Gorkha Regt Soldier

The mountains stood in eerie silence, their jagged peaks piercing the sky like ancient sentinels. The cold wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant gunpowder. Our Quick Reaction Team (QRT) had received intelligence about three terrorists hiding in a far-flung village from our Tral camp. This was no ordinary mission. The enemy was reportedly equipped with a rocket launcher, a rarity among the militants we usually encountered. There was tension in the air, but also a grim determination.

As we moved in formation, our boots sinking into the moist forest floor, the sun had already begun its descent behind the mountains. The golden light cast long shadows, painting a hauntingly beautiful picture of the impending battle. Every step was taken with caution, every rustle of leaves scrutinized for danger. We had been trained for this—for the silent hunt, the deadly precision, and the chaos that was bound to follow.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion shattered the stillness. A rocket screeched through the air, missing us by a significant distance and striking the rocks far below. The blast echoed like thunder in the valley. The terrorists had fired first, but their lack of precision told us something vital—they were not as well-trained as they wanted us to believe.

Our team took their positions swiftly, identifying the source of the attack. The terrorists were positioned at a lower altitude from where we stood, a tactical disadvantage they seemed oblivious to. Our QRT in-charge, a battle-hardened officer, assessed the situation with the calm of a seasoned warrior. His voice was firm, unwavering.

"Now we will get them down!"

The order was clear, and the execution was immediate. The man handling the rocket launcher was spotted on the roof of a house, his head barely visible over the parapet. Without hesitation, our Light Machine Gun (LMG) operator took aim, his finger steady on the trigger. A controlled burst of gunfire cut through the air. The terrorist’s body jerked violently before he slumped forward, lifeless.

The rest of the team descended the mountainside with the stealth of panthers, using the thick vegetation as cover. We knew the other two terrorists were still inside, hiding like rats in a burrow. The village at the foot of the mountain was eerily silent, its mud houses standing as silent witnesses to the conflict.

As we reached flat ground, our eyes scanned the area carefully. A handful of houses stood clustered together, their wooden doors closed tight, their windows barely revealing the fear-stricken faces within. One of the villagers, an elderly man with sunken cheeks, dared to peek through his window. Our officer caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

The old man hesitated, then slowly raised his hand, pointing toward the house next door. His fingers trembled slightly, whether from fear or cold, we couldn’t tell.

Our officer signaled for absolute silence. We waited. The minutes stretched endlessly, each second a battle against impatience and the rush of adrenaline. Our fingers hovered over triggers, eyes locked on the door that stood between us and our prey.

Twenty-five minutes passed. Then, the wooden door creaked open.

Two figures emerged cautiously, their heads darting left and right like nervous animals surveying their surroundings. Finding no immediate threat, they stepped out, walking toward the left side of the alley.

Four of our soldiers were hidden in the darkness there, their rifles trained on the terrorists. Our team had clear orders—to capture at least one alive. The moment the terrorists came into range, the ambush was executed with textbook precision. A single shot took down one of them, his body collapsing with a dull thud onto the dirt path.

The remaining terrorist bolted forward with surprising agility, his AK-56 slung over his shoulder. He ran while firing blindly behind him, the bullets tearing through the air without aim or purpose. It would have been easy—too easy—to shoot him down. But orders were orders.

Then, in an act of reckless heroism, one of our own broke formation.

Som Bahadur Thapa, a fierce soldier from the Gorkha Rifles, launched himself into pursuit. The officer’s voice rang out in warning.

"Thapa, stop!"

But Thapa ignored the command. His legs pumped furiously, his breath coming in short bursts. The weight of his Self-Loading Rifle (SLR) was slowing him down. Without hesitation, he let go of the rifle mid-run, tossing it aside in favor of raw speed.

The terrorist, realizing he was being chased, increased his pace, weaving through the narrow alleys in desperation. But Thapa was relentless. His boots barely seemed to touch the ground as he closed the distance between them.

And then, in an act so audacious it belonged in a movie, Thapa leaped.

It was a sight that none of us would ever forget. He sprang forward like a frog, his body soaring through the air before colliding with the terrorist’s legs. The impact sent them both crashing to the ground, a cloud of dust rising around them.

The terrorist struggled, kicking and clawing, his hands reaching for his rifle. But Thapa was quicker. He twisted the terrorist’s arm behind his back, forcing him onto his stomach. In a swift motion, he snatched the man’s own turban from his head and used it to bind his wrists.

By the time we reached the scene, Thapa was sitting triumphantly atop the subdued terrorist, a wide grin splitting his dirt-streaked face.

Our officer, who had been furious moments ago, now stood shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

"You madman," he muttered before breaking into a chuckle. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"

Thapa simply shrugged. "But I didn't, sir. And we have him alive."

The terrorist lay beneath him, breathing heavily, his eyes filled with a mix of hatred and fear. He knew his fate was sealed.

As we secured the prisoner and regrouped, the significance of what had just happened settled in. The terrorists were not the fearless warriors they pretended to be. They relied on ambush tactics, on fear, on deception. But when faced with real combat, their courage crumbled like sandcastles before the tide.

We had won. Not just because of our weapons, but because of our training, our discipline, and the sheer audacity of a soldier who refused to let his prey escape.

That night, as we returned to camp, our victory felt like more than just another mission accomplished. It was a reminder that courage was not just about facing the enemy with a rifle in hand. Sometimes, courage was chasing a terrorist down with nothing but bare hands and the will to see the fight through to the end.