It would come as no surprise that “Jugaad” ; improvisation, make-do, whatever we may choose to call it; has come to settle as an (unofficially) accepted principle of war for the Indian Army, more so for us Sappers. Whether it is forced upon us by virtue of our “slightly” retro equipment, or due to the vagaries of combat or simply because “Bhoop Singh” wants to do his job faster and more efficiently, it is a fact that “Jugaad” has probably won more battles, eliminated more Anti National Elements and conducted many more successful exercises than any other Army training or operational doctrine!!
Training in “Jugaad” operations begins at the infancy of one’s career in the army. All ex-NDAs are well versed in the art of cooking anything from Maggi to Rogan Gosht employing nothing more than a 50W Bajaj Iron and a mess tin. Indeed, it is a well recorded fact that the Americans suffered massive casualties in World War II during the beach landings at Normandy for the sole reason that they refused the use of modified tanks, which actually proved invaluable when used by the British on their respective beach heads.
“Jugaad” was validated perhaps nowhere better than in Operation Parakram, when the Corps of Engineers threw up scientists and innovators galore who came up with enough variety of contraptions to embarrass the Wright Brothers. The “Pakis”, I am sure, would have been thoroughly surprised at the sight of odd looking equipment that appeared out of the blue, especially during the de mining ops.
Dozers that looked like the NASA Mars Rovers with a myriad of attachments; JCB’s with hammers, rammers, blowers and 101 other force multipliers; would have looked like a direct threat to even the M1 Abrams Main Battle Tank. Robocop-like creatures covered with “Jugaadised” visors, helmets, shin guards, neck guards, back guards, miscellaneous guards and mine shoes and prodders would have terrified the Pak Rangers, more so the fact that they were all crowned with that weapon of choice that has terrorized many enemy armies on numerous battlefields for the last 300 years or so – the PAGRI !!!
Not that the classic task of close support to Infantry lags behind at all. An episode stands out rather prominently in my memory. Somewhere along the Line of Control, an obsolete 75/24 Artillery pack Howitzer was inducted into a lofty post manned by redoubtable Gurkhas, for imparting special treatment, by direct fire, to two enemy posts across. As usual, the Sappers had spent many a night under very unnerving mortar fire and even more irritating snowfall getting the monster up, in dismantled condition with it’s ammunition, along a newly cut Animal Transport track. They were naturally dismayed when the Artillery Observation Officer informed them that the sights were broken and that the gun thus could not be used. This piece of tactical intelligence threw the Gunners, Gurkha “Daai’s” and the “Thambi Sappers” into an on-the-spot “Jugaad” committee. A used meat tin was then “Jugaadised” into a modified gun sight by slicing off both ends to make it hollow and clamping at one free end, two pieces of binding wire to act as cross hairs. This Gun Sight 4J (Mod- Jugaadised) was then simply placed in the open breech block, the gun thus aligned, the humble tin removed before and presto – “Gun fire ke liye taiyar hai shreeman” ! Needless to say, the gun fired over 40 rounds the next night and white flags with plenty of smoke went up at both targets!!
Such instances are endless. For the sake of brevity and conciseness, it can safely be concluded, without offence to any Army Brass that “Jugaad” is, has been, and will remain an integral part of our ops in both fd and peace. On a more serious note, however, it underlines the fundamental concepts of Improvisation, Ingenuity and Initiative which are so essential in today’s challenging fast moving battlefield environment, All readers are thus encouraged to continue with this noble tradition. Hopefully, some of you lucky ones will see the 75/24 Gun someday !! Who knows ??
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A Memorable Memorial
Of late, there have been a few voices raised for the building of a National War Memorial to honour those of our comrades who have made the supreme sacrifice for the Nation. There is indeed no nobler profession than that of the arms in which a uniformed soldier will, if necessary, willingly lay down his life for a National cause.
I was recently fortunate to be part of a United Nations peace keeping Mission in Sudan. It was on one of my exploratory weekend outings around Khartoum, the capital city along the Nile river that I chanced upon a rather well maintained Commonwealth War Memorial, with grave stones bearing Regimental insignia and a wall bearing some names. On curious inspection, I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered that the wall had upon it, row upon row of names of those Indian soldiers who had died in action in battles in Eritrea and Sudan in the Second World War and whose bodies were never recovered. Interestingly, while all other nationalities were on one side, it was the memorial to the Indian soldiers that occupied a central place of honour. In addition to being magnificently maintained, complete with a lush green lawn in Sub-Saharan climate, I learnt that the memorial was visited by a Commonwealth delegation for a wreath laying ceremony every year.
It was poignant to note that these were not merely names, but a roll call of heroes who had lived up to the best traditions of their Regiment and Army; men who had laid down their lives fighting for a colonial ruler on a foreign battlefield. Most touching was the fact that, after so many years, it was the same former colonial power that continued to unhesitatingly, and regularly honour even those foreign soldiers who fought, and died, under its flag at its bidding. Obviously, I spent the rest of the evening giving a gist of the Indian Army’s history to two fellow “Blue Berets”- German army officers who had accompanied me to the War Memorial and who could not figure what on earth a War Memorial to dead Indian Army soldiers was doing in Africa !!
Later, I could not help, but compare with the story back home, where no National Memorial exists for those men in uniform who died defending not a foreign interest, but the very sovereignty and honour of an independent India. The only heroes are those that did'nt come back. What do we, as a Nation, do to remember our heroes who fell? Call them "dogs"? Maybe we don't really deserve our heroes. Maybe we all have a tendency to forget and move on, but there definitely was a lesson in martial pride and rememberance to be learnt in that modest little graveyard tucked away in the corner of a dusty African city. While it certainly made me feel prouder of the uniform I wear, perhaps it is a message that the powers-to-be may wish to keep in mind. Who know, someday, we may have our very own National Memorial too??
I was recently fortunate to be part of a United Nations peace keeping Mission in Sudan. It was on one of my exploratory weekend outings around Khartoum, the capital city along the Nile river that I chanced upon a rather well maintained Commonwealth War Memorial, with grave stones bearing Regimental insignia and a wall bearing some names. On curious inspection, I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered that the wall had upon it, row upon row of names of those Indian soldiers who had died in action in battles in Eritrea and Sudan in the Second World War and whose bodies were never recovered. Interestingly, while all other nationalities were on one side, it was the memorial to the Indian soldiers that occupied a central place of honour. In addition to being magnificently maintained, complete with a lush green lawn in Sub-Saharan climate, I learnt that the memorial was visited by a Commonwealth delegation for a wreath laying ceremony every year.
It was poignant to note that these were not merely names, but a roll call of heroes who had lived up to the best traditions of their Regiment and Army; men who had laid down their lives fighting for a colonial ruler on a foreign battlefield. Most touching was the fact that, after so many years, it was the same former colonial power that continued to unhesitatingly, and regularly honour even those foreign soldiers who fought, and died, under its flag at its bidding. Obviously, I spent the rest of the evening giving a gist of the Indian Army’s history to two fellow “Blue Berets”- German army officers who had accompanied me to the War Memorial and who could not figure what on earth a War Memorial to dead Indian Army soldiers was doing in Africa !!
Later, I could not help, but compare with the story back home, where no National Memorial exists for those men in uniform who died defending not a foreign interest, but the very sovereignty and honour of an independent India. The only heroes are those that did'nt come back. What do we, as a Nation, do to remember our heroes who fell? Call them "dogs"? Maybe we don't really deserve our heroes. Maybe we all have a tendency to forget and move on, but there definitely was a lesson in martial pride and rememberance to be learnt in that modest little graveyard tucked away in the corner of a dusty African city. While it certainly made me feel prouder of the uniform I wear, perhaps it is a message that the powers-to-be may wish to keep in mind. Who know, someday, we may have our very own National Memorial too??
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Hail the Siachen Veteran
"Quartered in snow, silent to remain. When the bugle calls, they shall rise and march again."
-Inscribed at the War Memorial at Siachen Base Camp.
Lofty words. We no doubt have gone where no army has gone before. Living at altitudes where commercial airliners fly and in temperatures where chocolate bars freeze and crack is unprecedented in the history of warfare. What the Indian Army has done there is magnificent. After all, the Pakistanis have never been able to even look at Siachen Glacier. But for the individual who has experienced Siachen, it is all beyond politics. It is an education in survival, fear and gratitude for small things that the layman takes for granted. A tenure that leaves one with memories those stay forever. The privations underwent together binds officers and men beyond ties of background, Regiment or whatever. For us who were (un)fortunate to induct during the pre ceasefire phase, it meant being able to identify Pakistani Artillery calibres by incoming sound and impact noise as well as reorienting body clocks to “SST”- Siachen Standard time-to sleep, rest and maintain by day and work by night. After 123 days of that, morning PT and evening games was even tougher to get accustomed back to! If that was not enough, you contend with helicopter drops landing off course and therefore lugging stores across merciless glaciated serrations. The altitude, usually exceeding 18000 feet, is such that even a supremely fit athlete would be gasping for breath at the slightest exertion. The heart warming fact is that every man, regardless of his Specialisation, rank or detailment does his best. If his best is not enough, he will exceed his own capabilities, but deliver he will.
........It is the Infantryman who actually eyeballs the enemy 24X7, 365 days a year. Snipers wait hours for that one shot. Sentries run the gauntlet of being shot if they move and freeze if they don’t.
.......Deployed in ones or two’s, Sappers, or combat engineers, at any post are veritable Man-Fridays. They secure crossings over yawning crevasses, do the “cliffhanger” act to lay cableways and pipelines. They are roped in to fix snow scooters, check telephone/ generator lines, aid the Post Nursing Assistant, muster porters, open routes or trigger avalanches after snowfall, install Dish TVs etc.
.......The Gunner is the one who sticks his head out when shells rain down. He calls in our own fire while everyone else takes cover in ice caves. How right Napoleon was when he called Artillery the “God of War”.
Despite the best precautions, the unforgiving terrain and weather take far more lives than enemy action. In a matter of hours, healthy bodies may succumb to the effect of the super high altitude. In seconds, crevasses under the ice may swallow a whole roped up team. There is always the threat of avalanches wiping out entire posts. No surprise thus that the greatest decoration and achievement is taking back “down” all those that you climbed “up” with. Do that, you’ve done your bit. There is just nothing heroic or soul stirring about dying in action. It is painful, scary and to see that happen to the men that you live and fight alongside with, numbs you for years to come. We all still put up brave faces and boisterous high fives, but fear remains. Fear of not being able to see those loved ones ever agin, of what would happen to them if you don't get back. Fear of losing a limb or life to a bullet, shrapnel or frostbite. But most of all, the fear that overcomes all these fears is the fear of letting down the man next to you. And it is that, and that alone , which helps you calm a pounding heart as you attend to a wounded buddy under fire or venture out into the dark on a patrol...
Frostbite and HAPO scar men for lives. The shriek of 60 kmph wind, the chill in your bones when the thermometer stops at minus 42 Celcius and the constant fear of dying inside a crevasse scares one even years after walking the gauntlet. The cold at nights penetrated anything you could put on. The smallest cut would burn, hurt and go black. One smells of kerosene, (among other odours), all the while. A first bath, maybe after four weeks and never after that. Answering nature’s call at a forward post is the worst daily recurring nightmare- worse than the shelling and cold. Arrangements vary from a ladder sticking out over an abyss and camouflaged with a white parachute or to a rope dangling into a crevasse to which one hangs on for dear life.
A wonderful thing is the simple faith which every man there reposes on “OP Baba”- the spirit of a JCO (who died on the glacier in the 80’s) which supposedly has remained on that deep freezer of a battlefield to watch for the safety of the men there. Stories abound of dozing sentries being slapped awake, of lost patrols miraculously finding their way through “whiteouts” or of severely wounded casualties still making it. For a fact, every unit inducting and de inducting from the theatre formally reports to his shrine (with a parade state submitted by the OIC!) at Base Camp and seeks his blessings or thanks him for a safe tour of duty. Then there are those real life angels in the form of the IAF or the Army Aviation helicopters. When a man goes down, you can count on them to fly in and get him out, no matter what. To hear the clatter of the choppers and see them coming in with ammunition, fresh rations and that golden commodity- letters from home, is pure happiness indeed.
And so does life go on there. A life of daily struggle, which goes on relentlessly even as we lie cozily tucked in bed. Even as you read this, the Siachen saga continues. They are out there, and will remain, come what may. So remember them every now and then. And hail them, when you see that grey and white medal ribbon; hail the Siachen veteran, for he has been there and done things.
-Inscribed at the War Memorial at Siachen Base Camp.
Lofty words. We no doubt have gone where no army has gone before. Living at altitudes where commercial airliners fly and in temperatures where chocolate bars freeze and crack is unprecedented in the history of warfare. What the Indian Army has done there is magnificent. After all, the Pakistanis have never been able to even look at Siachen Glacier. But for the individual who has experienced Siachen, it is all beyond politics. It is an education in survival, fear and gratitude for small things that the layman takes for granted. A tenure that leaves one with memories those stay forever. The privations underwent together binds officers and men beyond ties of background, Regiment or whatever. For us who were (un)fortunate to induct during the pre ceasefire phase, it meant being able to identify Pakistani Artillery calibres by incoming sound and impact noise as well as reorienting body clocks to “SST”- Siachen Standard time-to sleep, rest and maintain by day and work by night. After 123 days of that, morning PT and evening games was even tougher to get accustomed back to! If that was not enough, you contend with helicopter drops landing off course and therefore lugging stores across merciless glaciated serrations. The altitude, usually exceeding 18000 feet, is such that even a supremely fit athlete would be gasping for breath at the slightest exertion. The heart warming fact is that every man, regardless of his Specialisation, rank or detailment does his best. If his best is not enough, he will exceed his own capabilities, but deliver he will.
........It is the Infantryman who actually eyeballs the enemy 24X7, 365 days a year. Snipers wait hours for that one shot. Sentries run the gauntlet of being shot if they move and freeze if they don’t.
.......Deployed in ones or two’s, Sappers, or combat engineers, at any post are veritable Man-Fridays. They secure crossings over yawning crevasses, do the “cliffhanger” act to lay cableways and pipelines. They are roped in to fix snow scooters, check telephone/ generator lines, aid the Post Nursing Assistant, muster porters, open routes or trigger avalanches after snowfall, install Dish TVs etc.
.......The Gunner is the one who sticks his head out when shells rain down. He calls in our own fire while everyone else takes cover in ice caves. How right Napoleon was when he called Artillery the “God of War”.
Despite the best precautions, the unforgiving terrain and weather take far more lives than enemy action. In a matter of hours, healthy bodies may succumb to the effect of the super high altitude. In seconds, crevasses under the ice may swallow a whole roped up team. There is always the threat of avalanches wiping out entire posts. No surprise thus that the greatest decoration and achievement is taking back “down” all those that you climbed “up” with. Do that, you’ve done your bit. There is just nothing heroic or soul stirring about dying in action. It is painful, scary and to see that happen to the men that you live and fight alongside with, numbs you for years to come. We all still put up brave faces and boisterous high fives, but fear remains. Fear of not being able to see those loved ones ever agin, of what would happen to them if you don't get back. Fear of losing a limb or life to a bullet, shrapnel or frostbite. But most of all, the fear that overcomes all these fears is the fear of letting down the man next to you. And it is that, and that alone , which helps you calm a pounding heart as you attend to a wounded buddy under fire or venture out into the dark on a patrol...
Frostbite and HAPO scar men for lives. The shriek of 60 kmph wind, the chill in your bones when the thermometer stops at minus 42 Celcius and the constant fear of dying inside a crevasse scares one even years after walking the gauntlet. The cold at nights penetrated anything you could put on. The smallest cut would burn, hurt and go black. One smells of kerosene, (among other odours), all the while. A first bath, maybe after four weeks and never after that. Answering nature’s call at a forward post is the worst daily recurring nightmare- worse than the shelling and cold. Arrangements vary from a ladder sticking out over an abyss and camouflaged with a white parachute or to a rope dangling into a crevasse to which one hangs on for dear life.
A wonderful thing is the simple faith which every man there reposes on “OP Baba”- the spirit of a JCO (who died on the glacier in the 80’s) which supposedly has remained on that deep freezer of a battlefield to watch for the safety of the men there. Stories abound of dozing sentries being slapped awake, of lost patrols miraculously finding their way through “whiteouts” or of severely wounded casualties still making it. For a fact, every unit inducting and de inducting from the theatre formally reports to his shrine (with a parade state submitted by the OIC!) at Base Camp and seeks his blessings or thanks him for a safe tour of duty. Then there are those real life angels in the form of the IAF or the Army Aviation helicopters. When a man goes down, you can count on them to fly in and get him out, no matter what. To hear the clatter of the choppers and see them coming in with ammunition, fresh rations and that golden commodity- letters from home, is pure happiness indeed.
And so does life go on there. A life of daily struggle, which goes on relentlessly even as we lie cozily tucked in bed. Even as you read this, the Siachen saga continues. They are out there, and will remain, come what may. So remember them every now and then. And hail them, when you see that grey and white medal ribbon; hail the Siachen veteran, for he has been there and done things.
THE IRONIES OF WAR
2nd Lt Arun Khetarpal is a household legend in India, well, at least in “fauji” homes. For those less informed, he was posthumously awarded the Param Vir Chakra (PVC), India’s highest gallantry award, in the 1971 Indo-Pak war at Basantar. After the war, Brigadier ML Khetarpal, his father, received messages that a certain Pakistani Brigadier was keen to meet him. Not knowing who he was, Brigadier ML Khetarpal did nothing to encourage the meeting. In 2001, Brigadier Khetarpal- now 81 years old- felt a strong desire to visit his birthplace at Sargodha, now in Pakistan. Some friends in the Foreign Ministry arranged for the visit and at Lahore airport, Brigadier Khetarpal was met by a Brigadier Naser, who hosted him and ensured that Brigadier Khetarpal had a satisfying visit. Brigadier Khetarpal was overwhelmed by the kindness and courtesy of Brigadier Naser and his family. As his departure approached, Brigadier Khetarpal felt that something was amiss, but could not make it out. What was certain was that he would always remember the hospitality and affection of this Pakistani family.Finally, on night before Brigadier Khetarpal's departure, Brigadier Naser said “Sir, there is something that I wanted to tell you for many years. The last few days have seen us come close and that makes my task harder. I regret that your son died at my hands. Arun's courage was exemplary and he fought totally unconcerned about his safety. Tank casualties were very high till there were just the two of us left. We both fired simultaneously. It was destined that I was to live and he was to die. We are trained to do in war what we have to without thinking. However we are humans and sometimes war takes a personal turn. I had thought that I would ask your forgiveness, but I realize that there is nothing to forgive. Instead I salute your son for what he did at such a young age and I salute you too, because I know how he grew into such a young man. In the end it is character and values that matter."
Brigadier Khetarpal was silent. To face the person who killed his son, and also to be enjoying his hospitality is a confusing feeling. He did realize that Brigadier Naser was genuinely wanting, in some way, to compensate for something that he rightly did in the line of duty. Both the Brigadiers retired for the night deep in thought. The next day photographs were taken and Brigadier Khetarpal returned to Delhi. Later the photos reached Delhi with a note from Brigadier Naser that read: "With Warmest regards to Brigadier ML Khetarpal, father of 2nd Lt Arun Khetarpal, PVC, who stood like an insurmountable rock against the counter attack of 13 LANCERS, Pak Army, on 16 December 1971 in the battle of ‘Bara Pind’ as we call it and battle of ‘Basantar’ as you do. There are never any victors in war; both sides lose and it is the families that suffer the most. As someone once said “Wars are created by politicians, compounded by bureaucrats and fought by soldiers”.
Brigadier Khetarpal was silent. To face the person who killed his son, and also to be enjoying his hospitality is a confusing feeling. He did realize that Brigadier Naser was genuinely wanting, in some way, to compensate for something that he rightly did in the line of duty. Both the Brigadiers retired for the night deep in thought. The next day photographs were taken and Brigadier Khetarpal returned to Delhi. Later the photos reached Delhi with a note from Brigadier Naser that read: "With Warmest regards to Brigadier ML Khetarpal, father of 2nd Lt Arun Khetarpal, PVC, who stood like an insurmountable rock against the counter attack of 13 LANCERS, Pak Army, on 16 December 1971 in the battle of ‘Bara Pind’ as we call it and battle of ‘Basantar’ as you do. There are never any victors in war; both sides lose and it is the families that suffer the most. As someone once said “Wars are created by politicians, compounded by bureaucrats and fought by soldiers”.
Forgotten Heroes
It may have happened over 67 years back, but the fortitude shown by Indian troops during the initial reverses of the Burma campaign in 1942 shall remain etched in history. The episode described herein is completely true and serves to teach us what courage is all about.
It happened on Jan 31, 1942, during the evacuation of Moulmein, in Southern Burma. A British brigade was desperately withdrawing by river steamers full of wounded men, under fire from the Japanese who were by this time advancing on the jetties. On this day, the men of Number Two Section, 60 Fd Coy of the Queen Victoria's Own Madras Sappers and Miners, under Capt Alan Jardine, a British officer, and Jemadar Malligarjunan, carved their place in history. Having completed their demolition tasks in the face of the advancing Japanese, these intrepid Sappers were told their orders, “Keep those bloody Japanese off the jetty!” The Madras Sappers carried out the order to the last alphabet. As the last boat from Moulmein cast off, pursued by mortar and artillery fire, Capt Jardine and his men occupied defences on the water's edge. The defences were yet another tribute to the ingenuity of the Madras Sappers, consisting of a vulnerable breastwork of rolls of bedding! From behind these flimsy fortifications the Sappers kept up a withering fire on the advancing Japanese. During this battle Capt Jardine was badly wounded in the shoulder. But his section was not leaderless, for Jemadar Malligarjunan, displaying soldierly qualities that even he did not know he possessed, so inspired his Thambis that the Japanese were effectively prevented from reaching the jetty-the last boat from Moulmein owed its escape entirely to Malligarjunan and his gallant Sappers....
As the afternoon lengthened into evening, the last defenders of Moulmein realised that no boats were coming back for them. Equally obviously, they could not hold up the enemy indefinitely. Having nowhere else to go, they took refuge underneath the jetty. Above their heads, as they crouched in uncomfortable proximity to each other and the water, they heard the crash of Japanese boots, shouted orders and the roar of mortar bombs- the enemy had mounted their mortars right overhead on the jetty to fire on the retreating Brigade! Jemadar Malligarjunan did some quick thinking: the Thambis had done their share of fighting for the time being; now it was time for them to use some of their technical skill. He rapidly put his men to work on building a raft from petrol barrels and baulks of wood. Under the very noses of the Japanese, some swimming and some pushing, this gallant party escaped and reported back at Brigade HQ with their Capt Jardine, weapons and equipment intact. It was heroism in the truest sense, meriting the highest recognition. Unfortunately, this episode along with Jemadar Malligarjunan and his 24 men passed into the dusty pages of history. Let us remember them, over a half century later; and remember them well. For the ideal that they fought for and lived up so well to is the same ideal that remains the keystone of Sappers even today- “First in, Last out”.
It happened on Jan 31, 1942, during the evacuation of Moulmein, in Southern Burma. A British brigade was desperately withdrawing by river steamers full of wounded men, under fire from the Japanese who were by this time advancing on the jetties. On this day, the men of Number Two Section, 60 Fd Coy of the Queen Victoria's Own Madras Sappers and Miners, under Capt Alan Jardine, a British officer, and Jemadar Malligarjunan, carved their place in history. Having completed their demolition tasks in the face of the advancing Japanese, these intrepid Sappers were told their orders, “Keep those bloody Japanese off the jetty!” The Madras Sappers carried out the order to the last alphabet. As the last boat from Moulmein cast off, pursued by mortar and artillery fire, Capt Jardine and his men occupied defences on the water's edge. The defences were yet another tribute to the ingenuity of the Madras Sappers, consisting of a vulnerable breastwork of rolls of bedding! From behind these flimsy fortifications the Sappers kept up a withering fire on the advancing Japanese. During this battle Capt Jardine was badly wounded in the shoulder. But his section was not leaderless, for Jemadar Malligarjunan, displaying soldierly qualities that even he did not know he possessed, so inspired his Thambis that the Japanese were effectively prevented from reaching the jetty-the last boat from Moulmein owed its escape entirely to Malligarjunan and his gallant Sappers....
As the afternoon lengthened into evening, the last defenders of Moulmein realised that no boats were coming back for them. Equally obviously, they could not hold up the enemy indefinitely. Having nowhere else to go, they took refuge underneath the jetty. Above their heads, as they crouched in uncomfortable proximity to each other and the water, they heard the crash of Japanese boots, shouted orders and the roar of mortar bombs- the enemy had mounted their mortars right overhead on the jetty to fire on the retreating Brigade! Jemadar Malligarjunan did some quick thinking: the Thambis had done their share of fighting for the time being; now it was time for them to use some of their technical skill. He rapidly put his men to work on building a raft from petrol barrels and baulks of wood. Under the very noses of the Japanese, some swimming and some pushing, this gallant party escaped and reported back at Brigade HQ with their Capt Jardine, weapons and equipment intact. It was heroism in the truest sense, meriting the highest recognition. Unfortunately, this episode along with Jemadar Malligarjunan and his 24 men passed into the dusty pages of history. Let us remember them, over a half century later; and remember them well. For the ideal that they fought for and lived up so well to is the same ideal that remains the keystone of Sappers even today- “First in, Last out”.
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