Indo Pak War 1971: "Hands in your Pockets"

It was in September 1971 that my tank regiment received its long anticipated orders to move to the Indo-Pak border. Those last few days in Patiala cantonment were full of palpable excitement, intense preparation, anticipation of combat and the brash feeling of invincibility that all subalterns seem to have in their DNA.

Forgotten were the endless dinner nights when we would sit bolt upright in stiff summer formals, compelled by intractable Mess protocol to listen with sham interest as our 1965 Indo-Pak war veterans carried on animatedly, sometimes fractiously, about the mystique of war; inter-unit war rivalries and the like.

With war near certain, the ’65 veterans suddenly found us now listening with rapt attention on what it actually felt like when “crossing the border,” or firing to destroy a real Patton tank 800 metres away; crushed with the kinetic force of tank-defeating ammunition generating a massive force of 50 tons per square inch on impact.

I recall the memorable night when we hit the GT road in an endless column of ammunition-carrying vehicles and our monstrous, 80 feet long, Centurion tank-carrying tank transporters, all headlights blanked out. Lying facing a starlit sky in our black dungarees on bundles of camouflage nets dumped in the transporter-trailer, Pushkar, a fellow subaltern and I spoke in monosyllables, each lost in his thoughts. We instinctively sensed that, in an ineffable way, the war would change us; converting from callow subalterns to real men of substance.

The long wait in our operational area under cover and camouflage was one of intense activity. In keeping with our higher plans, the regiment moved several times, each movement conducted in pitch darkness and filled with excitement and anticipation. Most available time was spent on day and night border reconnaissance or in battle-group operational planning.

One day in late November, we received the electrifying news that “Sam Bahadur”, our iconic Army Chief, General SHFJ Manekshaw, would address us in our operational area close to the border. I had a vantage view of his handsome, dapper, faultlessly turned out visage, as he bounded to the stage with his swagger stick raised to his rakish side cap in acknowledgement. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop when he spoke to us soldier-to-soldier.

Recounting the monstrous evil that Pakistan had wrought in then East Pakistan, he said that the Pakistani Army had raped, murdered and pillaged, thus dishonouring and defiling the noble profession of arms.

“When you go in, soldiers, remember to ‘keep your hands in your pockets,’ he thundered. “Do not do anything that brings dishonour to our just war! Now give me your word!” he demanded. We did, with a roar that must have been heard up to Shakargarh. In the war that followed in West Pakistan, we regrettably did not go deep enough, but, hell, we honoured his diktat fully — right through the 1971 Indo-Pak war!

“Hands in your pockets” by Raj Mehta: The Tribune