4 min readChandigarhApr 18, 2026 05:38 PM IST
First published on: Apr 18, 2026 at 05:38 PM IST
Written by Brig Advitya Madan (retd)
Some of the most enduring lessons in uniform come not from manuals but from moments of accident. Mine began with radio telephony at the National Defence Academy—hours spent on open grounds, learning to speak without names, using coded identities: Tiger for the commanding officer, Lamb for the second-in-command, Lion for the adjutant. It sounded dramatic then; reality, I would later discover, was often more nuanced.
What stayed with me was not just the protocol, but the culture—brevity, clarity, and the curious phrase, “Nothing heard; out to you,” which I would later deploy, occasionally and strategically, in less forgiving settings.
Years later, those lessons took on a sharper edge along the Line of Control near Akhnoor, where my battalion was deployed in a high-intensity sector. Fresh out of the Defence Services Staff College, I found myself unexpectedly tasked to officiate as Brigade Major. The role demanded coordination of mortar fire and surveillance—precision work, dependent as much on information as on instinct.
Entertainment was scarce; a small transistor radio became a modest escape. One evening, while tuning into music, the signal abruptly shifted. Instead of songs, I heard voices—two men speaking in Punjabi, unmistakably across the border. It took a moment to realise what had happened: the transistor had latched onto a Pakistani Army frequency.
Curiosity took over. The conversation was unfiltered, laced with frustration and candour. One soldier warned another not to provoke “27 Punjab”—a grudging acknowledgement of the retaliation they feared. Another vented his anger at a superior who had denied leave. It was raw, revealing—and invaluable.
I noted the frequency. What began as chance soon became routine. Those intercepted exchanges offered real-time insight into enemy reactions—confirmation of damage, morale, even movement. It was intelligence without formal channels, immediate and unvarnished. In a theatre where information lag could cost dearly, this accidental eavesdropping proved both a morale boost and an operational advantage.
The lesson seemed straightforward: information flows in unexpected ways. But it took another posting to reveal the other side of that truth.
During my tenure with 14 Assam Rifles along the Indo-Myanmar border at Phek (Nagaland), operational discipline was paramount. Patrols were planned with strict secrecy; even those left behind were given minimal details. The aim was simple—deny militants any opportunity to anticipate movement.
Yet, I began to notice something odd. No matter how irregular our patrol timings, a hot cup of tea and delicious ‘Pakoras’ always awaited us on return. The consistency was unsettling. When I asked the cook, his answer was disarmingly simple. The explanation that followed was more sobering.
Using the same humble transistor, our ‘Langar cook’ used to always tune into our operational frequency. The radio operators, in their routine chatter, were broadcasting our real-time locations. Without intent, we had created a vulnerability.
The response was immediate. Frequencies were changed regularly, and radio discipline tightened. More importantly, I stopped delegating communication casually. In operations, even familiarity can become a risk.
Looking back, the transistor—a relic by today’s standards—taught me one of the most enduring lessons of soldiering. Communication is power, but only when controlled. In the field, every word transmitted has a life beyond its intent. Sometimes, it wins you an advantage. At other times, it exposes you.
The difference lies not in technology, but in discipline.
One evening, while tuning into music, the signal abruptly shifted. Instead of songs, I heard voices—two men speaking in Punjabi, unmistakably across the border. (Photo generated using AI) 
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