The Brave: Param Vir Chakra Stories (9 page)

That would be the last Republic Day parade he would attend. On 5 September 2005, Lt Col Thapa died of kidney failure. He was 77 years old.

Dhan Singh Thapa was born on 28 April 1928 in Simla, Himachal Pradesh, and commissioned into 8 Gorkha Rifles on 28 August 1949. Gentle and unassuming by temperament, he was, however, passionate about football, a sport he could not play later in life when he began to suffer from arthritis.

He was a brave man. Even before the ‘62 war, when he was battling insurgency in Nagaland, his wife remembers how he would go out on night patrols without a thought for his own safety. In fact, Shukla delivered their second daughter at home at night when he was out on an operation in insurgency-hit Mochungchung, Nagaland. They lost their daughter just a few months before he went for the war; Thapa left behind his pregnant and grieving wife. Though duty came first, he was an indulgent father and a devoted husband, happy to hear his wife sing in parties and at home.

Simple and straightforward, he followed his heart. He loved the men who worked under him more than he loved those above him. Deeply religious, he enjoyed reading books on philosophy. When he was in captivity, the Chinese asked him why he believed in God. He said, ‘I should have been killed in the war, but it is a miracle that I’m still alive.’ He then opened his jacket and told the interrogating officer, ‘You can try to shoot me if you want but if God doesn’t want me to die, I won’t.’

The Chinese did not shoot him and, the fact is that he did return from the dead for his people.

This story has been reconstructed from accounts of retired soldiers and conversations with Poonam Thapa, late Lt Col Dhan Singh Thapa, PVC’s daughter.

About 45 km from Bathinda, across the lush green fields that are ripe with wheat, is a small village called Chehalanwalan. There in a large brick house is an eclectic mix of people and things: a shiny tractor, a lovingly polished Gypsy, an old cell phone with a loud Bollywood ringtone, a couple of noisily bleating goats, sour lassi, and an old bent Biji (grandmother) with a toothless smile.

This is a joint family of many and at their head is 81-year- old Subedar Kala Singh, who retired from the Army more than 30 years ago. The proud sardar, who stands tall in his white pathan suit, doesn’t wear the olive green uniform anymore. Yet, no one would doubt that he is a soldier. He is one of the three men who came back alive from the battle of Tongpen La, near Bum La, Tawang, in the North-East Frontier Agency (NEFA) in 1962.

Kala Singh is one of the last persons to have seen Param Vir Chakra Joginder Singh alive. He is the only person who can tell us about this bravest of the brave who charged at a brigade strength of Chinese with just 29 men by his side. He can also tell us of the man who not only inspired his soldiers to bravery, but also led them to a glorious death after ammunition ran out and they fought with bayonets fixed to their guns.

Joginder Singh was the bravest of the brave and he lived exactly the way he asked his men to: like a lion, ‘sher ke maafik’.

But to understand that we must start from where old man Kala’s story begins: on a very cold day on a ridge in Bum La, where a platoon of 1 Sikh commanded by Subedar Joginder Singh watched warily as a thousand-plus Chinese soldiers dug trenches and lined up just 250 yards away, across a shallow stream that gurgled between the two armies. A bloody battle was waiting to be fought.

Kala was 27 and in Lucknow to participate in a basketball tournament when it became imminent that there was going to be war with China. All the matches were cancelled and he was told to join his battalion, which had just been moved to NEFA—now the state of Arunachal Pradesh. Kala says that he took the train to Missamari in Assam and then hitched a ride to Tawang on 11 October. Two days later he was told to join his company and, on 14 October, sent to join Sub Joginder Singh’s platoon on the Bum La axis.

More than a fortnight passed after 1 Sikh had reached there. They had been moved straight from Jaipur when war seemed unavoidable. When the orders came, the soldiers had packed their boxes, taken the train to Missamari, and got on to Army trucks heading for Tawang. They had made a long and tiring journey through the forests of Arunachal, with its orchids drooping down from lush green trees; they crossed the claustrophobic Tenga valley, climbed the winding path to Bomdila and then descended to beautiful Dhirang, where women worked with runny-nosed pink-cheeked babies strapped to their backs. Driving across the mist-blurred Sela Pass at 13, 714 feet, they crossed the frozen Sela Lake. Finally they had got onto a narrow track cut into fallen snow to reach Tawang.

They were going there to fight a war.

Most of the battalion had never seen the area before, and walked to their designated posts and companies. Many of the soldiers and officers were still on leave or on posting. Since the orders for the move had come suddenly, many of the platoons were short of their normal strength. They also did not have adequate winter clothing or modern equipment to fight. It was a war fought on courage alone. ‘Sipahiyon ka dil tha jo woh ladne gaye,’ (Only a soldier’s heart could spur them to fight) says Kala, his voice thick with emotion. He himself did not have a jacket or proper winter boots or gloves.

Since Sub Joginder Singh’s experience in World War II and the war with Pakistan in 1947-48 made him a highly respected man in the battalion, he was handpicked to be sent forward. Soon after reaching the assigned spot, he and his platoon of 29 men had dug trenches on the ridge and settled down to await further orders.

As war clouds loomed, they saw Assam Rifles soldiers trudging back—a standard drill. Assam Rifles and paramilitary forces would move back and make way for the Army when wars were fought.

‘We would see them marching to safer zones while we were setting up camp and digging trenches. They would tell us, “ladai hone wali hai, ab hamara kaam khatam, aap ka kaam shuru (the war is about to begin, our job is done; you have work ahead of you),”’ remembers Kala.

On 20 October, the Chinese attacked the Indian post at Namka Chu that was under 7
^th
Infantry Brigade. Equipped with the latest arms and ammunition and having readied for war for close to three years, they brutally massacred the Indian troops. The single-shot World War II vintage rifles that the Indian soldiers were using were no match for the automatic rifles with the Chinese soldiers. The Indian soldiers did not have proper winter clothing either while the Chinese were fully prepare for battle. After their first victory, the Chinese crossed into Indian territory and marched all the way to where Joginder Singh and his men had established their post. They began to collect at the other bank of the stream and to dig trenches. The stream was about two-and-a-half foot deep and, if they wanted, the soldiers could walk across quite easily. As the Chinese built up their numbers and strengthened their bunkers, Joginder Singh and his men began to feel uneasy. According to Kala, when he called up for orders for him and his platoon, he was told, ‘You will stay there till the last bullet and fight. Aap aakhri goli tak ladenge.’

The men had accepted this with courage and prepared themselves mentally for war. Every morning they would wake up to spot some new activity on the Chinese side; they would spend the day sharing memories of home and loved ones and night in fitful sleep, expecting an attack any minute.

Kala was in the trench that functioned as the langar (cookhouse). It was at a height on the ridge and at some distance from where the rest of the platoon was stationed. Next to it in a wooden shack were the rations and stores; Kala had gone there to take an inventory so that things that were falling short could be ordered on the radio set. The soldiers had been getting meat and fresh vegetables like cauliflower and potatoes regularly, they still got plenty of lentils, but the milk had stopped coming ever since tension had built up. The men were drinking tea with spoonfuls of milk stirred in. The condensed milk would come in one-pound tins from the Verka dairy back home in Punjab, remembers Kala. ‘Sometimes we would mix hot water in it and drink it as milk. I still remember the tin with its picture of a lady on it; it was so sweet that we never had to add sugar.’

Often Joginder Singh would come up to the cookhouse in the afternoon and talk to Kala about the possibility that he could die in that war just a year before his retirement. ‘But we cannot run away from this, Kale. What face will we show our families? Kahenge gaddaar aa gaye. We’ll be dubbed traitors for the rest of our lives,’ he would say and Kala would agree. The two would then lose themselves in memories of the time they had spent together in the paltan (battalion). The evening before the final battle of his life Joginder Singh had sent his sahayak to fetch his bottle of rum from the stores. ‘Sahab has asked me to get him his bottle of rum. He said: “Kal din chade, na chade, hum zinda bachen ya na bachen, ek botal rum padi hai, pee lein usse (We may or may not survive to see the next morning, one bottle of rum remains, let me finish it).”’

Kala had handed over the bottle. ‘Maine bhej di thi. Shayad pee li hogi (I sent it. He must have drunk it),’ he says.

The next morning the Chinese attacked.

The first wave ofChinese attack comes just a few minutes after the langari or cook Bahadur Singh leaves the cookhouse with thermos flasks holding feshly brewed steaming hot tea for the platoon.

Sub Kala Singh does not hear the gunfire since the soldiers’ trenches are much lower on the ridge. But the rest of the men reach for their guns as a large force of the Chinese start to cross the stream, their rugged boots splashing across the water. They come in waves of hundreds.

Led by their fearless commander, the brave men of 1 Sikh stand their ground and face the first attack bravely. From their trenches they take on the enemy soldiers, fixing them within the sight of their rifles and shooting them through their heads and hearts.

The first attack is successfully repulsed. The enemy is temporarily halted because of the high casualty. However, within half-an-hour they unleash a second attack with more troops. War cries ring out and Joginder Singh inspires his men with his words and action. Roaring like a lion, he keeps up the defence and implores his men to be quick and precise with their bullets. He is wounded in the thigh, and continuing to inspire his men, refuses to be evacuated. Despite being completely outnumbered, the troops stubbornly hold on to their position and do not withdraw an inch.

In the meanwhile, communication with the company post is also lost.

Ammunition is falling short; the old, single-shot loading rifles with the Sikhs are no match for the sophisticated weapons of the Chinese, but they still cannot overrun the post.

So, they launch a third wave of attack. By now, nearly half the men in the platoon have been killed and ammunition is very short. Despite his injury, Joginder Singh himself mans a light machine gun and shoots down as many of the enemy soldiers as he can. Soon, the men run completely out of ammunition.

The Chinese are still coming at them. When death becomes imminent, Joginder Singh tells the men it is time to prove themselves. They fix bayonets on their guns, jump out of their trenches and rush into the charging enemy soldiers with loud cries of ‘Bole so nihal, sat sri Akal’.

The Chinese are stunned by the courage of these hugely outnumbered, but spirited, Sikh warriors with their flowing beards and their turbans. They have never beheld such a sight before.

Led by the slim and quick Joginder Singh, the surviving men charge head-on into the Chinese columns. The air rings out with screams and cries of the soldiers hurling abuse at each other. As the Chinese keep coming at them with guns blazing, none of the Sikhs tries to run or hide. Drawing courage from Joginder Singh, they rush in and bayonet as many as they can before they finally fall under enemy fire. Eventually, every single man collapses.

As the sun sets that evening, Joginder Singh, the brave Sikh soldier, disabled by his injuries, lies on the Bum La axis, the softly falling snow covering his body gently. But Joginder Singh does not die then. He is carried away by the Chinese, who return with mules the next day. He dies in captivity. His body is never returned.

When the Chinese hear over the radio that the Indian government is awarding a PVC to Sub Joginder Singh, they reverently return his ashes. Sub Kala Singh carries these to Sub Joginder Singh’s village and hands them over to his wife. The brave JCO’s daughter had died of shock the day she heard of her father’s sacrifice, he discovers.

If Joginder Singh had not been killed in the war, he would have hung up his uniform in a year’s time and gone back to his wife and children in his sunny village near Moga in Punjab, with a monthly pension of Rs 116. Perhaps he would have still been farming wheat there while recounting war stories to his grandchildren about the day the Chinese attacked his platoon on an ice-cold ridge near Bum La.