Roll of dice in the face of fire

Col HP Singh (retd)

OUR artillery had opened up in the neighbouring sector and enemy retaliation on our post was imminent. We took shelter in the bunkers prepared by drilling into the rock-solid ice at the Siberian temperatures of the Siachen Glacier. 

The earth shook when enemy fired the salvo, sending shivers down our spine. For many this was their first baptism under unfriendly fire. There was an eerie silence as we cuddled like hibernating rats inside the ice shelter, with blank stares on some faces. Fear was making inroads into the minds of greenhorns and had the potential of turning into panic. To overcome our anxiety, we tried making a conversation, only to be silenced by a louder bang — yet another near miss. Some lips could be seen quivering and some eyes were closed, possibly remembering the Creator. 

My mind wandered aimlessly, thinking of the eventualities that could manifest. It would be a herculean task to evacuate the wounded. Worse, how to extradite the mortal remains if anyone fell prey to splinters? What if all of us perished? Who would tell our tale? I thought of my parents who had no clue what I was going through. Life and death appeared to be a matter of chance. I pondered over the uselessness of bickering over small issues. The ego and conceit one had harboured all this while lost relevance. The triviality of life wasn’t hard to fathom when one realised that all could be over in a fraction of a second.  

The firing continued for a couple of hours, keeping our adrenaline levels high. When the whistling sound of shells did stop, and there were no more bangs to keep a count of, we ventured out of our ratholes to take stock of the situation. The snow had been smallpoxed by shells and there was a stale smell of gunpowder all around. As the sentries positioned their weapons on likely enemy approaches, others got down to their respective duties. The evening meal had to be prepared; ice had to be melted to make water; and communications had to be restored, as the telephone cables were snapped. Radio contact had to be established with commanders in the rear to tell them that all was well, so that helicopter pilots on standby for casualty evacuation and doctors ready for life-saving surgeries could stand down. 

While we were lucky, the neighbouring battalion wasn’t. Its commanding officer had a difficult job at hand; that of informing the next of kin of the valour their son, husband or brother had displayed. Life would soon limp back to normal, and we would prepare for yet another day with heartfelt gratitude to the Almighty. At times, I did wonder if my countrymen would ever realise what soldiers go through, what for them was a matter of routine. But then, I am curtly reminded of Lord Tennyson — Theirs not to make reply,/ Theirs not to reason why,/ Theirs but to do and die.