Chapter 21 - Forty Kilometers to Glory 

Some missions begin with orders. Others begin with a cry for help

            The embers of mourning from the previous chapter - where the muffled grief of families collided with the ritual silence of army courtyards - had not even cooled, when another tale of blood and belief demanded to be told. If the pages before echoed the costs of conflict, this one beats with the heart of courage. The last chapter left us with wreaths, prayers, and folded hands; this one opens not with a military communique, but with a desperate father's voice - shaking over a radio line, pleading for the safe return of his daughter. And so began a march that would become legend: forty kilometers, fourteen lives rescued, and one officer whose name would forever be carved into the rockface of sacrifice, Lt. Col. Sunil Kumar Razdan.       

            Lt. Col. (Now Major General) Sunil Kumar Razdan belonged to the elite 7th Parachute Battalion and was posted as the 2IC of 6 Rashtriya Rifles in Jammu and Kashmir. His reputation preceded him - known for his iron will, tactical brilliance, and unwavering dedication to the mission, he had already carved a name for himself in counter-insurgency operations. But what would unfold on his birthday, during the third day of his Navratri fast, would define his legacy forever.

            The call for help came in the form of a desperate father, - a man whose 14-year-old daughter, Rehana, along with thirteen other women, had been abducted by nine heavily armed Lashkar-e-Taiba militants. Their hideout was in Damal Kunzipur, a remote hamlet surrounded by treacherous mountains, an area infested with insurgents. Lt. Col. Razdan did not hesitate. Gathering a team of twenty seasoned soldiers, he embarked on a grueling fifteen-hour trek, covering nearly forty kilometers of rugged terrain, driven by an unyielding sense of duty and the desperate urgency of the situation.

            As dusk settled over the mountains, the soldiers, exhausted and famished, paused near the outskirts of Naugam. The smell of steaming khichdi filled the air as they hastily cooked a meal, their first in hours. Razdan, a Kashmiri Pandit fluent in three dialects of Kashmiri, used his linguistic skills to gather intelligence from the locals. The militants, he learned, were holed up in a dilapidated four-story house with a boundary wall, a kilometer and a half away, near a mountain spring. The clock was ticking.

            By 10:30 PM, the soldiers approached their target with surgical precision. The challenge was not just the militants inside but also the alert village dogs that could give away their approach. Thinking ahead, Razdan’s men distracted the dogs by tossing them raw meat, ensuring complete silence. The house loomed ahead, its darkened windows holding secrets of terror within. The team split into two groups, six men would infiltrate the house while the rest formed a tight perimeter around it.

            In the dim glow of an oil lamp, Razdan and his men entered the house. Thirteen terrified women huddled together in one room, their eyes wide with fear. In the kitchen, an older woman was making omelets. Upon seeing Razdan, she screamed, mistaking him for another tormentor. He swiftly reassured her in Kashmiri, "We are the Army. We are here to save you." With the front door now open, he instructed the women to flee, but their clinking anklets betrayed their movement.

            The militants heard them.

            Two gunmen rushed down the stairs. Razdan was ready. His rifle roared to life, cutting them down before they could react. A third militant appeared from the shadows, and Razdan’s AK-47 spat fire again, sending the insurgent sprawling to the ground. With three militants down, he believed the path was clear. He took a step forward, only to be met with a deafening burst of gunfire.

            A hidden militant, still alive, emptied ten bullets into his stomach at point-blank range.

            Agony exploded through his body as bullets tore through his abdomen, piercing his intestines and spine. He collapsed, his vision blurring with pain, yet his survival instincts kicked in. With sheer willpower, he raised his weapon and fired a final shot, ensuring his attacker never rose again. But now, a more pressing battle began, the fight for his own life.

            Blood soaked his uniform, pooling around him. Knowing he had to act fast, he unraveled his patka, the cloth wrapped around his head, and tied it tightly around his stomach, holding his intestines in place. Crawling inch by inch, he dragged himself out of the house, clutching four enemy rifles as trophies of war, leaving a crimson trail behind him.

            From behind a shack of firewood, he watched as his men engaged in a fierce firefight. The sound of gunfire echoed in the valley as the remaining militants were neutralized one by one. The mission was a success - all nine militants lay dead, and all fourteen women were rescued. Only then did Razdan finally allow himself to be carried to safety.

            A helicopter airlifted him to the Srinagar General Hospital, where surgeons removed nine feet of his small intestine. His condition was critical, and he was soon transferred to Delhi for advanced care. Multiple bullets had pierced his spine, leaving his backbone shattered and his lower body paralyzed. For months, doctors battled to stabilize him. Eventually, he was moved to the Military Hospital in Khadki, Pune, for long-term rehabilitation.

            Yet even as he fought for every breath and movement, Lt. Col. Razdan’s thoughts remained with the villagers of Naugam he had saved. They, too, did not forget their savior. Overwhelmed with gratitude, they followed his recovery closely, many even traveling to Pune to meet him. They presented his wife with Rs. 10,000 (a great amount in those days), not as charity, but as a sacred gesture of thanks, a humble offering for a debt they knew could never be truly repaid.

            For his extraordinary valor and selfless sacrifice, Lt. Col. Sunil Kumar Razdan was awarded the Kirti Chakra, India’s second-highest peacetime gallantry award. The medal glinted on his chest, but it was his spirit - wounded, yet undefeated - that inspired generations.

            Back in Delhi, once during a winter morning, a Kashmiri shawl seller stood outside Razdan’s home, waiting patiently. When Razdan wheeled himself out onto the veranda, the man’s eyes widened with recognition. “You are the hero of Naugam,” he whispered, as if in the presence of something sacred. Holding out a finely woven shawl, the seller said, “This is my gratitude. No price can be put on what you did for our daughters.” When Razdan reached for his wallet, the man gently stopped him. “Please, sahib… this is from my soul.”

            Years later, even after retirement, now a Major General. confined to a wheelchair, Razdan continued serving his country, not from command bunkers, but in classrooms and quiet corners of hope. Along with his coursemates, he dedicated himself to social welfare, identifying children of widowed army wives and sponsoring their education. His body bore the scars of war, but his will remained resolute. Where legs could no longer carry him, his heart marched ahead. His uniform might have been folded away, but service had stitched itself into his very soul.

            A soldier’s duty does not end with the battlefield.

            Once a soldier, always a soldier.

He had walked forty kilometers to rescue fourteen lives - and spent the rest of his life lifting many more.

 

            Maj. Gen. Razdan’s story is not just one of gallantry but of the long, invisible trenches soldiers carry within, even after the war is over. His body was torn but never broken, his spirit tested but never defeated. As we close this chapter of glory and survival, another truth demands to be told - one that unfolds not on the battlefield, but in the quiet courtyards of faraway villages. For while one father marched through mountains to rescue a daughter, another child, barely old enough to comprehend death, stood beside a coffin not knowing it carried his father inside. “Uncle, my dad is also in the Army,” said little Arjun as Gurpreet’s mortal remains were laid down. What do you tell a boy who thinks his father is still serving? What do you say when truth is a shroud, and the trumpet plays taps?

            We move now, from the legends of the living, to the innocence of the unaware, from valor that bled in silence to a child’s question that silenced even the bravest among us.