The war wick.

From the blunted summit of a hillock, the camouflaged enemy bunker was hawk- eyeing the village near Monte- Casino. The village had a bigger road, few big lanes and many small getaways. The allied troopers entered the village and fanned out. The allegiance forged by force had Indian contingent as well. From atop we must have looked like mice entering the maze in search of a cheese cube; or like the minuscule rodents trapped in the back alley. With pussy feet we advanced. With backs walled up we peeped through the corners of the remnant buildings. Our vigil ricocheted from roof tops to windows, from closed doors to empty pavements in search of enemy signs. Eroded benches, stained window panes, broken street lamps and abandoned lanes is all what we could see.

I was following Him, we all were. We climbed a mound of rubble and ruins. This gave us a better leverage and better view. Taking cover behind the big boulder we hunkered down. We were squatting on the wreckage pile of someone’s house, on the debris of someone’s dreams.

While carefully peeking through His binoculars He said “It is funny, how the definition of treasure changes during the war. For empty water bottles it is the undried well and chlorine tablets, for growling stomachs it is the half rotten fruits and vegetables or the tinned tunas…..and for our depleting arsenal, it is magazines for our Thompsons.” A wry smile followed.

We on the other hand just sat still, trying to calm our exploding hearts in the chest wall. After all we were in Italy assaulting against the winter line held by Axis. We all knew that the Germany and its friends were not exactly of compassionate kind. They outnumbered us strategically, numerically and technologically. We all knew that we were waiting for our turn to die; our eyes were wide open just to see from where it was coming. From the corner of my eye, I could see a bulleted polka dot wall, it was the only wall standing. Even the ceiling was blown off. It could have been a class room once, or may be something else who knows. There in the heap of rocks, concrete and bricks, I could see a black trunk, half buried filled with ammunition. I brought it to His notice.

Happy but not convinced with the find He pierced through the binoculars for 15 minutes.

“Why the enemy has the ammunition matching exactly to our weaponry?” He thought.

But before He could think aloud a young British officer darted towards the find. What seemed like any other residual junk left behind by bombings; was actually a booby trap. One wrong step and the British ammunition boot was tugging on the trip wire. The bombs exploded with deafening decibels. Those in the close range were in shambles. Others were drenched in blood and then it started raining.

It was not cloudy but it started drizzling. The sun was vomiting heat yet it started raining. The rain drops were acidic. The screeching shells started shattering all around. The ground below vibrated and the dust whirled up. As the causalities increased the screaming and yelling increased. All opened fired in the direction of the source of bombarding, the hill. The bunker was out of reach yet everyone kept on firing in frenzy. He was the only one who calmly cowered down and waited.

“Just stay put. Don’t shoot you morons! They are out of range. Save your ammo. We will require it when they send a squad to swipe and shoot us, once the shelling stops.” He kept on shouting.

The explosions were un- ceasing. He was saying something to me, but all I could do was to try and lip read. All I could see was dry, cut, dusty lips moving incomprehensibly. The blasts had torn my ear drum rendering me useless to hear. The smut and soot pierced the eyes; blind- folding us if not blinding. We were changing positions to dodge the in-comings. A heavy slab flew from the blast near by and hit my right knee. The pain was so excruciating that I collapsed. I blacked out. I thought It was my time up.

Then my eyes opened only intermittently to witness the misery around. The first time my eyes opened at that time I realized that He was carrying me on his shoulder, running helter- skelter in search of a shelter. The second time around I was propped up against the wall with a pistol in my hand. He was at a distance aiming and shooting at the enemy. Next time around the shelling had almost stopped. My knee was crushed and drenched red. His body was sprinkled with jagged pieces of shrapnel but still He was fixing the bayonet to his gun for close combat.

Looking at me He said with deep in-drawing voice “Remember, a bullet in the back is more painful literally and metaphorically than on the chest. You too have a gun and bullets with name.” He started aiming at the enemy in the prone rifle position. He never moved after that.

The callosity of the human nature is unskinned during war. We all were strangers to one another. It was strangers for whom we fought and it was strangers with whom we fought. We were blood brothers destined to either kill or get killed. One final time I saw up above towards the heaven. There were angels over our shoulders. The British Hawker Hurricane was roaring and tearing the air. In no time the bunker was fumed. I realized that, on that day, no bullet, no knife had my name.

 

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

The tape recorder went blank. The silence was punctuated by the squeaking of the ceiling fan which had one of its blades, bent a little. The little air that it moved, fluttered the pages of 1969 hung on the wall. In the olive-green room near the window sat a tall thin dark man who had side partitioned, oiled hair and a paralytic limp on the right. He was wearing grey trousers, untucked off- white shirt and golden framed glasses. Near the opposite wall sat an army uniform with a maroon beret worn with a rakish angel. Adjacent to him stood a solider, with hands ramrod straight by his sides. The room was filled with few more people sitting on netted, wooden chairs near the main door.

“I despise the greed and rapacity filled in this room. It is sad when people lie for glamour that too on the doings of war veterans posthumously. In spite of army pension and other perks, it is dispiriting to see the youth claiming more on the basis of a blatant lie.” Said the counselor tucking his white hair under the beret.

There was a ripple of disapproval from those seated on netted, wooden chairs which was shunned by the solider standing next to the counselor.

“For 25^th anniversary of Indian Army’s contribution in World War 2; we were compiling the war stories of that era. The idea was to identify and honor their supreme sacrifice and bestow upon them the medals they well deserved.  We got many letters. We came across 3 specific letters and this tape. The descriptions bore remarkable similarities. They each claim that their story is true. Now there can’t be four heroes in the same story, right?” The counselor chuckled in sarcasm looking at the man in off- white shirt.

“Which means three, out of four are lying.” Piercing through the crowd he continued.

“This meeting is to clear the misunderstanding. They all gave your reference and hence, regretfully I had to invite you to this circus to testify.” Said the counselor looking at the golden glasses with a guilt face.

“This is not a meeting. This is a mock trial to make a scapegoat out of us, so as to hide the short comings of the defenses in identifying their own heroes well in time.” Said someone from the crowd. A rumble rose in the crowd and faded away.

The counselor asked to the man near the window “Are you the first person in the narrative?”

Yes, said the man with golden glasses.

“And who is the ‘He’ you are referring to in your story?” asked the counselor with a subtle sharpness in his voice; looking at the crowd

After a pin drop silence he continued, “Is he sepoy Laxman Singh or Sonam Sharma from infantry? Is he Harpal Kartara from Sikhs or sepoy Gobind Yechury?” His eyes pierced through the families of these veterans.

The families listened the silence. Today their strong belief was at the brink of an earthquake. They were seeing for the first time the man who could have written those letters or could have sent the tape. More so this was the man who could have seen their family heroes in flesh and blood when the heart was still pumping. Each had a quizzing thought, was there anything more to share. A hope lingered that others were lying.

“The soldiers are the war wicks. The wick of the cannon ball anyway burns. The cannon ball doesn’t know the direction of the friends or the foes.” Said the man adjusting his golden glasses.

“The Britannica lured the hungry Indians to volunteer, which they had starved in the first place. Remember how the British Raj looted our grains and assets to feed their war horses?” he momentarily looked at the counselor. The counselor looked away not able to withstand the directness of the stare.

“Humpty- Dumpty sat for a war; Humpty- Dumpty had a great war.”

“Jack & John went up the hill to fetch the pail of power. Both fell down and broke their brow but crown prevailed last laughter.”

 “Churchill used the colonial people as pawns; first in line to die last in line for cereals. Different war codes for different colored derma. Bunkers for whites, pigsty for others. Whites fought on full stomachs; others fought on left- overs. They had plenty of bullets to rive, blacks and brown had few with couple of bullets in the pocket for self; in case the capture was inevitable.” He continued passionately.

“Indians expected a heart- felt thanks from Chruchill which they never got. Many lost their lives on the foreign soil, fighting for the sworn flag; fighting for Britannia. Many lived with everything lost. We don’t even know if they were buried or burnt; or just left for the vultures.” He paused.

The humid eyes stared at him.

“You ask me who is the hero of this story. Well…. everyone is. You ask me who is lying. Well…. No one is lying.” Said he curtly looking at the counselor.

All were confused, relieved, bewildered, stuck by tornado. The kaleidoscopic emotions were difficult to contain in the eyes and the feelings started rolling down the cheeks. The Counselor's face became white like an A4 size paper, as nothing was unearthed yet.

“There is only one liar in this room and that would be me.” On this statement everyone exchanged befuddled looks.

“I am not a war veteran. I am not even a soldier. I am just a simple person who felt that the mourning families of the soldiers need little more than just the pensions and perks. They needed a story to live on. They needed a story to remember, a chronicle to cherish, a tale to be inspired. I just gave them that.” He got up and hobbled towards the door.  

“A coward can kill but only brave can face the death with dignity. Remember, willing to die needs guts. A soldier is a hero irrespective of his kills. Decaf death or Latte demise; the soldiers face it like sipping a hot coffee.” Saying this he exited.

The air which was riddled with tension eased out. The hall gradually became vacant with intact prides. 

On the other hand he still awaits the courtroom trial; the minutes of this meeting however are long lost.