A schoolboy remembers the 1965 war
The school bell rang. In an orderly manner, we lined up in the corridor outside the classroom. The other classes did likewise. Then, in a file, we all walked briskly towards a copse of trees on one side of the playground. In the middle of the thicket were several trenches, about four feet-deep, neatly dug out, one after the other, within handshaking distance. Sand bags were placed around them. Each class had a trench designated to it and we all jumped in one by one and sat on the muddy ground, cheek by jowl. We were packed tighter than sardines.
But we didn't mind. In fact, we looked forward to it. It was a welcome break from the tedium of the classroom. The time was spent in laughing, chatting, squabbling, fighting. The admonitions of the teachers to stay quiet went unheeded. But anyone trying to poke his head out invited an immediate corporal response. The atmosphere was light-hearted. It was with great reluctance that we had to get out of the trenches on the sounding of the school bell half an hour later, and trudge back, shoulders drooping, to the classroom.
While mirth and gaiety informed our time in the trenches, the mood in the country was sombre. It was September, 1965 and the nation was at war with Pakistan, but we were too young to comprehend the gravity of the situation. Our outings to the trenches were part of the air raid drill which our school in Chandigarh, as indeed all schools in the border states, was carrying out diligently.
Similarly, in the city, trenches had been dug up in all colonies and mock drills were carried out. Many houses had their own trenches. An air raid siren saw people rush to the trenches only to come out when the all-clear siren sounded.
As it so happened, the drill fortunately remained only a drill and Chandigarh was spared the falling bombs.
Ambala, nearby was not so fortunate. I recall when we passed Ambala Cantonment on the way to Delhi by car after the war, my father, an airforce pilot, showed us the bombed out St Paul’s Church. The image was so tragic that it hit us right in the feels. The beautiful church, consecrated in 1857, was reduced to just a church tower. Even god seemed helpless in preventing its abode from the bomb! Today the ruins still stand, testimony to the futility of war.
These are some of the vignettes from my memory of the war in 1965. There are others too – the blackouts, for instance. At home, we taped all our glass windows crosswise with brown paper tape and then glued thick black paper on both sides of the panes. Even with this protection, we used lights as minimally as possible. The local neighbourhood watch used to be very effective in enforcing the blackout. The police also used to make frequent rounds.
Even the vehicles had to do their bit. Top half of vehicle headlights had to be painted black. During the alert, all headlights needed to be switched off. I recall my father driving from Ambala to Chandigarh on a moonless night without the headlights. It took ages, as well as driving skills, for man and machine to reach in one piece!
A few months before the war, my father returned to India from a six-month flight safety course in the US. He was posted to Chandigarh. He brought for me and my brother an assembly kit of an F–104 Starfighter, an American fighter plane. We spent many months assembling it, the super glue sticking to our hands for days without coming off. We fell in love with its sleek long shape and a very unusual small straight wing. I used to hope that India would have this wonderful plane, now placed carefully over a stand in my room, in its arsenal one day. Imagine my disappointment and horror when I learnt, during the war, that Pakistan had these jets!
And Sabres too. But these planes mattered little before the bravery of our pilots flying Gnats, Hunters, Canberras, Vampires and Mysteres whose exploits held us in thrall. Ditto for our fearless armymen. The Keelor brothers, Abdul Hamid, Ardeshir Tarapore – all became our heroes. We heard with pride how our Centurion tanks bested the enemy’s Patton tanks. A patriotic song used to play on All India Radio, composed by my uncle, which, in a typical idiomatic style exuberated – "Patton ki chatni bana di".
Fifty years later, my father–in–law AP Paracer, who retired as ADG, CPWD, narrated an incident to me. During the 1965 war, he was posted in Madhopur, which lies on the Pathankot-Jammu national highway, the only road link that Jammu and Kashmir has with the rest of the country. The town is situated in the picturesque foothills of Kangra and Dalhousie, with the river Rabi flowing close by. The Upper Bari Doab Canal starts from the Madhopur Headworks. The bridge across Rabi is strategically vital and was heavily defended with anti-aircraft guns during the war. My father-in-law's role involved maintenance and repairs of the highway. When he arrived, he was horrified to learn that all road workers had fled in fear of the war. He spent several days going from village-to-village, speaking to them, cajoling them, reminding them of their national duty, and finally succeeding in getting them back. The road works started in right earnest and helped in the smooth movement of military traffic.
There he also met his college batchmate Dalip Singh of the State Irrigation Department, who was in-charge of the headworks. It was this person who, under the instructions of the Army, worked tirelessly in blackout conditions at great risk to life and limb to release water into the canal. This lead to the flooding of Asal Uttar near Khem Karan, turning the ground into a muddy slush, immobilising the Pakistani tanks and leading to a decisive Indian victory. This battle was a key turning point in the war, and it tilted the balance of the war in favour of India. Unfortunately, his contribution remains unheralded.
Went the day well?
We died and never knew.
But, well or ill,
Freedom, we died for you.
As the nation observes the golden jubilee of the 1965 war, it would do well to remember that no amount of salary and perquisites, no amount of retirement pension and no amount of gallantry awards can ever compensate the sacrifices that our brave soldiers make during war and peacetime; who give their today for our tomorrow!