The Brave: Param Vir Chakra Stories (24 page)

In a second even that would change.

All of Yadav’s mates were killed in the machine gun fire that the Pakistani soldiers directed at them. They were so heavily outnumbered that they did not get a chance to retaliate. Yogender Singh Yadav was the only one who did not die despite the Pakistanis making every effort to ensure that there were no survivors by firing at the fallen men again and again. When four rounds were fired at the man next to him, Yogender Singh Yadav saw his body shudder and jump in the air. He just closed his eyes and waited for his own turn to be killed. A Pakistani soldier came close and fired at him even as he lay there with his eyes shut. Yogender Singh felt the bullets hitting his body, but he promised himself that he would not die.

Satisfied that all the Indian soldiers had been killed, the Pakistanis sent a message to their base camp in the Mushkoh valley that there were Indian soldiers on the mountain and an Indian LMG post down below that should be destroyed. Yogender Singh knew that 18 of the soldiers, who had split up from his team, were trapped on the mountain. An overwhelming desire to stay alive if only to save their lives came over him and he willed himself to not lose consciousness.

Through his bloodied eyes, he could faintly see two men coming in his direction. One of them picked up his gun, not realizing that he had a hand grenade strapped to his beLt Using all his remaining strength, Yogender Singh Yadav pulled out the grenade, removed the pin and flung it at the retreating Pakistani soldier. It got stuck in the hood of his jacket and though he tried to throw it off, it was too late. An explosion rent the air and the Pakistani’s head was blown off. He dropped down dead right on top of Yadav. Yogender Singh Yadav picked up his rifle and though he could not stand, he started shooting the other enemy soldiers who were standing a little distance away.

The shooting created instant panic. The Pakistanis, who had believed that all the Indians were dead, thought reinforcements had arrived from below and panicked. As they ran, Yogender Singh Yadav crawled after them and saw their camp. ‘It was 1. 30 p. m., the sun was out and I could clearly see snow tents and a langar (meal) in progress. I couldn’t do anything since I wasn’t even able to stand, but I had this mad desire to survive and go down to my MMG (medium machine gun) post to warn my battalion.’

As he crawled back to where his comrades lay dead, Yogender Singh looked at them. ‘Someone had his head blown off, someone had a ripped chest, someone’s intestines were falling out of a sliced stomach. These were my friends; they had been closer to me than my own brothers. Everybody had died a painful death except me. I just sat there and cried. And cried, ‘ he says.

As his body started getting cold, he started feeling the intense pain of his terrible injuries. His shoulder bones had become exposed and were rubbing against each other making him cry out each time he shifted he moved. He realized his arm had become useless. After unsuccessfully trying to pull it out of the shoulder socket, he just pushed it on his back and tucked it inside his belt so that it would not come in the way.

‘Inside my head I heard a voice saying, if you are not dead yet, you will not die now. And then it said get inside the nala, ‘ says Yogendra. And then, with his shattered arm tucked into his belt and with fifteen bullets in his body, Yogender Singh crawled into a nala near the sangar and slowly dropped down into it.

Yadav was hanging from a rock with his good hand when he saw the rest of the 18 Grenadiers party down below. Calling out to them, he asked for help. The men quickly got him down and, taking turns to carry him on their backs, they brought him to the camp that had been established midway on Tiger Hill. The sun had set by the time a weak and shivering Yogender Singh Yadav was brought to the CO’s tent. The immense blood loss had made him so weak that he could no longer see. Yet, when his CO asked him if he could recognize him, Yogender Singh Yadav said, ‘Saab mein aapki awaz pehchanta hun. Jai Hind, Saab!’ (Sir, I recognize your voice. Jai Hind, Sir!)

Lying down in the CO’s tent, warmed by stoves that were lit up to stop his constant shivering, Yogender Singh Yadav told his battalion exactly where the enemy was, how their post could be reached and what route should be followed. He then passed out.

Yogender Singh Yadav recovered consciousness on 9 July. It had been three days since he had been shifted from Tiger Hill to the Base Hospital at Srinagar. He woke up to find a ceiling fan above him and, for a moment, could not figure out where he was. The nurse informed him that he was out of danger and in the hospital. He asked about his battalion and was told that Tiger Hill had been attacked by around 100 soldiers of Bravo and Delta Companies along with Ghatak the night that he had returned. They had followed his advise and had taken over the post without any resistance from the enemy. Almost two truckloads of ammunition were recovered from Tiger Hill. The haul included a. 82 mortar.

Yogender Singh Yadav was shifted to Delhi where bone grafting was done on his arm. He was lucky that all the bullets had missed his vital organs and, though it took many years to recover fully, he now bears only bullet scars and the cut on his abdomen from where ribs were taken for bone grafting. His arm hurts in the winter and he can’t lift it beyond a certain height, but Yogender Singh Yadav has accepted that gracefully. Looking at him, it is hard to believe that he shot five men in cold blood, held his own against a company-strength of Pakistani soldiers and nearly died on a craggy peak.

Every Republic Day, he comes down to Delhi, puts on his number one uniform, pins his medals on his chest and leads the parade down Rajpath from an open jeep with the other two living PVCs—Capt. Bana Singh and Hav. Sanjay Kumar—by his side.

How does it feel to see thousands of fellow citizens cheering for him? ‘I feel humbled and grateful,’ he says. ‘I am a soldier, it was my job to fight yet, I have been decorated with the highest gallantry award of my country for completing a task that was given to me. Any soldier would have done the same.’

Yogender Singh Yadav was born in Aurangabad Ahir village near Bulandshahr in Uttar Pradesh. The village has a population of 5000; its farmers grow wheat and sugar cane. Yogender’s father, Mr Ram Karan Singh, was an ex- serviceman, serving with 11 Kumaon as a soldier and even participating in the 1971 War. After eight years, he took premature retirement and came back to live in his village. He would often tell Yogender Singh and his two brothers stories about the war, inspiring them to join the Army.

Yogender Singh began his education at the village primary school and, after class 5, joined Sannota Sri Krishna College, which was about 3 km from his home. Halfway through his class 12, when he was just 16 years old, Yogender Singh was recruited into the Army. He was 19 when he went to fight in Kargil. The Param Vir Chakra was announced for Yadav posthumously, but it was soon discovered that he was recuperating in a hospital, and it was his namesake, who had been killed in the mission.

Based on a narration by Subedar Yogender Singh Yadav, PVC.

In the tidy olive-green Army cantonment in Dehradun where 13 Jammu and Kashmir Rifles (JAK Rif. ) is stationed, soldiers sleep after a long, tiring day of training. The alarm in most barracks goes off at 5 a. m. on weekdays; it rings in the room Havaldar Sanjay Kumar shares with his buddy Lance Naik Sandip.

After a mug of hot chai, the soldiers are on the PT ground by 6 a. m., ready for their daily 5-km run. A breakfast of puri- sabzi or ande ki bhujia in the langar, when they crack jokes or discuss the latest political developments or a film, and they return to their barracks for a bath and change of clothes.

Little separates Sanjay Kumar from the other men. But when he buttons up his uniform his eye goes to the small ribbon dangling from his chest with the other service ribbons—a small ceremonial medal that only three living people in the entire Armed Forces wear, the Param Vir Chakra. Sanjay Kumar has been wearing the highest gallantry award of free India for 14 years.

The searing heat from the enemy machine gun reaches 23-year- old Sanjay Kumar’s freezingface. For a moment, he relaxes in its warmth. He hasn’t slept for 30 hours; he has been climbing for 18 hours, and tiredness and cold have seeped down to his bones. The temptation to lean back and shut his eyes is tremendous, but he resists. Instead, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a roll of white gauze bandage from his first-aid kit. He wraps it around his hands, systematically and meticulously—turning his attention to the left first and then the right. There isn’t enough for both and he looks at his comrade—Rifleman Najinder Singh, who is leaning back on the rock by his side, face covered with grime, eyes red from lack of sleep, hands laceratedfrom the sharp rocks he has held to climb through the night. Najinder moves the grenade he is holding to his left hand and reaches into his backpack. Wordlessly, he hands over his own bandage-roll to his mate. Holding one end in his mouth, Sanjay carefully wraps the rest around his right hand. Taking the roll in clockwise circles, he covers his fingers first. Only when he is satisfied that the padding is thick enough will he move on to cover his thumb.

The Pakistanis, sitting in an open sangar (a small, temporary fortified position) at Area Flat Top, Pt. 4875, with their machineguns firing down the slope, are under the impression that the Indian Army squad is still climbing up the steep 70-degree incline. They are mistaken. One JCO (junior commissioned officer) and 10 other ranks of Charlie Company, 13 JAK Rif, have already reached them and are now sitting behind boulders just a few feet below their sangar. Riflemen Sanjay Kumar and Najinder Singh are the first two men of that attack squad. They are the scouts.

Sanjay has finished bandaging his hands. They look like the fat white stumps now. He takes a deep breath and his eyes met Najinder’s one last time. The moment is here.

The men had eaten a hot meal of dal, chawal and sabzi. Some time earlier they had attended the havan and puja held by the unit pandit and now, with shoes laced on, helmets pulled down over their heads, red tilaks on their foreheads and bits of prasad still between their teeth, they were ready for the assault on Flat top feature of Pt. 4875.

The sun was setting over the jagged peaks around Mushkoh valley. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees and the chilling wind was screaming in their ears when the 60 men of Charlie Company, under their company commander Major Gurpreet Singh, began their long climb. Around the same time, another team of soldiers from 17 Jat had also started up. Their task was to recapture the peaks—Pimple 1 and Pimple 2 and Area Flat Top on Pt. 4875. Though the two parties could not see each other, they were in radio communication. The plan was that the men would climb through the night and reach the top by 3 a. m. There they would launch simultaneous attacks on all three points while still under cover of darkness, clear the area of enemy soldiers and bring it back under Indian control.

Artillery guns along the base of Mushkoh valley had already started pounding the three points with near continuous shelling. The guns were deployed to engage the enemy so that the soldiers climbing up would have minimum casualties. Though the guns caused great losses they also warned the Pakistanis of an attack night and the climbing men were not surprised when they ran into a volley of machine gun fire coming from the top.

Rifleman Kuldeep Singh was the first to be hit. He screamed and fell, bleeding. While he was being evacuated, the rest of the men sat under the cover of rocks. Since the enemy was firing at all paths within its sight, it was decided that the only way to climb unnoticed was via the steep rock face right under Pt. 4875, the only path not visible from the top. But there was a hitch—there was no route, just a steep vertical line up of jagged rocks glinting in the moonlight.

Getting up quickly and standing on the edge of their toes to heave themselves up, the soldiers started pulling themselves up the incline one by one, using their hands to find a grip on the sharp rocks that had to support their body weight. The better climbers went first with picks and ropes and dropped a line for the ones following in the darkness. One wrong step could send them plunging to their death in the gaping valley.

It was best that they could not see the sheer drop below because they could have lost their nerve. Blind to the risk, they worked their way up, gasping under the effort of pulling their body weight up those deadly heights, taking short breaks to catch their breath and distracting their minds from the gruesome task ahead by watching the Bofors shots whistling above their heads and smashing on the rocks.

The darkness was slowly peeling away under the lukewarm rays of the rising sun. The men had climbed through the night but were still 250 m from Area Flat Top and now visible to the Pakistani soldiers on Pimple 1 and Pimple 2, who had started firing at them. The soldiers of 17 Jat were facing the same problem. While they were not visible from Pimple 1 and 2 (the heights they were climbing), the enemy at Pt. 4875 could see them and had opened crossfire on them.

The 13 JAK Rif. took shelter behind South Spur, a small hump where they were protected from the fire. But they were still 150 m from the first enemy position and under continuous machinegun fire. The enemy’s guns would stop firing only for about a minute—each time a rocket launcher hit their sangar and the soldiers went down to shelter from the deadly rock splintering around them. It was decided that the Indian team would take advantage of that one-minute lull; a leading section of one JCO and 10 other ranks would cover the 150 m running to reach the enemy position. Rifleman Sanjay Kumar and Rifleman Najinder volunteered to lead.

The next time a shell hit Pt. 4875 and the enemy machine guns stopped firing for a minute, the two soldiers ran across the jagged rock-face, guns in hand. When the enemy soldiers re-emerged from their bunker, they had no idea that the Indians were already sitting a few feet away, waiting for an opportune moment to attack. Crouched right under the enemy bunker, Sanjay Kumar and Najinder Singh could feel their own hearts beat. Over their heads, there were two enemy machine guns shooting almost continuously. If Sanjay wanted he could stretch an arm and touch either, he thought. And that was how the fantastic idea came to him.

Sanjay makes eye contact with Najinder and nods. Najinder pulls the pin from the grenade in his hand and, with his arm arching in a slow semi-circle, lobs it inside the enemy bunker. There is an evil hiss, a blast, the familiar smell of cordite and then cries of pain as the bunker erupts in the grey foggy afternoon.

Sanjay keeps his head down until the sharp rocks around him have stopped splintering. His face an emotionless mask, he reaches out for the enemy machinegun closest to him and with his bandaged hands protecting him from the burning metal, he pulls it down and flings it on the rocks below. He then turns to the second gun. Najinder Singh notices that the bandages around Sanjay’s hands have started smoking and are coiling around his fingers like twisted black snakes but Sanjay is oblivious. He reaches for his AK-47, whips it off his shoulder and turns it into the gap from where he has pulled out the guns. Three Pakistani soldiers are standing in the smoke-filled sangar, paralysed by fear and shock. Around them lie guns, grenades and a large stock of ammunition. From the corner of his eye, he spots half-a-dozen bodies piled up at the other end. One of the men is trying to reach for a gun. Sanjay presses the trigger. A volley of gunfire dances across, splattering the rocks with a spray of warm blood, and the three men who had manned the first sangar of Pt. 4875 drop down one after the other.

The soldier with the soot-covered fingers keeps firing and only after he is convinced that the men are all dead does he look at his grubby hands and wipes them on his dirty, threadbare trouser front. Fourteen years later, he will very humbly tell a writer that there was no special bravery involved. He was just doing what any other soldier in his place would have done under the circumstances. He would wear the PVC ribbon proudly on his uniform, but be embarrassed by the attention it brought him, insisting that every single soldier in his attack team was as brave as he was. Yet he would wear a medal that very few people have worn live so far. A medal that even the Chief of Army Staff gets up to salute. Even if it hangs on the shirtfront of a 23-year-old foot soldier.