Guest column | A soldier’s memorable tales from Ladakh

In October 1962, when China attacked India in Ladakh, I was attending the Platoon Weapons Course in Mhow as a young lieutenant. The course was cut short and we were ordered to join our units forthwith.

When I reached my unit (3 Sikh Light Infantry) in Jammu, it was in the process of being flown to Ladakh. This was to be our first flight experience. We boarded a Dakota aircraft that had been modified for air drops, and hence did not have a door. Every soldier tried to sit farthest from the open door. Being the last person to enter the aircraft, I had to sit next to the open door. Next to me, on the safer side, was our senior JCO Sub Gurmail Singh.

Due to its height limitations, the Dakota aircraft could barely cross the Banihal and Zojila passes, and then had to wind its way through the high mountain valleys to reach Leh. As I sat holding on to the seat with all my strength, I noticed that some soldiers were keenly looking out of the windows, while others were sleeping or feigning to be asleep. Sub Gurmail Singh, with his eyes closed, was softly reciting the Japji Path.

After crossing Zojila, as the aircraft wound its way through narrow valleys, we experienced heavy bumps due to air pockets. The fear among the passengers was palpable. Sub Gurmail looked at the passing mountain slopes and said to me: “Saab ji, mainu lagda sada jahaz thalle lag reha hai. Tussi driver saab nu dasso, thora uppar le jawe (Sir, I feel our aircraft is touching something below. Please tell the pilot to raise its height).”

When we came over Leh, seeing the flat ground below, there was much excitement. We could see the dusty air strip covered with perforated steel panels and got ready to disembark. Back in his element, Sub Gurmail Singh asked me if he could lead a ‘Bole-so-nihal’, our battle cry/jaikara, which would be heard in China. When I explained to him that a battle cry during the flight may cause severe turbulence and even damage the aircraft, he was disappointed, but agreed to lead the jaikara after landing.

After arriving in Ladakh, my Company was stationed at Karu for acclimatisation for a few days. I decided to take my troops to Hemis Gompa (approximately 14,000 feet height), which involved crossing Indus River and then a steady climb. The river with its ice cold water had to be crossed over a swinging log bridge without side ropes. In our very first attempt, a young soldier in the lead section fell into the river along with his .303 rifle. He was evacuated before he could freeze, but the rifle could not be found. It took 12 hours to fish it from the deep water and extract it from the boulders where it was stuck. After the incident, some soldiers were ready to swim across the Indus. But, no one wanted to use the swinging bridge.

The next day, sitting on the riverside, I saw a few Ladakhi women with dry wood on their head, going over the bridge merrily. Seeing the women cross the bridge, both Sub Gurmail Singh and I made up our mind to cross the bridge with our whole company, me in the lead and Sub Gurmail bringing the rear with his long stick, which everyone feared. There was no accident thereafter.

After a few days, my company was tasked to prepare defences at Chang La (Ladakh Range-17688 feet height) to block any Chinese attempt from Darbuk and Shyok River valley to Leh. One late evening, Sub Gurmail brought two soldiers who complained of hearing loud bells. We had no doctor. A Band Pl NCO, who was working as a nursing assistant-cum-stretcher bearer, advised that the patients be given hot tea laced with a strong dose of brandy, which was part of medical comfort. While we were in the process of following his advice, two more soldiers came running to my bunker. They told us that two yaks with bells tied to their neck had strayed into our camp. I promptly asked everyone to run away and was happy that our precious medical comfort had been saved.

A year later, our unit was relieved in this area and given a fresh task to prepare defences near Chumathang (13500 feet high), which would block possibility of ingress on the Demchok-Dungti-Leh axis. By now, we were fully acclimatised. Every morning, our soldiers would carry defence material to 16,000 feet high mountain top, construct bunkers and return to the base camp in the evening. The two hours climb in a single file was fun, with some soldiers singing Punjabi songs, others exchanging outlandish jokes. One day, I followed the soldiers carrying CGI sheets. One of them was singing. After some time, he stopped in the middle of a song and sat down. I reached out and asked, “Ki hoya? (What happened?)” He responded, “Saab ji, gramophone di chaabi khatam ho gai. Chaabi nu thora oxygen di zarurat hai.” After a little rest, he was back on his feet and resumed his singing.

During my posting in Ladakh, I recall another incident. One evening, my sahayak, Sep Gurnam Singh, came complaining of a toothache and a slightly swollen cheek. When I offered him an Aspro tablet, he declined and instead asked for a rum da toomba (a cotton swab dipped in rum) to numb his pain. I told him to take it from the rum bottle lying in the bunker. Next morning, I noticed that the bottle was in its original place, but it was empty. I asked Gurnam, “Ki hoya?” His reply was simple, “Saab ji, mere dand di peed hondi gai te main toomba laganda gaya. Mainu pata nahin bottle kis wele khatam ho gai.’ (Sir, my tooth kept aching, so I kept applying the swab of rum. I don’t know when the rum bottle ran out.)

(The author is a former army chief. Views expressed are personal.)