The patrol leader checked his watch and compass again. He had deviated from the route he had to take and moved a little westward. He should have spotted the ruins of the abandoned observation tower by now – a familiar landmark, which would tell him that he was almost back to the safety of his lines. He was tired. They had marched all night, spotting no enemy in the course of their reconnaissance. His senses were dulled and in the knowledge that they were almost back to safety, he had not taken the elementary precautions, which his tactics instructors had drilled repeatedly into him. His three-man patrol was bunched close together when they crossed the dune and they were silhouetted against the desert skyline. It was only when he crested the dune that he saw the enemy.
He was young and still full of hope. Like his father before him, his uncles and many of his compatriots, he had enlisted out of sheer economic compulsions. He had harboured illusions about war, longed for it and boasted what he would do then. These illusions had been shattered on the first night itself when the artillery salvoes struck their trenches. Now the only dreams he retained were of returning to his village on another spell of leave, tending his land and smoking an acrid hookah around the peepul tree. He was young and very afraid.
Yet, with the carbine in his hands, he felt powerful and invincible. The freshly primed grenades in his belt aided that emotion. But he was not strong or invincible enough to stop the deep thudding of his heart, or curb the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His carbine was not cocked now but cradled readily against his forearm, its short barrel pointing almost directly at the khaki-clad group who looked up in shock and fear from the base of the dune.
The two patrols stared at each other, instinctively drawing their weapons closer. The opponents were separated by just 20 yards of sand. Their instincts screamed that it required just a few bursts from their weapons to terminate this chance encounter. Yet, in this moment, both their training and instincts failed them.
For what seemed an eternity the two patrols met each other’s gaze. Both had weapons pointing at the other but no hand moved to cock the lever or apply the gentle squeeze on the trigger. Fear-flecked eyes probed for a sign, which would galvanize them out of their shock and initiate the firefight. But no hand moved. The soldiers gripped their weapons, sensing each other’s vulnerability. They held their fire, sensing each other’s fear.
Almost in unison the two patrols wheeled and turned disappearing from sight across the friendly sand dune that separated them. The green clad patrol circuited the dune bypassing it to the left and headed back to the sanctuary of their lines. On the other side of the dune, the khaki-clad patrol turned around and raced towards safety across the dividing line of no-mans-land.
The patrol leader got his leave subsequently. He returned to his village, tilled his land and exaggerated shamelessly about his exploits. In his quieter moments he often wondered what it was that held his fire and that of his opponent, on that fated dawn. Perhaps it was the paralysis of shock, or maybe just the instinct of self-preservation. Perhaps it was the fear that he felt and sensed. On maybe, it was deeper and more complex than that. Perhaps it was just humanity.
Ajay Singh