IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 148— SHARE YOUR FUCK-UPS Brig PS Gothra (Retd.)

“It is a matter of shame for our Regiment. The CO should be hanged,” a regimental friend said over the phone, breaking the news about the theft of weapons from the kote of 20 MADRAS.

“Hmm,” was all I could manage.

My thoughts were with the Commanding Officer. His battalion was reportedly away for field firing, and he must have been rushing back to the unit rear. Everyone in the hierarchy would want to know what had happened.

And then there would be people like me—who could do a fig about it but might still ring to remain abreast of the situation. 

As my friend continued, I remembered one of my own fuck-ups.

In March 2006, while I was commanding a Rashtriya Rifles Battalion, an AK rifle went missing from one of my companies. We searched for hours but finally informed higher headquarters.

All hell broke loose.

For the next few hours, I received some of the finest gaalis available in the military vocabulary.

Between the instalments of gaalis, I asked three of my most capable officers to forget the shouting, sit quietly and answer one question:  Where could the weapon have gone?

After a thorough investigation, they told me that one of our men proceeding on leave might have taken it. They shortlisted three names, with maximum suspicion falling on Sepoy Ranjit. A quick calculation suggested that Ranjit should have reached home by then. I called his house. His wife answered.

“Ranjit?”

“Abhi abhi ghar mein ghusa hai.”

Perfect timing. When he came on the line, I spoke very calmly.

“Ranjit, ek ghante mein saari state ki police aapke ghar pahunch rahi hai.”

There was a pause. Then came the most beautiful sentence I had heard all day.

“Saab, galti ho gayi. Main abhi hathiyar le ke wapas chal raha hoon.”

The weapon returned. And Ranjit was court-martialled.

But that was not my first education in things disappearing under command.

Years earlier, as a Second Lieutenant, I was company commander of an ad hoc company called X-Ray Company during the IPKF tenure. I was a one -piper with less than a year's service, tremendous enthusiasm and considerably more confidence than experience.

The CO had also placed an undeclared LTTE prisoner, Chandran, with us. We had no proper detention facility. So Chandran was kept near an LMG bunker, his limbs secured, with a sentry watching him.

One evening, after a long patrol, I casually asked my Senior JCO: “Chandran theek hai?”

His answer was sufficiently diplomatic to activate my young officer's sixth sense. I went to check.

Chandran was missing.

The story that emerged was embarrassing. Apparently, a village girl had been bathing nearby. Chandran convinced the sentry that she was a sex worker and, for a little money, could be persuaded to entertain him. The sentry's military appreciation immediately collapsed. He kept Chandran's hands tied but freed his legs and allowed him to approach the girl.

Chandran approached the girl and then bolted into the village. There was nothing the sentry could do except keep quiet.

Once again, I received the choicest gaalis from my Commanding Officer.

I survived. More importantly, I remembered.

Which brings me back to 20 MADRAS. I do not know who stole those weapons, how it happened, or whether an insider was involved. Therefore, I would rather not join the instant experts blaming Agniveers—or anyone else—before the facts emerge.

But there is a larger lesson.

We repeatedly tell soldiers: Security. Safety. Vigilance. We repeat these words so often that eventually soldiers stop listening. Perhaps somebody should tell them about Ranjit. Tell them about Chandran. Tell them about the sentry whose operational thinking was defeated by a bathing girl.

A fuck-up remembered is sometimes a better instructor than a hundred PowerPoint slides.

And while accountability must remain, perhaps we should also examine how thinly units are stretched. A Commanding Officer cannot personally stand outside every kote. Officers buried under day-to-day firefighting, returns, inspections and superfluous staff work have less time for the things that genuinely matter.

We retired officers also have a responsibility. Our stories cannot always begin with “When I was…” and end with ourselves looking like the wisest military leader.

I would much rather narrate my  fuck-ups to stop people from doing something wrong tomorrow.

Jai Hind.

 Note:- Censor has still not cleared the 'Lady's Eyebrows'. Maybe next week