Joe Shearer
PROFESSIONAL
- Joined
- Apr 19, 2009
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This is from someone else's blog, somewhere else. It was so evocative, and rang so true, that I felt compelled to break my silence and bring this to your collective notice. Especially to the notice of those who have served.
I think it was in 2000 or maybe 2001 in Gurez Valley in North Eastern Kashmir. I was doing some research on the LoC. The Brigade HQ at Davar hosted me and I messed in with the Raj Rif unit that manned several posts on the front. In those days shelling was a regular affair and the whole area was pretty tense. It was hard being a soldier. Pakistani snipers often got the unlucky guy who stepped out of his bunker for a pee and in winter corpses had to be choppered out whenever a chopper could land. Until then the men lived with the corpse of the man who had recently been friend and compatriot.
One day I decided to walk over to a border village to interview civilians. The colonel insisted on sending a JCO with an AK47 as my guide and protector despite my protests. At first I resented his presence. It compromised my neutrality. But then as we began chatting, desultorily at first, I found myself drawn to a most extraordinary man. We sat down on some rocks in the bright sunshine, the blue Kishanganga flowing swiftly past us.
He was very proud of serving in the Rajputana Rifles. Yes, he missed home. Sometimes it was hard on the LoC, but it was better, more honest soldiering than being in the Valley. Why? There it's confusing. You sometimes end up killing people who are supposed to be Indian. And here, the Pakistanis, you said you lost some of your men...you must hate them? Hate? No, I don't hate them. They are sons of poor farmers like me. They are doing their duty, like me. No. I don't hate them.
I think it was in 2000 or maybe 2001 in Gurez Valley in North Eastern Kashmir. I was doing some research on the LoC. The Brigade HQ at Davar hosted me and I messed in with the Raj Rif unit that manned several posts on the front. In those days shelling was a regular affair and the whole area was pretty tense. It was hard being a soldier. Pakistani snipers often got the unlucky guy who stepped out of his bunker for a pee and in winter corpses had to be choppered out whenever a chopper could land. Until then the men lived with the corpse of the man who had recently been friend and compatriot.
One day I decided to walk over to a border village to interview civilians. The colonel insisted on sending a JCO with an AK47 as my guide and protector despite my protests. At first I resented his presence. It compromised my neutrality. But then as we began chatting, desultorily at first, I found myself drawn to a most extraordinary man. We sat down on some rocks in the bright sunshine, the blue Kishanganga flowing swiftly past us.
He was very proud of serving in the Rajputana Rifles. Yes, he missed home. Sometimes it was hard on the LoC, but it was better, more honest soldiering than being in the Valley. Why? There it's confusing. You sometimes end up killing people who are supposed to be Indian. And here, the Pakistanis, you said you lost some of your men...you must hate them? Hate? No, I don't hate them. They are sons of poor farmers like me. They are doing their duty, like me. No. I don't hate them.