become a cause

One that will bring a pause

In our mindless race

Towards lust, greed and disgrace.

I pray for a catharsis

A fire that will burn 

The evil amidst us

to never return.

But there is this lurking cynic

The demon, the serpent, the one  

That always mocks me. 

The one that brings me this fear,

A fear that is numbing me.

That you will forget 

soon as my soul ebbs away from me

Seedy Tales

There was this time in Staff College when our syndicate was tasked with a major research project. The stuff that we dug out through research papers, books and interviews was to be crammed into a multi-media presentation.

Yours truly was sort of detailed to compile the presentation. I had a pretty decent PC and was quite clued up on MS Power Point.  but I guess the real reasons were that I was single, had a very nice house, served authentic filter coffee and had a pretty maid (actually a maiden).

So the syndicate decided that every body would gather at my pad for making the slides. All through the day, the guys kept dropping. Somebody brought a hard drive, another guy brings in a CD, some people got their research on a  thumb drive or a pen drive. That was the time of floppies too. All day long went this geeky stuff.

Around four in the afternoon the bell rang yet again. Somebody sprawled over a sofa yelled "Come in". No reply. Again the bell and this time a long press. Pissed off, I got up and opened the door. There was a Tamil guy. He said in thickly accented Hindi, " Saar, mereygo Seedi chahiye". (I want a CD). I asked him " Ok, but which one". He said " the long one". Tired as I was, and now irritated, I asked him, " Are you crazy?".  He looked at me strangely, and then said," I am the cable guy. I want a seedi, seedi, SEEDI" Then with his hands he acted as if he was climbing. I fell down laughing. Rolling on the floor, there were tears in my eyes.

He meant a सीडी , the f***ing ladder. 

Twenty Years

Yep, It's been twenty years of service. Two decades donning the blues (and the FR OG overalls). Lots of time driving the whirly birds, over 4k hrs in the air going chop-a-cop-a-chop. Been quite a few places and done some things. Many a friend has gone to meet the maker; some with their flying boots on. We held a chattanoga for them recently. Will try and post a few pix.

I fly a desk these days. yuck !!!

Cow Slaughter

I remember reading this nearly three decades ago. My cousin had brought it over. In fact, he termed the essay as “Cow Slaughter”. This piece has made its way to me vide a fwd and is published here for your pleasure. I am unable to trace and accredit the originator.

Indian Cow

He is the cow. The cow is a successful animal. Also he is 4 footed, And because he is female, he give milks, [but will do so when he is got child.] He is same like-God, sacred to Hindus and useful to man. But he has got four legs together. Two are forward and two are afterwards.His whole body can be utilized for use. More so the milk. Milk comes from 4 taps attached to his basement... [horses don't have any such attachment] What can it do? Various ghee, butter, cream, curd, why and the condensed milk and so forth. Also he is useful to cobbler, watermans and mankind generally.

His motion is slow only because he is of lazy species., Also his other motion.... gober is much useful to trees, plants as well as for making flat cakes [like Pizza ], in hand , and drying in the sun.

Cow is the only animal that extricates his feeding after eating. Then afterwards she chew with his teeth whom are situated in the inside of the mouth.

He is incessantly in the meadows in the grass. His only attacking and defending organ is the horns, specially so when he is got child. This is done by knowing his head whereby he causes the weapons to be paralleled to the ground of the earth and instantly proceed with great velocity forwards. He has got tails also, situated in the backyard, but not like similar animals. It has hairs on the other end of the other side. This is done to frighten away the flies which alight on his cohesive body hereupon he gives hit with it. The palms of his feet are soft unto the touch. So the grasses head is not crushed. At night time have poses by looking down on the ground and he shouts. His eyes and nose are like his other relatives.

==================================

An essay written by a successful (non-verified) candidate in UPSC Entrance examination. I hear that this candidate is now an IAS offr, somewhere in Bihar. (non-verified)

I almost threw up

I hit a link to Shobha De's interview by Karan Thapar's on the Devil's Advocate.

Shobhaa De: Well, if you go to West Bengal, Karan, do you hear anything but Bengali being spoken? Does anyone mind? You go to Karnataka, do you hear anything but Kannada being spoken? If you go to Tamil Nadu, do you hear anything but Tamil being spoken? So in that sense, may be a disconnect is happening in Mumbai. People think Mumbai belongs to all of India and therefore not parochially bound.

I was dumbfounded. And then came this

Shobhaa De: ..... Also, it’s a Maharashtrian city, people who choose to live there should learn and speak Marathi. If I were to make West Bengal my home, I jolly well (would) learn Bengali. If I choose to live in Punjab, I should learn to speak in Punjabi. All the signages, all over India, happen to be in two languages, sometimes in three. You go anywhere in India, the signages are in local script. Why is it that Mumbai is being picked on for insisting on both signages – Devnagiri, which is also Marathi, and English.

I almost threw up!

Lemme get this straight. I was born in Pune. So I should know Marathi. My folks then moved to Meerut. I did learn Hindi. They then went to Jorhat, I should be spouting Ahomi. then came Calcutta. I did manage to pick up Bengali. There was some time spent in Bangalore and Guntur - okay so Kannada and Telegu needs to be covered. I've done time since then in Leh, Srinagar, Bathinda and Arunanchal and am now in Jodhpur. So that takes care of Kashmiri, Ladakhi, Punjabi and Marwari. Oh I almost forgot, My old man is a Mallu and mom is a tam-bram.

So I need to speak, read and write eleven , make that thirteen languages. Then and only then will Ms De be happy. While I find KT quite the overbearing bore, he rarely disappoints when he wields the (knife) mike.

A hooligan starts terrorizing non-marathis. His gangsters, a bunch of bullies start beating up people. And Ms De who gets her knickers in a twist every now and then with "enough is enough" and "they didn't enlist my cook in the army" endorses that whacko's views.

De madam tussi great ho,

Instant Experts : Mumbai Terror Strike

I just love the way in the past few days every news reporter and blogger and commentator has turned into an expert on security and NSG ops and counter terrorism and ...phew.

Now you can become a know-all using the search function on goggle. Research in fact is hitting the enter key twice.

So the moment, an operation is under way, there are these 'ugh' journalists shrieking into a mike, spouting jargon while reporting on the conduct of operations. And Off course every body has watched Hollywood flicks so they use terms like SWAT and 'sitrep' with gay abandon.

To randomly quote a few of these bloops,

"they are firing their guns now, it's a war zone out there."

Please, lady we call it a weapon. I remember once an instructor overheard me calling my 7.62 mm rifle a "gun". I stood the whole night under a cold shower with the rifle yelling "this is my rifle, this is my gun. This is for fighting and this is for fun".

And its not a war zone. What's going on is barbarism. Some objectivity, please.

"And the jeep is reviewing the situation"

OMG, he meant the chief.

I read a comment on a blog once, which suggested to the author that 'she lacked the knowledge to write on army matters. The commentator further wrote, that it was perhaps because she had never met somebody from the army. The indignant author countered that she often wrote about terrorists and God also, and she'd never met either. Fantastic logic.

Surprisingly, some of them, have studied journalism at reputed institutions. There's a certain lady who is a grad from Columbia Univ. I would presume that they did teach the need to be thorough and knowledgeable, of not shooting from the hip,of the need to be sensitive. Seems she in particular was biting donuts in some cafe during those classes. The others like like that lovely couple on See and End were shaving buffaloes. While Mr bespectacled India was digging dirt.

It takes a considerable amount of time and effort to give talk on security matters. (considerably more than it takes to hold court on the Indian passion of cricket, films and politics). The first prerequisite is to be logical and analytical. There is a need to develop a deep understanding on issues that affect security of a nation and elements of national power. The weapon end of it is another issue all together. It takes tremendous amount of training. Physical toughness is just the beginning. Mental toughness, development of will power, ability to withstand pain and denial.To think on one's feet. Training on weapons, explosives, languages, field surgery, helicopters.... People the list is endless.

Not for a moment do I suggest that every expert on military strategy and tactics should have sat through hours of sand model discussions. Or worn combat fatigues and bitten bullets. It does help in understanding the practical aspects though.

So when I hear these self styled experts pontificate on the Idiot Box, or read when they run riot with their keyboards, I want to laugh ....and cry.

Peace Keeping in Ituri

For the past ten months, I have been on rolls of an Attack Aviation Unit flying Mi25s in the peace enforcement role. We are part of the Indian Aviation Unit deployed in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Our area of operations is primarily the Ituri District. This is the area that saw horrific killings when the Hema and Lendu tribes attempted to find a FINAL SOLUTION. Congo saw two million being killed. This was further complicated by the involvement of the Ugandan forces.

I have read and seen some brutal accounts of the massacres. 'oribble stuff, people !!

Things seem to be settling down. We fly quite a lot. Area domination missions which show the presence of MONUC. Escort to Troop insertion and extrication. They tend to reassure the populace that the UN is with them.At the same time, the militia are reminded that the "Fist of MONUC" is hovering quite close.

Democracy has taken birth now in this troubled land. The government has started re-building institutions. But the task is arduous and the road to prosperity will take time.

Gen Laurent Nkunda for one will take some firm persuasion. The last time he got a bloody nose at Goma when he tried a repeat of "Bukavu" with the Indian contingents. Peter Karim seems to have quietened down in Ituri.

I like to believe that the Indian contingents have contributed to peace. The future will tell.

NO POSTS FOR LONG

I have not posted mail for almost a year now. The reasons have been several. Poor net access, thanks to the UN deputation that I am on, MONUC's Cyber police, that has declared a blanket ban on all blogs etc etc.

Better late than never!

Okay! a brief update. I got sent on this United nations Deputation to DR Congo in Sep 2006. I am now posted to the "Vipers-Lethal When Provoked". It is an Attack Aviation Unit and enforces the peace in Ituri District; a volatile area in Congo. I am flying Mi-25s here. Yeah !!... it is good to be flying the attack role once again.

More in my next.....ciao for now

Izzat (Fiction)

Mera Naam Mohammed Jameel Rather hai, Saab. I still remember, the first time I heard a young voice crying out that name.

I am on some mundane duty at a recruitment rally in Bod Bunguz, an obscure place in the Kashmir vale. I look up to see a spindly youth all of sixteen. A few straggly hairs on his chin, no hair on his chest. “Kids in the Fauj! Bah ”. Certainly in no shape to join the old, honourable, regiment of the Jammu and Kashmir Rifles, I forget about him and concentrate on my most immediate concern; that afternoon balloon of brandy. But come the next day and I see him standing with the successful lot. The staff is impressed. Bahut josh hai ladke mein. After twenty-six years of soldiering, I do not know the meaning of that word, ‘Josh’.

The next year I see him in the battalion; he’s filled out a little. My sceptical self can’t help but notice that intense fire in his eyes. The word is he has a parental claim to the battalion; his father copped a hero’s death in `48. Must walk over to the Adjt and look up the incident.

Jameel becomes quite well known in the paltan. He always tries harder than everyone else. Wins the cross country championship, becomes a boxer; flyweight of course. Pushes himself that little bit more, that extra effort…the paltan buzz is that he’s got to live up to the family name, the IZZAT “Harrumph……that’ll be the day”.

We are still in the vale of Sri Narak. The Bde Cdr is away on some sand model exercise, and I’m in charge. At least everyone thinks so. All it means is that my rheumy afternoons and evenings will be disturbed. One evening I am suddenly shaken out of my brandy-soaked self. The Cdr is on the line. “There’ve been some reports of enemy movement in your area, so blah, blah, …. launch a patrol immediately”. Aha, so Mister Sticky Rules wants to play soldiers. I send for the Adjt who is another eager beaver. He quickly details a young officer. I tell him to sort it out as I switch from a large to a larger. A couple of hours later I am as usual numbed by the alcohol and back to my cynical self.

I am shaken awake. I’d slept off... make that passed out, on the rocking chair. My sahayak is going all yakety-yak. “Saahib, phone bahut der se baj raha hai. Ab to runner bhi aa gaya.” I holler “Gimme a drink” and reach for the phone. I mumble, “Ops room lagao”. The Duty Officer is babbling about the patrol’s sitrep. There was no enemy movement... just a band of bakarwaals. But the patrol stumbled upon a snow leopard’s litter. The furious mother attacked the young Lieutenant. It would have been fatal but for Sepoy.Mohammed Jameel Rather. He dashed to the rescue...He was unarmed. Fought the big cat with his bare arms. Saved his sahib bahadur. Bleeding like a stuck pig, he blurted that it was all about family IZZAT. Unfortunately he ....

They give his mother a sewing machine. Ha! The old crone couldn’t even see it. But it’s SOP. The same SOP they followed when they gave me missus a mimeographed letter of regrets; when the visiting MP's  convoy ran over my teenaged daughter. Anjana blew her brains out on the brown rug, the one we bought from SOS village in Leh, it had those funny little yaks embroidered in a pattern. I soaked mine (brains, I mean), in alcohol of all sorts.

It’s been some time about all that now. Jameel is bloody history, Bacchus continues as my saviour and I am at the Regimental Centre as one of the old farts in charge of the Registry. Life becomes a comfortable routine of stupor, haze, slumber and more. Unfortunately, my sahayak changes; he is from Jameel’s village and is eager to serve and please. Y‘know.... live up to the village’s traditions, the land of the brave. Some thing clicks and I ask for the dusty old records to be brought. I rummage through the CsOI and I hit upon the Inquiry into Jameel’s father’s death.

I am suddenly cold sober. Naik Murtaaz Ahmed Rather was shot in the field. Inconclusive COI. Perhaps, for treachery or cowardice. He attempted to flee when Durga Post was attacked by the enemy in a charge in 1948.

My hands shake as I hold the lighter. Must get back to the Mess double-time, huh.