' "That's the spirit, Balwant." The CO thumped me on the back and told me to rally the remaining men. My platoon commander had also deserted, so the CO put me in charge of the platoon. Our battalion was given the task of moving forward immediately to recapture the bridge. The Delta company of Gurkha Rifles was also ready for assault, together with the remaining tanks of 31 Cavalry.
'The morning erupted in cannon and machine-gun fire. Mandiala Crossing became an inferno, a cauldron of fire, concussion and explosion. With sniper bullets whizzing past our heads, machine guns spewing out continuous and deadly fire, enemy aircraft wailing overhead and bombs crashing all around us, we charged from our position with fixed bayonets, shouting the Sikh battle cry, "Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal." We fell upon the advancing enemy and bayoneted many to death in bloody hand-to-hand fighting. This bold action completely demoralized the enemy.
The tide began to turn in our favour. We started pushing the enemy back.
'At that point, the enemy decided to bring their tanks across the Tawi river. So far, they had remained on the other side. The moment they crossed the bridge and came over to our side, we would have been completely exposed. It was essential that we stop them from crossing the bridge. Now our T-55 tanks belonging to 31 Cavalry and the 27th Armoured Regiment came into action. At first our tanks withstood the enemy onslaught well, but when the Pakistani Patton tanks began rolling across the bridge, two of our chaps abandoned their tanks and ran away.
'I don't know what came over me. I just ran towards one of the abandoned tanks, opened the hatch and slipped inside. I knew about tanks, but I had never driven one before. Still, it took me only a couple of minutes to figure out the controls and very soon I had put the T55 into motion.
As my tank started up, it came under heavy fire from the enemy concealed in bunkers. So I moved my tank towards the enemy trench. They thought I would give up in the face of their sustained firing, but I kept moving relentlessly towards the bunker, till they jumped out and fled.
One of them tried to clamber on to my tank. I immediately put the turret on power traverse, swung the 100 mm rifled gun around and knocked him away like a fly from milk. Meanwhile, our other tanks had begun targeting the enemy, and within twenty minutes only one enemy Patton tank was left. I chased it as it tried to get away. My tank received a direct hit from it and went up in flames. But my gun was still functioning. I kept chasing the Patton and shot at it, barely fifty yards from my position. The enemy tank stopped suddenly and reeled backwards, its turret spinning around like a drunken man. Finally it stopped turning and the tank burst into a ball of flame. I got on to the Bravo-I set to my CO and said, "Eight enemy tanks destroyed, Sir. Situation under control."
'Mandiala Bridge was now almost within our grasp. The enemy had scattered. Its tanks were destroyed, but there were still isolated pockets of resistance. The enemy had sited some machine guns and rocket launchers around the bridge which were still active. And, most important of all, the Pakistani flag was still flying atop the bridge. I had to tear it down. Dazed by concussion and ripped and bloodied from shards of flying metal, I began inching towards the Pakistani bunker.
All around me, I saw corpses in the churned and muddy ground. I kept on moving forward and advanced to within ten yards of the enemy bunker, which was ringed by a tangle of barbed wire.
I then lobbed a smoke grenade into the bunker and three Pakistani soldiers tumbled out, dead and bleeding. There was only one soldier remaining. As I raised my rifle to shoot him, I realized suddenly that it had jammed. The enemy soldier also saw this. He smiled, raised his gun and pressed the trigger. A hail of bullets hit my left leg, and I fell to the ground. He pointed the gun at my heart and pressed the trigger again. I said my prayers and prepared to die. But instead of a deafening blast, there was just a hollow click. His magazine had finished. "Narai Takbir – Allah O Akbar!" he shouted and rushed at me with naked bayonet. I met him shouting, "Jai Hind" and neatly side-stepped his charge. I then clubbed him to death with the butt of my rifle. Finally, I leapt at the enemy flag, tore it down and replaced it with the tricolour. When I saw our flag fluttering atop Mandiala Bridge, it was the happiest moment of my life, though I knew I had lost one leg.'
Balwant Singh stops speaking, and we see that his eyes are drenched in tears.
Nobody stirs for almost a minute. Then Putul goes up to Balwant Singh and holds out his exercise book. The soldier wipes his eyes. 'Arrey, what is this? I cannot do your maths homework for you.'
'I don't want you to do my homework,' says Putul.
'Then what is this book for?'
'I want your autograph. You are our hero.'
Everyone claps.
Dhyanesh raises the same question again. 'So which award did they give you for this battle?'
Balwant goes silent, as if we have touched a raw nerve. Then he says bitterly, 'Nothing. They gave out two MVCs and two PVCs to 35 Sikh. Three of my colleagues got Sena medals and a memorial was constructed in Jaurian. But they didn't give me anything, not even a mention in despatch. There was no recognition of my valour.'
He lets out a sigh. 'But not to worry. I take satisfaction when I see the flame burning over Amar Jyoti, the memorial to the Unknown Soldier. I feel it burns for people like me.' Turning philosophical, he recites a poem in Urdu: 'Unheralded we came into this world. Unheralded we will go out. But while we are in this world, we do such deeds that even if this generation does not remember, the next generation cannot forget.'
Everyone goes quiet again. Suddenly, Mrs Damle begins singing, 'Sare jahan se achcha Hindustan hamara . . .' Pretty soon everyone else joins in singing the patriotic song. I don't know what comes over us youngsters, but we organize a spontaneous march past. We form a single line and file past Balwant Singh, our right fists clenched tightly in a gesture of salute to this brave soldier.
This was our war. He was our hero.
Balwant Singh is so overcome with emotion, he starts crying. 'Jai Hind!' he shouts, and shuffles out of the room, leaving us alone with the rustle of elephant grass, the sound of exploding bombs, the acrid smell of cordite, and the stench of death.
Mr Wagle comes to the dais and makes an announcement. 'Dear friends, I have the honour of informing you that tomorrow we are being visited by a team from the Soldiers' Benefit Fund, SBF for short. Our beloved Prime Minister has made an appeal to all Indians to contribute generously for the benefit of our soldiers, who sacrifice their lives so that we may live in freedom with honour and dignity. I hope all of you will dig deep into your pockets to help the SBF.'
'But what about the soldier in our own midst? Shouldn't we do something to help him as well?'
Mr Shirke shouts.
There are cries of 'Hear! Hear!'
'Yes, you are absolutely right. But I think the biggest service we can do to Balwantji is to get his achievements in the 1971 war recognized. We will give a memorandum to the people from the SBF who come here tomorrow.'
We are all excited. It looks as if finally we are also contributing to the war effort.
* * *
There are three of them who come. A tall man, a short man and a fat man. All three are ex-officers; the tall one is from the navy, the short one is from the army and the fat man is from the air force. The short man gives a long speech. He tells us that our soldiers are doing a great job.
Our country is great. Our Prime Minister is great. We are great. And our donations should also be great. They pass around a basket. People put money in it. Some put five rupees, some ten, some one hundred. One of the ladies puts in her gold bangles. Salim doesn't have any money. He puts in two packets of bubblegum. Balwant Singh is not present. He has sent word that he has a touch of flu.