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A file photo of Indian and Chinese personnel. (File Photo, enhanced Google Gemini)
Written by Brig Advitya Madan (retd)
On the morning of 2 February, I cancelled all my engagements to listen to the discussion on the Union Budget on Sansad TV. What I encountered instead was a lively debate recalling events of 31 August 2020, when four Chinese tanks, supported by infantry, moved up the track towards Rechin La. The discussion unexpectedly stirred two memories from my service years, one humorous and the other deeply instructive, both rooted in the lived experience of soldiering.
The first was a joke narrated by a battalion jawan during a barakhana after we won a mortar competition. During the Indo-Pak war, a highly motivated JCO is entrusted with defending an important forward position. He spots the enemy advancing from about 1,800 metres and prepares to bring down machine-gun fire. Though armed with clear rules of engagement, his caution, sharpened by experience, grey hair and ambition, makes him seek permission from his CO. The enemy keeps inching forward, the JCO keeps reporting their progress, but permission never comes. When the enemy finally overruns his position, a frustrated final message crackles over the radio: “Lo sir, hun tusi dushman naal gal hi kar lo.” (You can now talk to the enemy himself).
The second memory is personal. In the mid-1980s, during the Sumdorong Chu standoff, my CO, Lt Col J.S. Sethi, volunteered 27 Punjab for deployment when Chinese troops attempted to build a helipad. I was posted at Negi Spur with my company, with clear instructions to push back any intrusion. One night, after checking all bunkers and returning from a long link patrol to a neighbouring battalion, I was woken at 2 a.m. by my senior JCO, Mukhtiyar. A Chinese patrol had crossed into our area; their torchlights were clearly visible.
I ordered that the moment the lights were positively identified, fire be opened. Mukhtiyar informed me that we only had on-weapon ammunition and that sustained firing would require breaking the seal of first-line ammunition boxes. As a young Second Lieutenant, an age when decisiveness often precedes deeper reflection, I authorised it. The night passed quietly. The patrol withdrew, perhaps realising it had crossed over by mistake.
The following morning, Lt Col Sethi walked up to my post. He appreciated the initiative and calmly explained the sensitivities of ammunition echelons, on-weapon, unit reserve, first-line, second-line, war-wastage reserve, and the standard operating procedures governing their use. More importantly, he stood firmly by his officer, assuming responsibility himself.
That quiet display of trust, judgement and moral courage left a lasting imprint. Weapons, terrain and technology matter, but so do leadership, clarity of intent and confidence between commanders and their men. Some lessons, learned under torchlight on a cold ridge, remain with a soldier for life.
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