To his credit, the deputy tried to get the movie screened at the NDA for all the cadets to watch. He tried very hard, but without result. The Führer, however, was not a man to give up. He hit upon a novel idea of taking the cadets to the town on bicycles one evening, for the movie. All the cadets lined up, and cycled their way through the city, which was a good fifteen kilometres away. Poona had never witnessed anything like this before. Over a 1000 cadets riding on bikes in proper formation, moved towards the movie hall. The traffic police manning the crossroads were awed by the unending stream of cadets flowing past. Impressed, they allowed us to hog the road, stopping all traffic as we passed.
Our invasion of the town was an event that the Poona-ites had never experienced. Crowds gathered to watch us as we passed, and children waved enthusiastically at us, cheering us on the way. The Academy bus and a truck followed our contingent. Whenever a cadet had a problem such as a flat tyre, or brake failure, the truck would pick up the bike, and the bus would seat the cadet. The attention of the city folks accelerated our progress as we continued pedalling in the afternoon heat.
The entire hall had been booked in advance for the cadets. As soon as we had settled in our seats, Maachh began cribbing. ’What is the point in coming for a movie if there are no females around?’
‘Have you come to watch the movie or the females?’ asked Randy.
‘Both,’Maachh replied. He was irrepressible.
The movie was great. An excited lot of cadets cycled back to the Academy that night. Overnight, Patton became the hero for all the cadets. His famous lines, ‘ No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country, he won it by making the other bastard die for his country,’began to appear on boards and charts in classrooms and squadrons.
An announcement that a fancy dress competition was to be held a week later at the stadium prodded us into action. A host of ideas began floating around, some good, some bad, and some outright weird. Everyone was being secretive. No one wanted to disclose their get-up till the last moment.
Maachh had a brilliant idea of dressing up as a Goan fisherman. ‘You can help me with the get-up,’ he told Bertie. ‘Of what use is a Goan if he can’t be of help?’
‘I would if I could. Frankly speaking, I am clueless about the kind of dress they wear.’
‘Are you a Goan or not?’ Maachh persisted.
‘I am a Goan but I am not a fisherman,’ Bertie retorted.
After drawing a blank from that quarter, Maachh had another brilliant idea. He wanted to watch the movie Bobby in which the heroine’s father is a Goan fisherman. To his credit, he managed to do full justice to his guise, ultimately. Bertie participated as a Catholic priest. After all his visits to the church, he couldn’t have done otherwise. Randy and I helped them with their dresses.
Some smooth-skinned first-termers, with hairless limbs and faces, dressed up as females. Others dressed up like Rommel, Mountbatten, or Patton. With the Führer acting as the chief judge, there were bets on who would carry the day.
Jaggi Singh, a second-term Sikh, had a flawless complexion, so he dressed up like Helen, the famous dancer, and was a great hit. He danced to the tune of a Hindi film, and performed a cabaret, exposing his satin-smooth thighs, which sent the cadets into raptures. He heaved and sighed, pouted and panted, with great effect. At the end of his performance, Jaggi flung himself into the arms of the deputy who was seated in the front row along with the other officers and their wives. Not to be outdone, the deputy got up and lifted him up in his arms, which sent the cadets hooting and whistling.
Maachh, enthused by the film Bobby, danced to the tune of ‘Ghey, ghey, ghey re sahiba, pyar mein sauda nahiin’,which invited catcalls. His two left feet managed to somehow avoid getting tangled up, but his triangular lungi rode up higher and higher with each step, causing a lot of laughter. Bertie effectively held a mini Mass and the Führer was seen crossing himself playfully.
Although there were many generals, Rommel and Patton were the favourites. Kalra, inspired by the film that we had just watched, dressed up exactly like Patton in the movie, and started off, ’No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country …’ His speech brought the house down.
Betting was rife amongst the cadets. Everyone was sure that Helen would get the first prize, but the prize went to Patton. Kalra won the first prize, with an overwhelming score.
The Academy, with its wide-open spaces, clean paths, and beautifully landscaped gardens, was a favourite place for film shootings. Bollywood directors flocked to the NDA to shoot specific kinds of scenes like those of riding, sailing, and gliding. As for war films, a few scenes shot at the Academy and the firing ranges seemed mandatory. Film shootings generated a lot of excitement as the cadets flocked to see the actors in action. There was also the excitement of taking part in some shots when they needed to shoot crowds. Sometimes, the directors would select a few smart-looking cadets to do a little more than stand in a crowd.
One Sunday morning, while we were sitting outside our cabins, soaking in the sun, Maachh sauntered up with the exciting news.
‘Hey guys, the Bombay chaps have arrived. They are shooting at the stables. Rajesh Khanna will be coming in a few hours for the shoot.’
Rajesh Khanna was a superstar at that time, and a hot favourite of many cadets. We rushed to the stables where the film crew had set up their paraphernalia.
They had already selected some cadets for the shot. Minhas, a handsome fellow, was chosen for an important part. In the scene the cadets led by Minhas were to give a chase to the hero, Rajesh Khanna, on horseback.
We stood on the fringes, watching the cadets sweat for a few hours while they waited for the hero and practised their shot. Minhas looked stunning in his riding gear.
‘He looks smarter than Rajesh Khanna,’commented Maachh.
‘I bet he will give the hero a huge complex,’agreed Bertie.
It turned out to be a boring affair, and we returned to the squadron after a while. The shooting continued till the light faded. After his brush with acting, Minhas started taking himself a little too seriously, and decided to take his chances with the film industry. He began bragging about his shot and spoke of nothing else but Bollywood for the next few days.
After our mid-term break, there was no news of Minhas. Two days into the term, the guy had still not arrived. His parents were notified about his absence, but they knew nothing about the whereabouts of their son. Worried, the parents contacted all their relatives and friends, but to no avail. Minhas had vanished. Even as the anxious parents were debating whether they should notify the police, the prodigal son returned to the Academy. A few days later, we got to know the whole story. The entire Academy was abuzz with Minhas’s tryst with Bollywood.
Our hero had run away to Bombay to try his luck at acting. He went straight to the director who had given him the little role of chasing Rajesh Khanna on horseback, but the man refused to recognize him. Frustrated, Minhas roamed around from studio to studio, trying for a break in the movies. It was only when his money finished, and Bollywood doors were shut on his face, that he returned to the Academy. His parents heaved a sigh of relief and so did his friends at the Academy. As a punishment for his offence, Minhas was relegated and the poor guy never spoke of Bollywood again.
The news from the front was not good. Infiltration on the western border was at a high, and the probability of India going to war with Pakistan had increased. Troop movement was reported, but the news was sketchy. Preparations for the war, and the POP, continued simultaneously. A few officers were quickly posted out of the NDA to border areas, and tension mounted in the Academy. We were anxious to know all about the conflict.
As expected, war broke out. More and more transistors were smuggled into the squadron through the room attendants. Pakistan Radio was popular with the cadets who wanted to learn the enemy version of the war. According to the Paki
stan propaganda machinery, they had captured the airfields of India, and marched right into the mainland. They gave jubilant reports about the number of Indian soldiers killed by their valiant soldiers. All India Radio reciprocated with conflicting reports and counterclaims. The PR machinery in India countered Pakistan’s claim, and reeled out stunning figures of casualties suffered by the Pakistani army.
Randy was a worried man. His brother, who was in the army, was posted at the border. He called up home and spoke to his father. The situation, Randy confirmed, despite all claims by Pakistan, was the other way round. India had penetrated deep inside east Pakistan. Confused by the conflicting reports pouring from all quarters, we gave up both the Pakistan Radio and the AIR, and tuned into the BBC.
Saurav Sen’s father, who was commanding an artillery regiment, had to move his troops almost overnight from Pathankot to Jammu. His mother, who was a doctor in the army, was also transferred to Jaisalmer at short notice. His sister was in school, and had to be left with an aunt at Delhi. Sen was also very worried. With his family split up like this, he didn’t know whom to contact.
A few days into the war, Ferreira came to the squadron and called for Saurav. There was consternation among us, as the deputy led the cadet away in his car. Later, we learnt that Saurav had lost his father in the Pakistan artillery firing on the western front. The mood in the squadron turned sombre.
There was unanimity in the Academy that the Pakistanis needed to be taught a lesson. All of us wanted to take up the gun and teach the enemy a lesson they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
‘India must drop a nuclear bomb over that country,’announced Maachh, who was very disturbed after hearing the news about Saurav’s father. It was Bong solidarity at its peak. ‘End of all problems, once and for all.’
‘I wish we were given a chance to fight the ***,’Bertie gnashed his teeth in anger.
‘Our chance will come,’replied Randy, coolly.’Those *** are not going to give up fighting, and this will not be the last war either.’
Ferreira updated us regularly on the progress of the battle during the POP rehearsals, ’Bang and dig in your feet as if a Pakistani soldier is under your feet,’he shouted. Patriotism was running high among the cadets, and he used the emotion to goad us on.
His words had a telling effect, and the noise that emerged from the parade ground seemed to rattle the buildings. Drill, after all, is about banging and digging in of the feet. The rehearsals carried on. Although the rehearsal was quite all right, the deputy said that it was bad and called the Academy out in the evenings for practice. This had never happened before. His high standards were the cause of misery for the cadets.
‘You are fortunate to be a part of one of the best military training schools in the world. You have to live up to its reputation and prove your credentials,’he barked. ’Nothing short of excellence is acceptable.’
We responded by performing our part in the best possible manner.
The commandant’s parade was even more impressive. After the commandant left, the deputy arrived and dashed all our hopes by saying, ‘It is customary for the VIP to say that the parade is good, but I say it was a ***ing display!’
The final POP, in which the Chief of Army Staff reviewed the parade, was fantastic. After the parade, Ferreira announced that he had never seen a parade as good as ours. It was better than the POP of the West Point in the US, and Sandhurst in the UK. His words made us swell up with pride. The final part of the parade, in which the band played the ’Auld Lang Syne,’and the entire Academy did a slow march, was perhaps the most impressive part of the show.
The sixth-termers marched out from the front under the quarterdeck, and the others from the rear, to the Quarter Master Fort, in a magnificent display, that brought a lump in every spectator’s throat. The entire spectacle evoked patriotism in everyone.
The POP marked the end of the term for the first- to the fifth-termers. For the sixth-termers, it was time to bid goodbye to the Academy after a formal tea with the officers.
seventeen
p
It was time for some serious professional training, geared to make us feel like true soldiers. Training in weapons was a vital part of our training. The ustaads who taught military subjects like PT, drill, weapon training, swimming, and other necessary skills, were from the army and were the very best in their profession. Their pattern of imparting instruction was standard throughout the army. It was simple, systematic, and logical. It was meant for the dullest of the dullards. While the instructors taught in English, the ustaads imparted lessons in Hindi, and the textbooks on weapon training were in Hindi.
In our first class on ‘7.62 Self Loading Rifle’we were made to sit in a small squad of ten cadets. A blackboard and a table were placed before us, and written in bold letters across the blackboard, were the words, ‘7.62 mm Self Loading Rifle’. While the heading was clearly visible to everyone, the text under it was covered with long paper strips. The strips covered the sequence in which the lesson was to be conducted, and as the instructor completed one phase, he removed the paper strip and went on to the next. The sequence went like this:
Introduction
Parts
Functions
Working
Trouble-shooting
Conclusion
On the table lay a SLR Rifle covered with a white bedsheet.
The ustaad arrived, marching smartly, and stood at attention between the board and the table, while we watched intently. With dramatic deliberation, he looked at the board, seeming to study the words written on it. He then carefully lifted the bedsheet covering the rifle, peeped under it cautiously, lifted it by a few millimetres and then covered it up again.
Finally, having finished his inspection, he was ready for the lesson. He drew in a deep breath and asked pompously, ‘Cadets, to soche aur bataein, aj ka lesson kya hai (Cadets, think carefully and tell me, what is today’s lesson about?).’
We all knew the topic as it was given in the weekly programme, distributed a week in advance. Besides, it was there right in front of us, written in block letters on the blackboard. It was sheer stupidity to ask such a dim-witted question. But we decided to play along. The ustaad paused dramatically near RP and asked: ‘Cadet RP Singh, aap bataein (You tell us).’
‘Danda (stick),’ RP Singh got up and answered with a straight face. Although dying to break into laughter, we managed to maintain a solemn expressions.
‘Takreeban theek, baith jayen (Almost correct, sit down).’
Rather pleased with the effort, the ustaad went down the aisle, ‘Cadet Nath?’
‘Pistol.’
‘Takreeban theek, baith jayen.’
It was a premeditated decision that no one would give the right answer. On his part, the ustaad never declared any answer as wrong. His ’takreeban theek’was supposed to motivate us.
After having asked a few more cadets, the ustaad shrugged and strode back to the table, pretending to be exasperated with our stupidity. His strategy of ’takreeban theek’had not succeeded in eliciting the correct answer.
Then, with a flourish, he removed the bedsheet, and uncovered the rifle lying under it, like a genie unravelling a miracle. ‘Aaj ka sabak hai, Self Loading Rifle 7.62 mm. (Today’s lesson is Self Loading Rifle 7.62mm).’
Thereafter, like a robot, he began parroting the facts and details, teaching the cadets as though he was instructing a class of mentally challenged kids. With the kind of answers he had received to the simple queries, it was not his fault if he took us to be nitwits.
The questions asked by the ustaads were invariably funny. Initially, we would laugh until we cried, but gradually, we got used to the questions and remained stone-faced like the ustaads themselves, when someone gave an equally funny answer.
Some of the question-answer sessions went like this:
/> ‘Three-men trench mein kitne log fit aaten hain (How many men can fit into a three-men trench)?’ the ustaad would ask.
We would answer, ’Do (two), chaar (four), or panch (five).’
The ustaad would not get angry because he thought we were buffoons. Finally, he would announce, ‘takreeban theek,’and in a self-important manner, give out the correct answer. ’Cadets, dhyan dein. Three-men trench mein teen log fit aaten hain (Cadets, listen carefully. Three men can fit into a three-men trench).’
The terminology used by the ustaads was a real howler. Indication of reference points was a genuine example of ‘humour in uniform’. It went something like this:
‘Samney dekh, 100 metres, ek chota pond, naam: Hema Malini (Look to your front, 100 metres, a small pond, name: Hema Malini).’
No one ever questioned the logic of the names given to the reference points. For some mysterious reasons, a round tree was called Kabutar. Still more mysterious was the significance of naming a tall mountain Simi, after the actress. The most popular reference point was a pair of mountain tips called Begum Para’s tits. The references never failed to draw a spate of chuckles from the cadets.
At times, the reference points were so numerous that names had to be borrowed from Hollywood. Marilyn Monroe was a hot favourite.
Workshop classes were conducted in the Science Block. It was the only place where one got an opportunity to exercise one’s imagination. We were taught a whole lot of things like the blacksmith’s trade, tinning, foundry work, carpentry, working on lathe machines … things we would never get to learn anywhere else.
These classes were conducted normally after double outdoor exercise and breakfast, not really the best time for such activities. With their bellies full of a sumptuous breakfast, most of the cadets looked forward to a good nap instead. The workshop with its huge area and umpteen nooks and corners was ideally suited for the much-desired snooze. A few keen cadets would keep the instructors busy, while characters like Maachh and Bertie stole into one of the nooks to grab a refreshing siesta. Most of the cadets marked their attendance and slunk off, either to the library or to their rooms.
Boots Belts Berets Page 17
