The Brave: Param Vir Chakra Stories Read online

  The advance along the railway line was also subjected to heavy fire. Major Tara, the right forward company commander, did not think twice before rushing to the enemy MMG and, flinging a Molotov cocktail and grenade at the bunker, pulled the gun out. This daring action brought him a Vir Chakra.

  The PVC given to Ekka was even more special for all concerned with the action because it was the first to come to Bihar and also the first won by the brigade of the Guards. It was the only PVC awarded in the Eastern Theatre as well.

  Lance Naik Albert Ekka was the son of Julius and Mariam Ekka. Born and brought up in a village in Bihar, he came from an adivasi tribe in Ranchi and was a devout Christian. From the time when he was a little boy Albert was fond of hunting and like all adivasis was an expert at tracking and hunting animals, often using his bow and arrow. He was also good at games. His love for adventure and his hunting skills made him an excellent soldier. When Albert grew up he was very keen to join the Army since it appealed to his sense of adventure and action.

  Nirmal Jit Singh Sekhon

  Srinagar

  14 December 1971

  It is another freezing morning at the Srinagar air force base. And who would know the bone-chilling cold better than the 26-year- old, tall and lanky Flying Officer Nirmal Jit Singh Sekhon, with the crisp upturned moustache, and Flight Lieutenant Baldhir Singh Ghuman, both of whom have got there at 4. 30 a. m. in a bus with most of its windowpanes missing. The 45-minute ride from Badami Bagh officers’ mess, where they live in dingy, dimly lit rooms, to the airbase has made their teeth chatter and nearly frozen their joints but for the pilots of 18 Squadron (Flying Bullets), this is routine. Those on morning shift have to get to the base and be battle ready at least half-hour before daylight. Pilots on two-minute standby have to remain strapped to their seats in the cockpit of their parked planes but since it is extremely cold, they are relieved after every three hours.

  The two young officers are sitting in the small, cramped aircrew room, 30 m from where their Gnats are parked in the open, though neatly camouflaged, pens. Since it has been a particularly foggy morning with very low flight visibility, they have been taken off the two-minute standby, but are still on air defence alert and a five-minute standby, which means they should be able to get airborne in five minutes.

  Both are from the 18 Squadron, which has been stationed at Ambala but is now more at Srinagar since March 1971 after tensions have escalated between India and Pakistan. Until now, the Indian Air Force has been following UN restrictions of no combat aircraft in Jammu and Kashmir. Neither Sekhon nor Ghuman are new to Kashmir’s terrain and weather and both are fully confident since they have complete faith in the Gnats they fly. The tiny planes have been termed Sabre Slayers after their phenomenal performance in the ‘65 war when they held their own against the larger Pakistani Sabre jets, shooting down as many as seven of them.

  Suddenly, an alarm is sounded from Awantipur Airbase. Pakistani Sabre jets are headed towards Srinagar. Since the base does not have air defence radar and visibility is also low, it is very difficult to spot enemy planes till they are very close. A chain of observation posts has been set up along the hill crest in the west where a soldier from the local regiment is put on duty. He has a battery-operated radio set and his task is to report immediately if he spots enemy aircraft in the air.

  The two fighter pilots are told to be on Standby 2. They run out of the aircrew room and make a dash for the pens where their faithful Gnats are standing. Clipping on his helmet, Sekhon, called Brother by his friends, climbs into his Gnat. Ghuman, popularly called G’Man, makes a dash for his own plane. Both are in high spirits. It is every pilot’s desire to get a slice of action and it looks like the dream is about to come true for the two of them today.

  Earlier that day, in Pakistan

  A formation of four plus two F 86 Sabres of Pakistan Air Force’s 26 Squadron (Black Spiders) takes off from Peshawar air force base and heads towards Kashmir. Their orders are to dive into the Kashmir Valley, bomb Srinagar, turn and get back to Pakistan. Each is carrying two 500-pound bombs and is ready for attack. All six Sabres also carry external 760 litre fuel tanks to stretch their endurance. While four of them are on the bombing mission, the other two are escorting them to facilitate the attack. Both have six fully loaded M3 Browning machine guns.

  The 14 December strafing of Srinagar airbase was not the first time that the beautiful city had been bombed by Pakistan air force planes. In the 1971 War, the Srinagar airfield was subjected to 14 such daylight attacks. According to Air Commodore (retd) Ramesh V. Phadke, who was Sekhon’s course mate and also posted in Srinagar in the same squadron during the war, the reason for this was not just the easy access Pakistan had to the Valley, but also the fact that they had stationed an intelligence agent in Srinagar, who would warn them if the deadly Gnats were in the air. On more than two occasions, the enemy planes had retreated from the Pir Panjal Pass because they had received information that the dreaded Sabre Slayers were in the air, he says.

  On this morning, the Sabres cross Pakistan and enter India by flying over the Pir Panjal range at 10, 000 feet. They are spotted when they cross Awantipur air force base, and an alarm is immediately raised. At the Srinagar Airbase, Sekhon and Ghuman have started their Gnats. The airbase has a 3, 500-yard runway, a parallel taxi track and a few airplane shelters made of concrete, called blast pens, right at the end of the runway where four Gnats are usually stationed at a time. The two fighter pilots are impatiently waiting for clearance from the air traffic control, which is a dug-out on the eastern side of the runway. The din of the approaching planes is getting closer every moment and now reverberating in their ears. Ghuman decides not to wait any more and takes off. By then the Sabres are overhead and two of them have dropped lower and are strafing the airstrip.

  Ignoring the risk to his own life, Sekhon, who has been waiting for the runway to clear, lifts offin another 20 seconds. Even as the two Sabres drop their bombs on the air strip, his Gnat lifts gracefully into the air. Beneath him the air strip is covered with smoking potholes. Above him, somewhere in the fog, is Ghuman. Ideally, the scramble or the order for takeoffshould have been cancelled since the enemy aircraft were overhead and had already begun bombing the runway, but this does not concern Sekhon, who smiles to himself and pulls the joystick. He doesn’t know then that this is the last time he and Ghuman will fly together.

  Once in the air, Sekhon immediately lines up behind the two Sabres that are regrouping after their bomb run and starts chasing them. Ghuman is lost in the fog. They have lost each other and will not reconnect. Ghuman will land back on the bombed airstrip, half an hour after the air battle is over. After a fierce and daring fight at treetop height, the completely outnumbered Sekhon would have crashed in the valley by then, his parachute only half deployed.

  The moment the Sabres realize they are being chased by the tiny though lethal Gnat, they take a sharp left turn. High on adrenaline, Sekhon turns with them and fearlessly follows. His voice crackles over the radio set: ‘I am behind two Sabres. I wont let the bastards get away.’ Meanwhile, Sabre nos 3 and 4 have also dropped their bombs and are pulling up. While Sabre no. 3 spots the dogfight and joins up with the two Sabres Sekhon is chasing, Sabre no. 4, possibly waylaid by the fog, turns back towards Pakistan. Sekhon positions himself behind Sabre no. 2 and opens fire with his 30-mm gun. The familiar gunfire is heard at the airbase. A plume of fire and smoke is seen rising from the Sabre. Flight Lieutenants Bopaya and Naliyan of18 Squadron later verify seeing a Sabre with its right wing on fire. Pakistan denies any hit.

  Sekhon revs up his engines and now decides to go after Sabre no. 1. Sabre no. 3 has, however, closed the gap and Sekhon is sandwiched between the two large planes with the one behind shooting at him. The three get locked in a fierce dogfight. ‘I’m in a circle of joy, but with two Sabres. I am getting behind one, but the other is getting an edge on me,’ Sekhon’s voice is heard on the radio.

  None of the action is visible t
o onlookers from the airfield. The Sabre behind Sekhon continuously spews out a stream of 0.5” bullets, but he dodges them efficiently and continues to trail the Sabre in front. The third Sabre shoots his gun empty and fails to get a hit. The Pakistanis are shocked when the pilot’s voice crackles on the radio: ‘Three is Winchester,’ meaning he has finished 1, 800 rounds and his guns cannot fire any more.

  Ammunition finished, Sekhon drops out of the fight and is now free of its threat. He uses this moment of temporary relief to straighten and drop his external fuel tanks so that he is much lighter and more agile. He goes after Sabre no. 1 with renewed enthusiasm. Nimbler than before, he starts making even tighter turns. The Sabre tries its best to lose the Gnat on its tail, but Sekhon closes in and after he gets the Sabre in his shooting range, starts firing at it with his 30-mm cannon. The Sabre gives up and makes an SOS call for help.

  Sekhon is completely unaware that the formation of attacking Sabres actually has six and not four planes and that the two escorts are watching the fight from a distance, astonished by the dexterity with which the Gnat is turning and holding the big Sabre prisoner. On hearing the SOS call they dive down. Gaining a speed advantage from its dive, one of the Sabres closes in on Sekhon. Sekhon spots the two newcomers and realizes he is outnumbered. The rear Sabre fixes the Gnat with his machine gun and makes a continuous attack. The Gnat gets the bullets.

  I think I have been hit, G’Man come and get them, ‘is Sekhon’s last message. Trailing smoke and fire, the tiny Gnat tries to steady itself, but continues to lose height and snaps over backwards. It nosedives and corkscrews into a gorge near Badgam. Sekhon tries to save himself by ejecting but he is too low and his parachute does not deploy properly. He crashes. Ghuman lands on the badly bombed runway half an hour later.

  When the crashed Gnat is finally found, it has 37 bullet holes around the rear fuselage, tail plane and fin. It has however singlehandedly sabotaged the attack by six Sabres, which is a remarkable achievement.

  For his exemplary courage and heroism in the Indo-Pakistan War of 1971, Flying Officer Sekhon is posthumously awarded the Param Vir Chakra. He remains the only Air Force personnel to be awarded the country’s highest gallantry award.

  Nirmal Jit Singh Sekhon was born in RurkaIsewal village of Ludhiana, Punjab, on 17 July 1945. He was the son of Warrant Officer Trilok Singh Sekhon, which made him a second-generation officer of the Indian Air Force.

  Sekhon was commissioned into the Air Force on 4 June He was from the 97 GD (P) Pilots’ Course and was posted to No. 18 Squadron (Flying Bullets) in October He was a brave though unassuming man with a lot of experience in flying Gnats. More than six feet tall, Sekhon was lanky with an awkward gait and people sometimes wondered how he could fit into the cockpit of the tiny Gnat. He was a simple man from a rustic background and was affectionately called ‘Brother’ by his course mates and friends because of his habit of starting all conversations with the word ‘Brother’, a literal translation of the word ‘bhai’ that he probably used in his village.

  He was twenty-six years old when he died and had been married for just a few months, most of which he had spent on duty in Srinagar. He was awarded the Param Vir Chakra for his heroic action during the bombing of Srinagar airbase by Pakistan. The young and fragile Mrs Sekhon, draped in a white shawl, receiving the PVC from President V. V. Giri, is a poignant image immortalized in the records of the Indian Air Force. Mrs Sekhon later remarried.

  Freelance researcher Air Cmde (Retd) Ramesh V Phadke, who was Nirmal Jit Singh Sekhon’s course mate, has helped recreate the atmosphere of the Srinagar airfield by sharing his memories and research for the under-publication book, Air Power and National Security.

  Arun Khetarpal

  Battle Of Basantar, Shakargarh Sector

  16 December 1971

  Seated inside the cramped Famagusta, his Centurion battle tank named after a port in Cyprus, 2nd Lieutenant Arun Khetarpal is watching with narrowed eyes the enemy tanks before him. Most of them are wrecked and burning, the flames filling the sky with billowing grey smoke. He is trying to judge the trajectory of the shot his gunner has just fired. He will know if it has hit home because the moment a tank is hit the Pakistanis raise their gun and run out. Their religion forbids them a death by burning.

  A vein is throbbing madly in Khetarpal’s neck. If he manages to get this one, his tally will be five. He knows his tank is already on fire and exposed. He has switched off the radio set because he is being asked to pull back. His gun is still firing and he wants to get the bastards. He knows changing his position will give the enemy an opening. He will not let that happen.

  There is a deadly whistling sound as a shell shoots in through the cupola of Khetarpal’s tank. In that split second, he doesn’t realize it has ripped his stomach—he is surprised when the confined interior of the tank fills with the acrid stench ofburning flesh. Then it moves further, smashing into his thigh. It shatters the bone and bends it at an angle that traps it under the seat of his tank.

  Bleeding profusely, all he can whisper hoarsely to his gunner Sawar Nathu Singh, who is imploring him to climb out of the tank, is: ‘I wont be able to do it.’ With that, Khetarpal collapses, guts spilling out of the bloody wound in his abdomen. It is around 10. 15 a. m. The date: 16 December 1971. Khetarpal, breathing his last, is 21.

  October 2013

  Shortly after a U-turn from Ghitorni metro station is a small Indian Oil petrol pump with a narrow path on the left marked ‘Forest Lane’. Follow that and you come to a massive iron gate with a nameplate saying ‘Khetarpals’. Inside is a beautiful old farmhouse, quietly getting soaked in Delhi’s retreating monsoon shower. There I find one of the most celebrated Param Vir Chakra awardees 2nd Lt Arun Khetarpal’s 87-year- old mother. Scampering around her is a young golden retriever wagging her tail and pushing her wet nose into my palm before settling down to chew on a rubber bone. The lady on the wheelchair has very short white hair, withered, old hands and tired eyes that look at me wearily. She is trying to piece together fading memories of the son she lost 42 years ago.

  Neither Mrs Khetarpal nor I want to revisit today the bloody battlefield of Basantar from where Arun never returned one cold December day. We’d rather talk about what he was like as a little boy. Was he quiet or outspoken, gentle or boisterous? Did he plead to sleep with his parents when the lights were turned off in his bedroom? Did he catch tadpoles in stagnant pools of rainwater or did he chase butterflies in the garden? Did he part his hair on the right or left? Did he pull his shoes off without untying their laces?

  I want to know these little things about the hero I don’t know. About those times when he would faithfully follow the soldiers working in his Army officer father’s house and listen wide-eyed to their war stories. When he would insist on eating in the langar with them and then come back and tell his father that one day he would join the Army too. I want to know about the times he would coax his grandfather, his head on the old man’s lap and little fingers entwined in dry, calloused ones, to tell stories of the Partition.

  Maheshwari Khetarpal wants to tell me all this. For close to an hour she tries. She lets his name roll lovingly on her tongue, she tries to put her thoughts together, to string them into coherent words. But all that she can come up with are long meandering sentences that don’t say much. The truth is that memory has failed her. Eventually, she gives up. Arun hamara beta tha. Par ab hamein kuchh yaad nahin.’ (Arun was our son. But I remember nothing now. ) Her voice is tinged with helpless frustration. Behind her, his hands on his waist, is a black and white photograph of the young and good looking 2nd Lt Arun Khetarpal. He smiles at the two of us from his mother’s bedroom wall.

  I switch off my Dictaphone and begin to tell her about the son she cannot remember—the eight-year-old boy from St. Columba’s School, Delhi, who carried his younger brother’s schoolbag on his back, held his hand and walked two and a half miles home from Gole Dak Khana to Sangli Mess when the car didn’t come to pick them up one af
ternoon. I tell her how brave he was, not letting his little brother sense his fear even for a moment, and bursting into tears only when he was safely home in his mother’s arms. I tell her about that afternoon in Shillong when he came back from school without his cardigan. He had given it away to a poor child and lied that it was lost. He was six then. I tell her about the day he got his first salary and how he sent some of it to his grandfather with the message: ‘Dadaji, please accept my humble offering.’ I tell her about the time he returned from the Lawrence School, Sanawar, and was thrilled to be mistaken for an Army officer at a party since he was so confident and dignified. I tell her about the teenager who joined the National Defence Academy, excelled at swimming and played ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on his clarinet at parties in cosy sitting rooms and translate for her the Robert Burns poem; she listens as if for the first time.

  Mostly the old lady with very white hair cut really short sits on her wheelchair and continues to sip the tea that has grown cold in her hand. She slowly scoops spoonfuls of namkeen into her mouth with shaky fingers. I steady the cup and saucer on her lap each time it tilts, fearing the tea will spill on to her cotton nightdress.

  I have just one more question for her. Did she send her elder son, then only 21, to war with the words: ‘Your grandfather was a brave soldier, so was your father. Fight like a lion and don’t come back a coward.’?

  She is using all her willpower to raise the cup to her lips without spilling the tea. She lets it stay in midair, and looks at me.