Deadly Operation

The sun had barely risen above the horizon when the regiment prepared to move out for an operation. The air was heavy with anticipation, the kind of electric tension that always accompanied missions like these. Soldiers moved briskly, checking their weapons and gear, their faces serious yet calm, as though they had made peace with whatever lay ahead.

Amid this hustle, Gurpreet Singh, a soldier from a small village near Ludhiana, appeared at my office. His tall frame and earnest eyes betrayed a mix of determination and worry. He saluted and said, "Sir, I need your help."

I gestured for him to come in, sensing something urgent in his tone. "What’s the matter, Gurpreet?"

He pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket and handed it to me. "Sir, this is a letter from my wife. She wrote that I must come home soon, or we might lose our land. A relative is trying to capture it, and without me there, my family can’t fight this battle alone. I’ve applied for leave, but it hasn’t been sanctioned yet."

I read the letter, the desperation in his wife’s words piercing through the paper. The situation was serious. For a farmer, land is not just property; it’s pride, legacy, and livelihood. I looked up at him. His eyes were pleading, but there was no fear in them—only the quiet resolve of a man torn between duty and responsibility.

"Are you scared here, Gurpreet?" I asked softly, already knowing the answer.

He shook his head firmly. "No, sir. This isn’t about fear. It’s about my family, my land. I can’t let them down."

I nodded, understanding the weight of his predicament. "Alright," I said, handing back the letter. "Keep this safe and come back to see me in the evening. I’ll figure something out."

A flicker of hope crossed his face as he saluted and left for the operation. I sat back in my chair, the letter still lingering in my mind. It wasn’t just ink on paper; it was a cry for help, and I resolved to do whatever I could to help Gurpreet.

My day was busy with clerical work, but I found time to draft an application for Gurpreet, ensuring it was ready to be forwarded if his leave wasn’t sanctioned. As evening approached, I waited for the operation team to return, but they were delayed. Dinner came and went, and just as we were preparing to rest, the sharp sound of a warning whistle shattered the quiet.

We rushed to fall in, where the commanding officer informed us that the operation party was engaged in a major encounter. Crossfire was ongoing, and backup was needed immediately. For the first time since our deployment in Jammu & Kashmir, we faced a significant engagement, and I was assigned to the supporting team as a clerk.

By 11:15 p.m., we were on the move. Six of us were crammed into an ambulance, with the doctor sitting up front. The night was long and tense, the road winding through dense forests and rugged terrain. The only sounds were the hum of engines and the occasional static crackle of the radio. Sleep was impossible; the weight of the unknown pressed heavily on us.

We reached the encounter site at dawn, a Forest Bungalow nestled in a clearing. The first light of day revealed a chaotic scene—bullet-riddled walls, shattered glass, and the haunting quiet that follows a night of violence. Our adjutant and the doctor moved ahead on foot to assess the situation. After fifteen agonizing minutes, they signaled for the vehicles to proceed.

As we approached, the full extent of the carnage became visible. Seven terrorists lay dead, their bodies sprawled across the ground, grotesquely contorted. The Forest Bungalow, which they had taken over, bore the scars of a fierce battle. Inside, the family of the Forest Officer—three young girls and their mother—had been held captive. They were alive but deeply traumatized. The girls’ fair skin was marred with bite marks, a horrifying testament to the cruelty they had endured.

But the cost of victory was steep. Three of our soldiers had fallen, their lifeless bodies laid side by side in an ambulance. Among them was our newly posted 2IC, critically injured with a bullet lodged in his spine. He was immediately evacuated to the Military Hospital in Srinagar.

When I approached the bodies of the fallen soldiers, my heart sank. Gurpreet Singh lay among them, his face pale but peaceful, as if he had found solace in his final moments. My knees felt weak, and I had to steady myself against the side of the ambulance. The morning conversation with him replayed in my mind, his hopeful eyes, the letter from his wife, his faith in me to help him. It was too much to bear.

With the adjutant’s permission, I reached into Gurpreet’s shirt pocket and retrieved the letter. My hands trembled as I held it, the weight of its words now unbearable. I recounted the entire story to the adjutant, my voice thick with emotion.

He listened quietly, his expression grave. When I finished, he placed a hand on my shoulder and said softly, "Life is like that, my boy. It’s unfair, cruel even. But we have to carry on."

The words offered little comfort, but they were true. As soldiers, we were trained to face death, but nothing prepares you for the loss of a comrade, especially one with whom you shared a moment of connection.

We spent the rest of the day securing the area and documenting the operation. The Forest Officer’s family was evacuated, and the terrorists’ bodies were removed for identification. By evening, we began our journey back to the camp, the weight of the day heavy on our shoulders.

Back at the camp, I sat alone in my office, the letter clutched tightly in my hand. Gurpreet’s dream of returning home to protect his family had ended here, far from the fields of Ludhiana. I thought of his wife, who would soon receive the devastating news, and the land they had fought so hard to keep.

I resolved to ensure that his application, along with the letter, would be forwarded to the record office. It was a small gesture, but it felt like the least I could do to honor his memory.

Even now, years later, I remember Gurpreet Singh vividly. His story, his sacrifice, and his unwavering dedication to both his duty and his family remain etched in my heart. Every time I think of him, I am reminded of the fragility of life and the strength it takes to endure its trials. And though he is no longer with us, his spirit lives on in the courage and camaraderie of every soldier who walks the same path.