Lolab
Lolab valley, Kupwara, Kashmir, November 1998
It always has amazed me how such a bewitchingly beautiful, idyllic narrow valley floor in the north western edge of Kashmir evokes the kind of contrasting responses from either end of the spectrum of men who were sworn to achieve dominance. One set, bound by both the written and unwritten rules of combat that a typical, professional Army respects. The other, bound if at all, only by the religious and ideological fanaticism that defines their existence. I am not sure about the militants, but within our circuit, LOLAB was an acronym. It stood for Land Of Love And Beauty. The sweetest apples grew here, the prettiest girls lived here, the fiercest militants operate here. Frankly, I think it was as much a matter of ego at the functional level both for the Special Forces teams and the militants as it was a matter of operational and strategic criticality for the brass on either side to retain control over the Lolab valley. After all, this was the staging area of choice for the freshly inducted militants infiltrated from Pakistan, before they are moved down into the Kashmir bowl.
We had commenced climbing up the hill feature between Sogam and Chandigam villages in the Lolab valley in Kashmir at about 3 AM that morning. I was eager to be well within the depths of the forest above the middle track that typically runs along all the hill features in the area before the first rays of the morning sun started to find its way to the valley floor. Team Bravo had commenced their climb around midnight, up three clicks to the north. Their brief was to secure the top of the feature before first light, by the time we were in line with the middle track.
We had been climbing steadily for the last 4 hours. Laxman was in the lead, with Satte Singh backing him up as scout 2. Between the two of them, they had built up a fearsome, awe inspiring reputation of being the best in the business. And when you consider that their business was being the lead scouts for Special Forces teams in combat, that reputation is something that the uniformed fraternity revers. Together, they had refined the practice of their skill into an art form. It was nowhere more evident to me as a young Captain, as they led the way for the squad I was entrusted command with. Not a twig broke, nor was the crunch of a single dried leaf audible as they effortlessly negotiated the steep incline of the forest floor in North West Kashmir, that early autumn morning. Laxman and Satte going about their business with clinical perfection, pausing here to pick up the slightest sound wafting in through the forest, crouching there at the first hint of the possibility of ‘company’.
The rest of the 5 man squad were also combat hardened veterans. The folding stock of their VZ-58, the standard issue, Checkoslovakian origin weapon bore rough, crude hand made notches – indicative of the number of ‘kills’ claimed by each of them. Notches, that periodically and much to their anguish would be forcibly painted over by the unit armourer, in preparation for the annual weapon inspection. The inspection done, the guys would carve those notches right back on. There never was a requirement for supervision of this activity by their mates. They zealously live by their code of honour – never claim a kill that is not yours.
It happened in a flash. The transition from God’s paradise to Satan’s hell was as rapid as planned ambushes get; furious and violent. Only, it sucks to be at the receiving end of that metaphoric transition. BIG time! The first burst of fire opened up from the left flank, about 75 mtrs uphill from the middle track. Laxman Singh was the first to react, swinging his VZ-58 effortlessly to the left and up, in a controlled sweep and letting loose a long but controlled burst, in classic ‘first response’ fashion. The rest of us did what is almost second nature to us; drop, down, crawl – executing the twin functions of identifying the best cover possible and watching out to identify the source of our pain, the unmistakable angry flash of the barrel of the AK-47, the weapon of choice with the militants. I hadn’t quite heard it (or if I did, it hadn’t registered) but I was confident Mukesh, right behind me had radioed the crisp three words that would indicate to our Company Operating Base that we were in business - “Contact, Standby, Out”. In seconds, the air was thick with the familiar smell of gunpowder, or so they claimed, much later when we were back in the company operating base. For me however, the peripheral senses weren’t quite working at their most efficient that morning. It usually doesn’t, I later realized, when one is a ‘live-combat virgin’. The first exposure to live combat, has a nasty practice of inevitably dulling up the senses, no matter how many hours of live firing one has actually carried out earlier at the practice ranges. This was the real thing. What every Special Forces man worth his salt hoped, prayed and lived for. A taste of the action. The metamorphosis from boy to man.
What I did remember however, is the rather dull, low whine that effectively degraded my sense of hearing. The low frequency, dull irritable whine, caused by the bullet that had quite evidently passed within inches of my right ear before it thudded into the thick, fallen deodhar tree trunk on the forest floor, behind me. Irritating as the whine was, it didn’t stop me from focusing on returning fire. I was therefore, surprised when Satte gruffly caught hold of the collar of my camouflage dungarees and part dragged, part flipped me over and behind the tree trunk. It took me 30 seconds to figure out why. My body, in prone position was exposed to fire from the flank. To execute that maneuver, Satte had to expose himself from cover, briefly. Looking back, I wonder if it even struck him that he was putting himself in grave danger by executing that maneuver. I suspect he didn’t. This was purely reflex action. When you see your buddy in danger, you pull him in. Screw everything else.
Lolab
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