War is not just about guns, explosions, and enemy lines. It is an ever-present fog that shrouds a soldier’s life, a mist of uncertainty, fear, and moments that test the very fabric of human endurance. In the labyrinth of war, where death and survival often walk hand in hand, there exist stories—some written in blood, some etched in memory, and some too painful to be spoken aloud. The battlefield is not just a place of strategy and combat; it is a theater where every soldier plays a role that demands more than just physical strength. It demands an iron will, an unyielding spirit, and, at times, the acceptance of fate’s cruel hand.
As I sit back and reflect on my years in the service, the faces of those who walked with me through the fog of war come rushing back—some laughing, some screaming, some frozen in time. Every incident, every operation, and every moment of triumph or loss has shaped me in ways beyond comprehension. These stories are not just about war; they are about the humanity that exists within it—the moments of camaraderie, the depths of sacrifice, and the echoes of voices that never left me, even long after I stepped away from the battlefield.
The Steel Cup and the Unforgettable Bet
There are moments that seem insignificant to the world but become legendary in the lives of those who lived them. One such memory is tied to my steel cup—small in appearance but capable of holding far more than expected, much like a soldier’s endurance. When my dear friend Darshan Darvesh visited me during my posting at Army Headquarters in Delhi, I took him to our camp after duty. It was a Saturday evening, the time for our routine two pegs of rum.
Darshan, curious about army life, insisted on witnessing the distribution. I stood in line, and when my turn came, I made an unusual request—five pegs instead of two. The distributor laughed at my demand, but I placed my steel cup before him. "Try once," I challenged. Darshan, too, chuckled, shaking his head.
A wager was set. If the cup held all five pegs, I would win; if not, I would pay double. One by one, the pegs were poured in, and each time, the distributor peered inside with disbelief. When the fifth peg disappeared into the cup without spilling over, laughter erupted. The soldiers cheered, and Darshan could do nothing but shake his head, smiling at my triumph.
It was a simple bet, yet it remained with Darshan until his last days. He narrated the incident on many occasions, and I, too, never forgot the evening when a steel cup became a legend.
The Tral Trap and the Unseen Enemy
Not all memories are filled with laughter. Some are laden with the weight of close encounters with death. In Tral, where we were stationed, the enemy lurked not just in the shadows but often in plain sight.
One afternoon, around a hundred people from the town stormed towards us, shouting, "Aadhi roti khayenge, Pakistan jayenge!" The scene was unsettling—not because of the protest, but because women led the march, with men hidden behind them. It was a well-orchestrated deception, meant to exploit the soldiers’ hesitation to attack women.
Our officers warned us to stand by, recognizing the possibility of a hidden threat. We did not retaliate, and after half an hour, the crowd dispersed without incident.
Two days later, the real plan was revealed when a grenade attack was launched on our vehicles. A one-ton truck was hit, but our soldiers managed to escape with minor injuries. Enraged, the men stormed into the streets, searching for the culprits. It was then that one of our soldiers identified the woman who had led the previous protest. She was dragged before the officer and interrogated.
Trembling, she revealed the truth—her family was under threat, and the protest had been staged under duress. The terrorists had been among the male group, blending seamlessly into the crowd. It was a revelation that reinforced the lesson we had learned time and again—war is not just fought with weapons; it is fought with deception, manipulation, and the ever-present fog of uncertainty.
The Crack Team’s Victory and the Miraculous Bullet
In another operation, our crack team was combing through a sensitive area, hunting down terrorists reported to be hiding in the region. As we neared a village, we were once again met with a familiar sight—women at the front, men behind, all shouting slogans.
Before we could react, a woman lunged at one of our guards, attempting to snatch his AK-47. In the struggle, a burst of bullets was fired, striking a man in the crowd. The woman fled, but her wrist was still in the soldier’s grasp. She was trembling as she revealed that the dead man was a terrorist.
Instead of confirming the kill ourselves, the officer ordered her to check. As she cautiously approached, the “dead” terrorist sprang to life and shot her in panic, mistaking her for one of us. In that split second, our officer gunned him down.
The villagers later disclosed that the woman had been his lover, and he had been hiding in her house for months. The bullet that found him amid the chaos was nothing short of miraculous—destiny’s way of delivering justice in the battlefield’s haze.
The Sandstorm and the Lost Soldiers
Sometimes, the enemy is not human. Sometimes, it is nature itself. During a war exercise in Rajasthan’s unforgiving deserts, a sudden sandstorm swallowed our camp in blinding fury.
A group of soldiers returning from the mess lost their way. In the desert, even a single misstep can turn into an irreversible detour. Unable to see beyond a few feet, they wandered aimlessly, inching closer to the international border without realizing it.
With no mobile phones in those days and no way to establish contact, they were at the mercy of fate. The rest of the crew, sensing something was wrong, used every possible means to locate them. After desperate attempts—shouting their names, flashing torches—the beam of a powerful searchlight finally pierced through the storm, guiding them home.
It was a reminder that, in war, survival does not always come from the barrel of a gun. Sometimes, it comes from sheer luck and the unwavering determination of one’s comrades.
The Engineer's Tragic End
Not all stories end in victory. Some leave behind scars too deep to heal.
One day, men from a nearby village approached our camp with grim news—a soldier’s body had been found in a ditch. When we arrived, we saw the horrifying truth.
The soldier, a Sikh from the engineering regiment, had been tortured before his death. His turban lay beside him, his uniform bore the insignia of his regiment, and his body was mutilated beyond belief. Two English letters—HM, for Hizbul Mujahideen—had been carved into his chest with nails. His penis had been severed.
We later learned that he had attempted to flee, having been denied leave. He had planned to change into civilian clothes along the way, but in his uniform, he had fallen into the hands of the terrorists.
I did not sleep for many nights after that. His suffering haunted me. War is brutal, but some acts of cruelty transcend even the battlefield.
The Pursuit of the Terrorist
In an operation in Tral, our Quick Reaction Team (QRT) encountered three terrorists, one armed with a rocket launcher. Unlike the well-trained fighters we had expected, they were cowards, relying on hit-and-run tactics.
A rocket was fired at us but missed. Our officer signaled, "Now we will get them down!" The rocket launcher wielder, perched on a rooftop, was eliminated instantly.
As we advanced, a villager silently pointed toward the remaining terrorists’ hideout. We waited, patience sharpening our edge. When the door finally creaked open, two men stepped out, scanning the surroundings. It was their last mistake.
One was shot down, but the other fled, firing backward as he ran. We needed him alive, and then, in an act of sheer madness, our soldier Som Bahadur Thapa from the Gorkha Rifles sprinted after him. Dropping his rifle mid-run, he lunged, tackling the terrorist like a tiger pouncing on prey.
It was a scene straight out of a movie, but we saw it unfold in reality. The officer, initially enraged at Thapa’s recklessness, broke into laughter upon seeing him sitting triumphantly atop the bound terrorist.
The Fog Never Lifts
Each of these stories, woven together by fate, is a testament to the life of a soldier. We fight in the fog of war, never knowing what awaits us. Sometimes, it is victory. Sometimes, it is tragedy. But always, it is the unwavering spirit of the soldier that carries us forward, through every battle, every storm, and every loss.
The fog never truly lifts. But perhaps, in remembering, we find our way through it.
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