Patiala, Adampur, Khalra… a police officer’s diary

ON September 5, 1965, when the war broke out between India and Pakistan, I was posted as the Assistant Superintendent of Police at Patiala. Ensuring the smooth movement of troops and supplies, particularly on NH I, instilling confidence and a sense of security among the civilian population, rendering assistance in digging up trenches, observance of air raid precautions and enforcement of blackouts, to name a few, were the main tasks and challenges before the district police. 

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The nights were a nightmare amidst rumours of Pakistani para-drops. The improvised Police Control Room functioning with a single-line telephone could hardly cope. At night, the main burden fell on the district SP. He asked me to attend to the telephone calls at his residence during night. Every time there was an air raid warning, I would move to a trench dug up in the backyard of the SP's residence along with his family. Finally, this to-and-fro drill between attending to telephone alarms and jumping into the trench throughout the night began to take its toll. The following morning, I would get up bleary-eyed to share a cup of tea with the SP and his wife.

On September 8, I took over on promotion as the Additional Superintendent of Police at Jalandhar against a newly-created post. An hour after joining, I was assigned to devise and supervise the security cover in the periphery of the Adampur Air Force Station and liaise with the Air Force authorities. I camped at the Canal Rest House at Adampur with a minimal supporting staff. I set before myself two priorities: One, to verify the antecedents of civilians having access to the Air Force station to provide ancillary services and two, to galvanise village defence committees for information on suspicious elements and to introduce ‘thikri pehra’ (night vigil patrols). The police station staff were instructed to train village defence committees in elementary civil defence measures.

At my camp office, I got a call from the Adampur Station Commander that a B-52 bomber of the Pakistan Air Force had been shot down and its crew had ejected. A massive search was launched immediately in the vicinity of Adampur. The first 24 hours drew a blank. We then intensified the search and sight operations with the help of tractors grazing through sugarcane fields. Eventually, a village defence team assisted by a lone constable spotted two thirsty and fagged-out uniformed personnel raising their hands. They were the pilot and navigator of the B-52 bomber.

They were brought to the Kartarpur police station and I instructed the SHO to treat them well. Their immediate request was for water and later food to satiate their starvation for 36 hours. By the time I reached the police station, I was instructed by the district SP to bring the duo to the Jalandhar Cantonment police station. The two introduced themselves as Flight Lieutenant Rehman and Flying Officer Chowdhry. They surrendered their weapons. One of them was carrying a miniature copy of the Holy Koran tied to his wrist. He requested me to accord to it the same respect as to our religious scriptures. I wrapped the Holy Koran in a velvet cover and placed it on the highest pedestal in the police station and ensured that they were served a wholesome non-vegetarian dinner. 

Immediately after taking the duo into custody, the Adampur Air Force Station was informed. They in turn awaited instructions from the headquarters at Delhi. The next day, an Air Force team arrived and took the duo to Delhi. Later, I was pleased to learn that the officers were repatriated to Pakistan. This speaks volumes of India's humanitarian approach, which was reinforced when India repatriated over 90,000 Prisoners of War in the wake of the Bangladesh war in 1971.

Now that the war hysteria had calmed, I felt it prudent to settle down. I got married in December to my lady love and on return from a holiday, I was given the command of a Punjab Armed Police battalion at Jalandhar. Mr Ashwani Kumar, the then evergreen bachelor hero of Punjab Police heading the PAP, ordered me to move my battalion to Khalra on the Indo-Pak border to bridge the gap on the Amritsar frontier.

With borrowed stilts from PAP battalions stationed at Amritsar and Khem Karan, I moved with my agile and supporting wife (the daughter of an Army officer) to my camp office-cum-residence in the deserted Canal Rest House at Khalra, within earshot of the Indo-Pak border, in the midst of an uneasy calm.

The border tracks of both countries ran parallel to each other. Being a good rider with the PAP horses to give me company, I would ride up to the demarcated common border crossing, which was about half a kilometre from the Canal Rest House. I drilled my wife to get in and out of a trench dug out in the Rest House since sporadic firing was often heard across the border.

I vividly recall the evening that the DIG, PAP, landed up at my makeshift residence unannounced. He asked me to take him to the border out-post called ‘Pul Kanjari’. 

Keeping in view the hostile posturing on the border, I felt that it would be risky to expose the DIG to travel along the border track at night and advised him against it. However, since the DIG was in high spirits after a few drinks with the local Army formation Commander, he insisted that I drive him to the border out-post where we reached past 9 pm. Hats off to the men who served us steaming hot tea and pakoras. 

The return to Khalra took another two hours and we reached the Rest House well past midnight. I requested the DIG to stay overnight and return to Jalandhar the next morning, but he would hear nothing of it. He asked me to call the wireless Inspector. A bleary-eyed Inspector was soon taking down a message he was directed to flash: “DIG Puran Singh Sandhu leaving Khalra and arriving at Jalandhar around 5 am. Keep bed and breakfast ready. Message ends.” 

The writer is former DGP (Vigilance), Punjab