Category: Navy – Nostalgia

FOREIGN JAUNTS

Navy is a true international service; it is because most often than not it operates beyond 12 nautical miles of the coast and hence in international waters called the high seas. Our counterparts from the Army and the Air Force rarely leave the country whereas we do it on an everyday basis; in almost every sailing we leave the territorial limits of the country. I was conscious of it in my very first sailing as a cadet on the cruiser Delhi. At sea, when I looked around, it filled me with a strange thrill that the waters around me connected me as much to foreign lands as to India.
One World One Dream – At the Great Wall of China

 

Still, there is nothing like actually going abroad; one of the fringe benefits of joining the Navy. I remember the then Captain Nayyar, Commanding Officer (CO) of Indian Naval Ship (INS) Delhi, addressing the ship’s company before entering the port of Aden; my first foreign port. He said each one of us were the ambassadors of our great nation ashore and were expected to conduct ourselves likewise. I thought to myself: ‘What great luck to be called “Your Excellency” at the age of twenty-one’. Some of us accompanied the CO for luncheon at the Governor’s residence  and felt like true ambassadors indeed.
With H.E. Sh. B. Jaishankar, High Commissioner of India

 

 

Our next cruise was to the port of Sabang in Indonesia. It was about 20 kms or so from the city of Balawan. This was where we imagined the fun to be. But, the problem that confronted us was how to reach there. With our meager resources we could not have hired a cab and we were not familiar with the bus routes. As we came out of the port we spotted a ‘tempo’ driven by a sardar. We thumbed a ride. As we sat with him in the front seats he got into a conversation with us about the ship. We showed off to him how the ship was fitted with the very latest in warfare and comfort. He was particularly keen to know about the conditions in the Engine Room. We told him that our Engine Room had the latest in air-conditioned luxury and had
Indian Navy officers at Cape of Good Hope
controls and sensors to match a liner. After three quarter of an hour’s journey he dropped us at Belawan with the parting shot, “Great to know about your modern ship, Sirs; you did not recognize me, I am LME (Leading Mechanical Engineroom rating) Avtar Singh from your ship. This ‘tempo’ belongs to my brother here in Belawan. How about coming to the Engine Room sometimes and doing a watch with me?” For the next few months we avoided A Singh on board as if he were a leper.
With “Ambassadors” of other Navies at a Seminar
On Ganga, I remember our CO’s address before entering the Ethiopian (now Eritrean) port of Massawa. After reminding us about our ambassadorial duties he embarked on another subject. He said foreign visits were also occasions to build up databanks. He said whilst we were not expected to actively indulge in any intelligence gathering, but, many a times, information could come to us in most unexpected manner. To illustrate the point he told us about the time when Indians were making overtures towards the Germans to procure submarines from them and wanted more information about them. He said he had gone to have a haircut at a saloon in Bonn and there, whilst waiting for his turn, he was leafing through the magazines. Lo and behold he found all the information about the submarines in an article in a local magazine. That evening, after we entered Massawa, we must have caused a small flutter in international – relations, for, the entire Ganga wardroom landed up at the local saloon for a haircut.
As a young officer in Odessa
On Himgiri we had gone on a foreign visit to the Black Sea Soviet (now Ukranian) port of Odessa. In foreign ports, sailors generally go out in uniform whereas the officers may go out in civvies. But, so great was the fascination of the Soviet belles with uniform that we found that the sailors managed to make friends with the prettiest of them. As if that was not enough, to add insult to injury, on the second day of our stay when a reception was held on board for the local authorities and their ladies, one of the ladies enquired of us as to why there was no officer in the reception. It was difficult to get to the bottom of this because of language barrier and it took us sometime to unravel the mystery. Apparently, a day earlier one of the Petty Officers in uniform on shore leave, when asked as to why was there a distinction between some of us going out for ‘liberty’ (shore leave) in uniform and others in civvies had informed them that only they, the officers, with an anchor or two on their sleeves, were “permitted” to go out in uniform.
On duty in erstwhile Yugoslavian port of Split
During our trip to Athens we were ambling in the Constitution Square when a kind man came to us and asked if we were Indian. He said that he admired Indians and would like us to have drinks in the company of his fair-sex friends. The drinks were nice and the girls were nicer still. We talked about our great nations, our history and heritage, Taj Mahal, Delhi etc (amongst other things, that is) and really enjoyed ourselves. We were under-trainee Acting Sub Lieutenants on board. We were convinced that we were smarter, wittier, more interesting company; else, why would the girls be attracted to us as compared to our more senior colleagues from Himgiri? In our megalomaniac trance we did not know that the man who had invited us had quietly vanished and so had our seniors. Later, we were asked to pay an exorbitant bill for the drinks, and we had to part with our entire foreign allowance and more. We were the suckers who had fallen for the obvious ploy. When we returned on board we were ‘ceremoniously’ received with all the seniors lining the gangway and going through the motions of a mock side-pipe.
In Florence (Italy)
Such hoaxes and swindles during foreign jaunts are worth remembering. During one such trip we landed up at Colombo. In order to shop there we had to first convert our Indian rupees into local currency. Just as it happened in Athens, a kind hearted gentleman came and asked us to put our money in individual envelopes that he had brought, write the names and amounts on the sealed envelopes and then he’d go and get the requisite local currency. He took the envelopes from us only to make a list and then handed these back to us. We held on to these whilst he went on his errand. We were confident that this was totally safe since we had the envelopes with the money with us. As time passed and he did not return we reassured ourselves by feeling the envelopes containing our money. However, when he did not return even after one hour of wait we opened the envelopes and found that instead of our hard-earned money these contained newspaper strips. In the evening we narrated this incident, over drinks, to other officers in the wardroom and they made fun of us for not being observant and cautious. The next day the lot to whom we had told the story also lost their money in like manner.
But, of all the incidents during foreign trips, this one takes the cake. Whilst walking in one of the ports, knowing that the locals would not know our language, that is, Punjabi, one officer
Crossing the English Channel
would accost the lovely damsels with the naughty Punjabi line: “D— ke thane jaana?” (Are you willing or should I take you to Thana, that is, Police Station). The damsels, not understanding the question or its import would just smile at him and walk away and all of us would burst in cackles. However, when he asked this of the most beautiful of the girls, she confronted him with, “Thane jaana”. He did not know where to look. That evening we had a reception on board and she happened to be the daughter of the Indian (and Punjabi) First Secretary. Our flamboyant Punjabi officer did the Mister India trick (many years before the movie was released) and tried to become invisible during the party.
Foreign trips or port calls or overseas deployments are great ones to showcase Indian technology, culture, greatness etc. These are occasions to make bridges of friendship across the oceans. However, what one remembers most about them are such snippets.

ANYTHING FOR ME?

          The Missile Boats, of the type that took part in our daring attack on Karachi in 1971, had a deadly punch of missiles. However, due to their low height of eye, they were many times poor in inter-ship communications, especially in comparison to larger Fleet ships. This often produced frustrating results. One of these is described here.

          For CinC’s farewell at sea, the Fleet Commander had got the combined strength of the Fleet and Flotilla (to which smaller boats like Missile Boats and Durgs belonged) with him. Whilst the Fleet ships had to do the traditional steam-past the mighty Vikrant with CinC embarked, the Flotilla ships were to approach Vikrant from ahead and fan out abreast of Vikrant in pairs on obtaining the crucial signal.

          This complex manoeuvre required coordination of extremely high order. To ensure proper command and control, the Fleet Communication Officer had tried to get all ships, big or small, on a common communication circuit. At this stage, a small Missile Boat (Let us call it MB One) was trying to establish communication with the Fleet Commander (Let us call it Flag), for example:

          “Flag, this is MB One, how do you hear me, over”
          And again: “Flag, this is MB One, Radio Check, over” with increasing urgency since the serial was about to start.

I was on a newly commissioned Fleet ship and we could hear the repeated wails of MB One. Even though Flag had many times acknowledged the calls of MB One, the latter could not hear it. In the meantime the grand manoeuvre commenced and the communication operator on MB One must have been panicky that he had not established two-way communications.

Before the Fleet ships’ planned steam-past, came the first of the Flotilla ships, the Durgs who were to fan out abreast of Vikrant, their ship’s companies calling out ‘Teen Jais’ to the CinC. One of the Durgs (Let us call it Durg Two) fanned out earlier than called for and that part of the grand manoeuvre looked shabby. The Fleet Commander could have waited to return to harbour to convey his displeasure; but, there is nothing like on-the-spot-dressing-down. So a signal was made on the common net, “Durg Two this is Flag, your stupidity has spoiled the whole show, over”.

          Meanwhile MB One was still trying, in vain, to net in, “Flag, this is MB One, how do you hear me? Over”.

          The ‘stupidity’ signal, not being in the proper signalese, completely flummoxed the operator on Durg Two, who asked for a repetition by the most commonly used words on the circuit during those days, “Flag, this is Durg Two, say again your last, over”.

          I am sure, Commanding Officer of Durg Two, if he had heard this on the speaker on his ship, as the rest of the Fleet did, would never have wanted such a signal to be repeated. But, now, the Flag operator had no choice. Hence, he tried again, “Durg Two, this is Flag, your STOO PEE DITTY has spoiled the whole show, over”.

          Meanwhile, MB One, getting a lot of crackling sound on the headset must have been in total panic, more so as his turn to perform similar manoeuvre was fast approaching. Hence, his “Flag, this is MB One, how do you hear me, over” had become agonisingly more desperate. At this stage, Durg One, to our amused horror, requested Flag to spell word after ‘your’.

          After this, the entire sequence, heard on my ship was:
          “Flag, this is MB One, how do you hear me, over”
          “Flag, this is Durg Two, say again all after ‘your’ and spell word after ‘your’”.
          “Flag, this is MB One, anything for me, over”
          “Durg Two, this is Flag, I say again my last: your STOO PEE DITTY, I spell, Sierra Tango Uniform Papa India Tango Yankee, STOO PEE DITTY, has spoiled the whole show, over”
          “Flag this is MB One” with alarm now since a long message had been made and he had missed it totally, “Anything for ME over”!

They also serve who only stand and wait!

LEADERSHIP LESSON #2

Life’s little things are the ones that teach you more than bigger events. I spent thirty-seven years in the Indian Navy and I am convinced my life was moulded because of the small nuggets that came my way. I shall periodically try to recollect some of these in this blog. This is the second of these nuggets.

I was posted on INS Himgiri for obtaining my Bridge Watchkeeping certificate. Himgiri was the second of the indigenously built Leander class frigates (the first one being Nilgiri). It was a fully air-conditioned modern frigate with the latest in weapons and sensors. However, my next ship, INS Karwar, a Hunt class minesweeper appeared to be a big letdown. It was old, leaking (especially at the forepeak where the previous ship’s company had banged it whilst going alongside at Gateway of India whilst practising for President’s Review of the Fleet) and as far removed from the luxuryof a Leander as possible.In addition to the pathetic state of the ship, I suddenly found myself in a position wherein I was responsible for my job (unlike when I was an under-trainee on Himgiri) and could not turn to anyone for advice about how to go about doing the various tasks that I was expected to do.I had been on board for about a week. On one night when I was the Officer of the Day, at about the time when the last libertymen should return, there was commotion in the water near the ship’s berth on South Breakwater in Naval Dockyard, Mumbai. Kuldip Singh, Seaman First Class, Radar Plotter, Third Grade, had fallen from the brow into the water. It came out that he was in the habit of returning drunk on board and that the incident was bound to happen one day or the other.

Anyway, I got him fished out of the water. Kuldip had lost his turban and his Identity Card, two of the things that he should have guarded with great care; one protecting his izzat (honour) in civil life and the other in navy life. The next day he was marched before me and thereon to the Executive Officer (second in command) and to the Commanding Officer (the Navy Act and Regulations for the I.N. gives powers to those in authority to summarily try and award punishments). He was awarded Punishments numbers 14 (Reprimand, that was recorded in his Service Documents), 12 (Stoppage of Leave for 30 days), and 11 (Extra work and drill for 7 days).

On the same day, my CO called me and told me to get in touch with the concerned staff officer in the Bureau of Sailors and have him transferred out of the ship and ask for someone smart.

I was about to make the phone call to the said staff officer when I gave it one last thought: what would be achieved by transferring him out? Instead of being a headache to us he would become a headache to them. He should either be boarded out (which punishment we had not given him) or reformed. But, who was going to reform him?

The next day, Kuldip was standing before me for another default verging on insubordination; he had refused to wash the mess utensils as a mess man on duty. Instead of putting him on defaulters I consulted my XO. Despite the setback, he was very encouraging of my plan to reform Kuldip and never told me that the idea was doomed to failure. He, however, commented upon how bad Kuldip was in anything that was entrusted to him. As a Radar Plotter he was simply awful.

When I called Kuldip in the evening I wasn’t sure where to start. I asked him about his family. He told me he came from a small village near Jalandhar in Punjab. I enquired about his parents and siblings. I then told him that at my parents place my mother always did the cooking and even washed the dishes. Suddenly Kuldip warmed up to the commonality and said that at his village too his mother did the same.

We talked for well over an hour and I discovered that Kuldip was not bad at all. He was only rebellious as most young men at that age. Indeed, he joined the Navy as an act of rebellion against his father who wanted him to do something worthwhile at his village.

I also discovered that Kuldip had many things to tell me about his village, his family, his stern father and his goddess-like mother. At one point when he was describing the food and sweets his mother would make, I intervened to tell him how much I loved the Shakkerparas (Jaggery coated sweets made of flour) that they made in our villages.

I gently led to the topic of his drinking. It came out that initially he did it as a macho statement prevalent in Punjab villages. Later, he was drinking because he felt nobody would understand him.

In all this I only listened rather than offering any platitudes. Kuldip left and I switched on my Sony portable tape-recorder that I had acquired on my last ship Himgiri during a cruise to Aden. Elton John’s ‘Talking Old Soldiers’ was playing. Some of the words that I remember are:

You’re right there’s so much goin’ on
No one seems to want to know
So keep well, keep well old friend
And have another drink on me
Just ignore all the others
You got your memories…

The next evening as I was getting ready to go to the United Services Club to play Bridge, there was a knock at the cabin door. There stood Kuldip with a paper-bag. He was sweating due to the Extra Work and Drill and it appeared that he had gone straight to his locker to fetch the paper-bag after that.

“This is for you”, he told me, “My mother made them and you would like them”. I called him in and we again started chatting whilst having the Shakkerparas. It came out that Kuldip was very fond of reading, football, jokes, and serving langar (free community meal) at the gurudwara. I told him about my own interest in reading, writing, badminton, squash racquets, bridge and chess.

I did not go to USC for Bridge that evening; indeed, for several evenings after that.

A few days later, when our Navigator’s Yeoman was to go on leave, I suggested to XO that Kuldip could be entrusted with the job. All apprehension about his careless attitude were proved wrong when, to our pleasant surprise, we discovered the neatness and correctness of his records.

That year, Kuldip got the Proficiency Award for the best sailor on Karwar. Next year he was promoted to a Leading Seaman. That’s when I left the ship. Many years later I learnt that Kuldip rose to become a Master Chief Petty Officer, the highest that a sailor can reach.

At about the same time I was informally referred to see a psychiatrist by the edgy and pompous medical specialist at the Navy hospital in Mumbai. I was suffering from a skin affliction called Psoriasis and the doc did not like my wasting his time by discussing my situation with him. He felt that my being overly worried about my situation (seen from the fact that I needed his reassurance and wanted him to tell me the progress of my disease) was making my condition worse.

At his behest I saw the psychiatrist on three occasions in the next week and we had long sessions of discussions tailored to find my abnormalities. At the end of these, the psychiatrist pronounced me normal and balanced.

This is what he told me: “If only your medical specialist had spent fifteen minutes with you, you did not have to come to me”.

NONE OF US ARE PERFECT, BUT…..

I was the Signal Communication Officer (SCO) of the newly commissioned ship Ganga, named after the holiest of the Indian rivers. SCO’s job is the most thankless job on board a ship; at least it was during those days. Many officers of the ship felt that they could have done wonders in their particular fields of specialization (such as Anti-submarine Warfare, Gunnery, Engineering, Helicopter operations and Missiles) if only the signal had reached them in time. I was soon to learn that signals on a ship are never so important unless – like monthly periods of a maiden girl – they are missed.

It is, therefore, the earnest desire of every SCO to pray that the ship would get all signals well in time. All SCOs’ anthem is the Railway Signalman’s song that goes like this:

It’s not my job to run the train,
The whistle I can’t blow;
It’s not my job to say how far,
The train’s allowed to go.

It’s not my job to let off steam,
Nor even to clang the bell;
But let the damn thing run off the track,
And see who catches hell.

We were going off for two days sailing when just before sailing a signal was received from Dunagiri, a Leander class frigate commanded by the Navy’s most upcoming officer of his rank at that time, Commander Vinay Singh. His ship had completed a refit and he had invited my Commanding Officer together with important dignitaries from the Command Headquarters including C-in-C, Fleet including the Fleet Commander, Dockyard including the Admiral Superintendent, and various other dignitaries from ships and organisations for a dinner party on board at 1930 hours (7:30 PM) on Saturday. We were scheduled to return to harbour at about 2100 hours (9 PM) a day before that, that is, on Friday.

My Captain knew it was an important party not just because Commander Vinay Singh was bright and everyone was already predicting that his thoroughly professional attitude would one day see him rising to become the Chief of the Naval Staff; everyone knew that the party was going to be very well attended and was an occasion to be seen by the C-in-C, ASD and the Fleet Commander.

Everything was okay for us since we were to return the day before the party, enabling my CO to attend the party on Saturday. There was only one problem. The RPC (Request Pleasure of your Company) signal invited my CO for Saturday but the date given was that of Friday. It was obvious that the Communication department of Dunagiri had goofed it up. My CO wanted me to check up and confirm the date just before we sailed. He said if it was going to be on Friday he would like to return a few hours early so that he could attend the party. My course mate Lieutenant Commander Lalit Kapur was the Executive Officer (XO) (second in command) on Dunagiri. I sent one of my sailors to check up from the Communication department of Dunagiri; however, to be on the safe side, I also hopped across to meet Lalit and re-confirm the date. Both, the Communication department of Dunagiri as well as the XO assured me that the party was on Saturday. I came back on board Ganga, told this to my CO and we sailed off.

On Friday we returned at the appointed hour of 2100 hours and proceeded to take up a berth just two or three berths away from Dunagiri. As we made our approach to come alongside we noticed there was a party on in full swing on Dunagiri, complete with party lights, naval band etc. My heart sank. I knew that even while we made our approach to the berth my CO would want to eat me up or convert me into a space shuttle and send me into outer space. Rage was building up in him even whilst he feigned calm in giving the conning orders for the ship. As soon as we were alongside he fulminated. Most of what he told me (or rather screamed) cannot be printed here. However, the softer version was to do with how the bloody communicators cannot be trusted with anything and could easily f— up the simplest of things.

I too was furious. Why couldn’t Lalit tell me about the correct date? I can understand both ships communication departments botching it up. But, why did Lalit had to do this to me?

So, whilst my CO was moping in his cabin I went to Dunagiri to call Lalit out of the party and ask him for an explanation. I reached their quarterdeck and sent the quartermaster to call out Lalit from the party. Lalit came and I proceeded to dress him down for the botch up. He just kept smiling; his smile getting bigger with every invective that I was throwing at him.

Finally, he said, “Well, Ravi, the party is still tomorrow. This is our CO’s idea of a dress rehearsal so that nothing would go wrong tomorrow”.

I returned on board to tell this to my CO. His laughter could be heard at the other end of dockyard.

LEADERSHIP LESSON #1

Life’s little things are the ones that teach you more than bigger events. I spent thirty-seven years in the Indian Navy and I am convinced my life was moulded because of the small nuggets that came my way. I shall periodically try to recollect some of these in this blog. This is the first of these nuggets.

I was posted at Navy’s Leadership School at Coimbatore in South India when I was fairly young, as a Lieutenant. A Leadership Course at Indian Naval Ship Agrani (to be pronounced as Ug-runh-ee meaning Leading; however, all those who have little knowledge of Hindi, which includes ninety percent of the officers in the Navy, pronounce it as Ag-raan-ee, meaning Fire Queen) is for sailors with about 10 to 15 years of service, as Petty Officers (in Seaman branch) or their equivalents in other branches. In addition to classroom studies about leadership traits, these men are exposed to outdoor exercises to observe their individual and team attributes.

One of the outdoor exercises was a trek from Needle Factory near a hill station named Coonoor to the foothill of Ooty hills (Nilgiris). It was not meant to be a competition but since the entire lot of sailors was divided into ‘syndicates’, each with a ‘syndicate officer’ in charge, competition was bound to arise. So, as each one of the syndicates would run or walk along the difficult hilly trail, it was not just a test of endurance and hill – navigation skills but also of team spirit and various other qualities that make a leader at the level of those sailors. Sailors were dressed in what was called FSMO – Field Soldier Marching Order, complete with boots, a heavy rucksack, water bottle etc; whereas, we as officers accompanying them, were dressed in simple fatigues with sports shoes.

We, as young ‘syndicate officers’ would have secret bets of a few bottles of beer as to whose ‘syndicate’ would win the race.

I had never been a topper at sports but this trek in the hill was my favourite. Being from the hills in Himachal, this was one sport that I was good at and could actually beat others in. I had therefore been happy recipient of many bottles of beer that had come my way, despite the fact that I often had to compete with another officer who was also from the hills in Himachal.

On this particular occasion, I was sure of winning since we were leading the whole lot. Engine Room Artificer Third Grade (ERA3) Khan, who finally won the Best Leader award in that batch and I were trailing our syndicate of about 30 sailors since Khan was good at everything except a hilly trek. The nearest syndicate was about 200 metres behind and we were nearing the Kalar Gardens, the end point of the trek; a trek that our youth and spirit had converted into a competitive race.

Khan was at the verge of giving up many kilometers behind and had indicated to me a number of times that he could not go on any further. I was trying all motivational tricks at my disposal and had somehow brought him to within one kilometer of a sure victory. Suddenly, Khan tripped over a rock and fell. The heaviness of his rucksack made him tumble over. He had bruises on his hands and face and because a sharp rock went into his right calf, he started bleeding profusely from the gash.

I knew the race was over for us. It did not matter anymore since it was Khan that needed to be attended to more than the thought of winning the race and having those beers from my fellow ‘syndicate officers’. I asked the rest of the syndicate to go on whilst I made Khan sit on a flat rock. I took out his right anklet and lifted the trouser cuff to expose the wound on his calf. I had nothing to tend his wound with; so I took out my kerchief and tied it around the bleeding gash. We sat for a few minutes and then I asked him to walk with me to the medical help only a few hundred metres away. He had difficulty walking and so I asked him to lean on me. With his wounded leg even walking was tedious for him. We had forgotten about the syndicate that was following us but now we heard footsteps not so far behind.

I could make out that what weighed on Khan was the heavy rucksack. So in order to make it easier for him I unstrapped the rucksack from his back and strapped it around me. Suddenly, as if some lightening had touched Khan, he started limping and moving forward on his own. I could make out that he was wincing in pain but a few steps later he started jogging, though with extreme difficulty. The kerchief was tied lightly and with all this renewed activity it came off. The gash re-commenced bleeding profusely and I asked him to stop. He would have none of it. He shouted for me to catch up with a war-cry: “Come on, Sir; we can still win the race; you will still have those beers”.

We won the race with Khan nearly collapsing as we caught up with the rest of the syndicate.

It took me years to realize why Khan ran that day even with bleeding leg. It took me still more time to realize how he knew that his syndicate officer had set a wager to win the race, even when we had told no one about the bet and the beers.

SMALL VESSELS BIG RESOLVE

My stints with the Killers were two: the first one was as a commanding officer of INS Vipul, the 1241 RE ships collectively named as the 22nd Killer Squadron, the flame bearers of the legacy of original Killers – the 25th KS. This was in the year 1993-94. The second one was as NOIC (Andhra Pradesh) when the 25th KS in its second avatar (that is the Chamak class of OSA II Missile boats, which joined the Indian Navy in 1976-77) was placed under my operational command in 1997-98. Pratap and Charag had been decommissioned in May 1996, one year before I joined. But, I had six of them throughout my tenure: Prachand, Pralaya, Prabal, Chapal, Chamak and Chatak.

So powerful is the legacy of the Killers that everyone in the Indian Navy is affected by their saga of glory. But if you are a Killer (that is if you have ever served on the original 200 tons missile boats or their later day successors, the 400 tons REs), your chest bulges out with pride. And, no matter how many times you have attended the Killers Nite, and how many times you have heard the story of Operation Trident, you feel a tremor run up your spine when you come to the part whence Nipat, Nirghat and Veer set Karachi ablaze. How fortunate you would be, you ask yourself hopefully, if you were to be asked to take part in something equally brash, daring and decisive?

As Commanding Officer of Vipul, I was also the Div Commander of K222 Div. In an exercise another ship of the squadron (Vinash under then LtCdr Anil Chawla) and my ship were anchored very close to the coast in the shadow of hills, so as to defeat any radar detection and even visual sighting. At the appointed hour at night, we were to weigh anchor, charge at high-speed, attack the “enemy” harbour and return to our secret anchorage before dawn. With the distance involved this called for more than seven hours of steaming above thirty knots, with all four turbines (the Cruise and Boost turbines) clutched in. Even though it was only a mock attack, as we quietly weighed anchor and proceeded to our respective sectors for attack, the ships pulsated with live energy. Outwardly nothing could have been perceived as we were totally darkened. But inside it was like a bomb with live fuze.

At such speeds the forecastle of the ship rises and you stand on the open conning deck, holding on to a guardrail. Even at that, there are occasions when your feet are in the air and your only contact with the boat is a few fingers of the hand, the other one holding the binoculars. “Is this how Nirghat, Nipat and Veer would have felt on that fateful night of 4th Dec?” you ask yourself, “Nay, the excitement and the suspense would have been even more. After all, actual enemy harbour and waters around it are so different from simulated enemy harbour.” At those speeds, as you hear the report of a fishing vessel being sighted or detected in pitch dark night, you are already crossing it. So you start praying not so much for the success of the “mission” but that the fishing boats would have the good sense to show some lights.

Even the enemy has to be fast to protect its harbour and assets. The Ops Room teams of the ships on Local Naval Defence have to swiftly plot and assess fast and fleeting contacts because before they can ascertain whether these are real or ghost targets, these are gone outside their limited detection range (because of the low radar profile of these boats).

Anil and I were lucky to have arrived at our predetermined positions without being detected. As we coordinated a sectoral and simulated missile attack, we imagined the targets our missiles would hit: PNS Muhafiz, PNS Khaiber or PNS Shahjehan or perhaps the fuel storage tanks! More than twenty-two years after the original attack, even a simulated attack still brought the blood rushing to one’s temples. I am sure it still does. An SSM seen at the receiving end still causes nightmares. The lookout’s cry of “fireball approaching from Green Four Five” is still the report requiring greatest urgency of action.

After the attacks as we made our way quietly towards the secret anchorage, my boat was detected by the “enemy”. However, much before that I was aware of her presence. I took shelter just astern of a large merchant ship proceeding in the direction we were headed, in such a way that our silhouettes nearly merged. The “enemy” having detected two targets at one time felt cheated about the “vanished” second target and angrily directed the “ship on my starboard bow stop immediately for investigation” on MMB radio-set. I kept totally silent, but, what ensued was a lively volley of choicest abuses from the master of the merchant ship who was woken up at 2 AM to answer this call!

Nevertheless, the “enemy” ship claimed to have fired her SSMs at me. At the debrief it was established that these might have resulted in the sinking of the merchant ship, because of the nature of the missiles’ seeker head logic. For the first time it made me feel good about my smallness – having adequate wherewithal to do big damage to the enemy but small enough to be detected and targeted; this being the very essence of the spirit of the boldness and the daring. I feel that the crews of these boats are as if injected with this spirit on joining. Thinking-out-of-the-box is the current buzzword in the Navy. The Killers were never restricted to any box, real or imaginary.

Four years later, when I was the NOIC in Vizag, two of my missile boats, each being twenty-one years old and hence in poor state of health, took part in an exercise with the Eastern Fleet, in sea state four to five. Both developed defects at sea but the grit and professionalism with which they met these contingencies made the Fleet Commander appreciatively write to me. That year, yet again, we celebrated the Killers Nite and gifted a memento to all the guests with the words ‘Anytime – Anywhere’, the words that describe the Killers spirit the best. It also indicated the resolve of the 25th Killers Squadron, which would do anything to recreate the aura of the night of 4th Dec 1971, notwithstanding their condition or the sea state.

“No fear if the task is dangerous or daring,
No worry if even the gods aren’t caring;
But we sail on we sail on we sail on still,
For we the Killers have an undying will.”

ONLY FOR THE LARGE HEARTED

There is a risqué joke about how only real men can drive taxis in Paris. Professionalism and other attributes apart, I feel only the real large-hearted can do well on Viraat; and if you haven’t been one before being posted, you become one soon enough.

I took over as the ship’s commander after my command of a 400 ton boat, Vipul. Whenever I used to meet Viraat at sea or in harbour, I used to fear they would hoist my boat on one of the LCA davits. I had a ship’s company of eighty, whereas on Viraat, close to three hundred sailors would be on leave and temporary duty at any one time. The then Commander Rajender Singh, when he handed over to me, told me that being ship’s commander would be like being General Manager of Bombay VT. One of my biggest fears was that whilst talking to sailors outside, say in Kohli stadium, I would ask someone which ship he was serving on, only to be told that he was with me on Viraat. Another big fear was that someone someday would report an incident in a compartment and I won’t even know where it was, let alone know about the compartments surrounding it.

And yet, the mind and body expand automatically and respond magnificently. You not only remember men but remember details about them. Unlike small ships where an incident is reported rarely, on Viraat, incidents used to be commonplace and everyone used to take these in their stride and find quick solutions. Decision making becomes faster and if you are not one or two steps ahead of the game, you cannot have an honest sleep at night. I must have taken many bad decisions during my tenure but I always felt reassured that the majority ship’s company supported me as against my leaving them in the lurch for not having decided in time or at all.

My Commanding Officer, Captain JS Bedi, was ten times faster. There must have been times when he could have lost control, for example, when we had a major AVCAT leak or when, off Kochi, a Harrier in bad weather was very late in returning at the limit of its ROA; but, he always gave the impression of being in total control. I recall that whenever we were very tense onboard, say, due to an accident or incident, Captain Bedi would tell us the juiciest Punjabi joke to break the tension, so that everyone would return to normalcy. However, I don’t remember a single occasion when he passed on to us anger, fear or anxiety. He had the enviable ability to sift out significant from a lot of gibberish and with word or gesture he invariably guided everyone not to dissipate time and energy on the insignificant.

He stood by his principles but never made trifles into principles. I remember the time, when after days of sailing on Viraat, we anchored off Karwar and I asked his permission for taking the officers to Anjadip for a soiree. The only parting injunction that he gave me was, “Please make sure no one comes back drunk on board.” He was at the embarkation ladder when we returned on board – hold your breath – the next morning. After a binge that lasted greater part of the night, I had ensured that everyone slept on the beach. No words were spoken as we got off the boat and stepped on the quarterdeck; but, one look at his face conveyed to me the Tsunami that was about to hit. Silently I followed him to his cabin and his enquiring look demanded my explanation. “Just followed your instructions”, I ventured tentatively. “What instructions?” he demanded with matching aplomb. “The one about not coming back drunk on board”, I stuttered with increasing confidence, “We got drunk and hence slept there until we got un-drunk, I mean, sober.” His look said “dismissed” and so I returned to my cabin and then the phone rang. With trembling hands I picked up the receiver and there he was with his peerless response, “Next time you guys decide on an evening like this, don’t forget to take me with you.”

This wonderful spirit of being proud members of a larger team reflected in everything on board and I am sure it still does. I remember that we arrived in Mumbai harbour one day prior to the annual Pulling Regatta, having practised very little in Kochi. Viraat was berthed on the outer side of South Breakwater. Hence, nearly one-third of the course to the finish line was along Viraat; and that made all the difference. Captain had personally addressed the teams and had demanded that a win would be counted by him only if a Viraat boat would beat the nearest boat by at least two boat lengths. I had assured him that we would win the Cock by winning the largest number of races ever and not just by points. All was going well until we came to the MEs’ race. They had just finished doing long and arduous hours of watches at sea and I had mentally prepared to concede that race. They were in the third position when the racing boats came close to Viraat. And then hundreds of excited voices on Viraat started the altogether familiar litany: WE RAAT, WE RAAT. It was simply magical; a new and sudden energy was injected into the MEs and they started pulling as if they were possessed. Lo and behold, they won the race. We won the Cock by winning the largest number of races ever, at least till then. The Captain made sure that the MEs were the first to be photographed with the Cock. I can never forget MCME M Singh’s countenance that day. He would have done any rooster proud.

Life is memorable never because of mammoth events but because of small nuggets. The memory of Master Chief PTI Chauhan having prayed for me at Vaishno Devi and having brought me a small amulet, which I always carry with me, moistens my eyes even now; I having won his total devotion by insisting that we should have mass PT on the Flight Deck every morning. It would be difficult for any ship to match the sight of MCPOs and CPOs volunteering to clean and paint their mess decks and alleyways so that Viraat would come out a winner in FOST assisted workup. How can I forget the sight of a sailor moving up and down on the Flight Deck in webbing and with a baton in his hand one hour after the ship had weighed anchor and sailed out of harbour, he being the AWKWARD (Harbour Security) Sentry, not having realized that the ship had sailed?

I know that a variety of phrases are used to describe life on Viraat. But, I feel that the phrase that describes it best is that ‘it is a life of constant discovery’ – a discovery that often fills you with wondrous pride, belief in hidden potential of men, and their indomitable spirit; a discovery that fills you with awe just as much as it fascinates you. Five months after having joined, when I was confident that I knew all about Viraat, I went about, on New Year’s Eve, wishing men at their duty stations. I came across an LME on watch in the Fwd Pump Space, a post so remote and lonely that if anything were to happen to him, it would be four hours later that he would be discovered by the sailor relieving him. I discovered that day that this watch-post existed! I discovered soon after joining that irrespective of fire and flooding taking place in any part of the ship, our NBCDI L Ram would reach DC HQ within a minute from anywhere on the ship and Chief ME SR Singh would be invariably taking charge at the vicinity of the incident as if he just happened to be there! I discovered that our cooks and stewards hardly ever rested and whenever HODs visited me in my cabin, PO Std Swaran Singh would magically appear from nowhere with tea and shakarparas. I discovered that Cdr (Met) Dey somehow knew the inside story of all happenings on board. I discovered that the same men who worked hardest also were skilled musicians, comedians and singers. I discovered that we had the finest pilots and air boys on board and the best D team. Finally, I discovered that it was my good fortune to have served on Viraat.

Many years later I commanded the tanker Aditya and I had forgotten how large Viraat is. Initially, my ship was based at Vizag but half way through my tenure she changed base port to Mumbai. Thanks mainly to Viraat, during my first day with the Western Fleet, I supplied more fuel to the ships than during my entire tenure with the Eastern Fleet.

A time would come when Vikrmaditya would join the Fleet and they would tell us what a magnificent sight it is when MiG 29 takes off from her deck. And we the Viraatees would wistfully remember the sight of the Sea Harrier taking off from the ramp of the ship, and appear, for a moment, suspended in vapour. We would still insist that there is no lovelier sight. Large would give way to larger, but we would persist in our belief that the largest hearted men were only there during our tenure.

I FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO’S NEST – DID I?

It was nearly thirty-seven years back that I headed towards the Naval Academy at Cochin to join the Navy as an officer in the Executive Branch. I was to be part of the Eighth Integrated Course, equivalent of the Forty-sixth Course at NDA. Two years before that, I could have joined the Forty-second Course at NDA but even though I was in the merit list, my father did not permit me. He was of the rigid view that military was only for the brainless and the loony. His view, though coarse, found an echo in the writings of eminent authors of that era. I was fond of reading many of these since I was really fascinated by the navy. Taste this:

“The navy is for the mad. The mad and the loony. If you are not mad and find yourself in the Navy, you can only do well by pretending to be one.”

One reason that I could join when I did was that in addition to becoming a little more independent (a totally misleading word as compared to today’s scenario with children; independent then meant that you could float in a degree of false freedom until your parents would pull the plug), I was First in the Merit in the Indian Navy Entrance Exam.

I was awarded the Silver Medal for Academic Excellence when I passed out of the Naval Academy. Many years later I found the medal hidden away in my dad’s things. When I questioned him he said something about the misplaced pride that I could get by displaying it when I was merely “andhon mein kana raja” (a one-eyed king in the land of the blind). JP my younger brother did my father proud by becoming an academician (he is now an Associate Professor at the Georgetown University). Many years later I graduated from the Staff College with the Lentaigne; but, I am sure my father would have held that too with equal disdain.

The navy had a quaint way of looking at things and had equally esoteric language. “Aye aye, Sir”, “One to six heave”, cabins, bunks, starboard, coxswain, “very good” “avast lowering”, and “marry the falls” sounded strange then. To this list sailors had added their own, eg, “Contact designated as Reno Alpha”, “go by walk” and “Dinning Room”. Some are strange even today, eg, “Officers’ Married Accommodation” gives the impression of inanimate buildings having tied the knot.

The navy, I discovered, abhorred long words and expressions as these were considered totally unnecessary. During our parade training, the Chief GI Harbhajan Singh had only to bellow, through clenched teeth, the order “Peeeeeeeee” and we soon understood that he wanted us to “press your heels”. Senior Cadet A Mehrotra could spend an entire afternoon ragging me by using just one mono-syllabic word “so?”. Opening dialogues of an entire afternoon’s conversation in his cabin, whereat I performed such physical feats as “front-rolls” and “on your haunches”, went like this:

A: Cadet Ravi, I asked you to report to me at 1400 hrs. Now it is ten seconds past 1400 hrs. What do you have to say? (He was visibly exhausted by using these long sentences but these were the last ones he used that afternoon).

Me: Sir, I was going after lunch to my roo..er..cabin, and I slipped.

A: So?

Me: I broke my leg, Sir.

A: So?

Me: I was rushed to the hospital, Sir.

A: So?

Me: They took an X-Ray, Sir, and my leg has been put in a restraining bandage for a week.

A: So?

He indicated to me with his hand the now familiar sign for front-roll and I pointed at the leg-in-bandage. He was enraged beyond words and his lips were rounded to utter again the familiar mono-syllable. I had no choice and wincing in pain I started doing the front-roll. As I did the first one his expression changed from interrogative to joyous exclamation…”So!” I also discovered that afternoon that Sr Cadet A M also knew more about the self healing qualities of my leg than the doctors at INHS Sanjivini. As I emerged from his cabin two hours and many acrobatics later it surprised me to know that the ruddy leg pained the least in comparison to many other parts of my body.

That afternoon I silently conjured in my mind a quick and sure cure for a bad headache: ‘Hit yourself on the foot with a hammer’. Even for complex afflictions such as depression and bulimia the Navy has excellent cures.

A few years after I joined I saw a very powerful movie called ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’. Thirty-seven years after joining the loony bunch as I woke up this morning, the morning of my first day as a retired officer I asked myself if I had actually flown over the Cuckoo’s Nest or lost my beans or marbles forever. It felt like a badly aching tooth having been finally pulled out; you not only miss the tooth but also the slow ache it used to cause. For many days after it is pulled out the tongue keeps going back to the place where it used to be and rekindle the pain.

Oh, how we used to do the countdown, as we stood on the Cadet Training Ship Delhi with a six-inch shell each on either shoulder. It was called the DLTGH – Days Left to Go Home. On my farewell, thirty-four years later, when the question of going home arose I had to acknowledge that the navy was the home and somewhere during my time in the navy DLTGH ceased to have its earlier meaning.

It is then that I started asking myself if I really belonged or belong. Subbu told me in the boat from Karanja after my farewell party that as compared to the Army we did not really have a sense of belonging. But that’s always been the lure of the seas. Remember Robert Browning’s Cristina?

“… That the Sea feels” –no “strange yearning
That such souls have, most to lavish
Where there’s chance of least returning”.

The Navy is also probably closer to Life. This kind of detachment is manifested in the words of the old Hindi song:

“Khatam huye din us dali per jis per tera basera tha,
Aaj yahan aur kal ho wahan yeh jogi wala phera tha,
Yeh teri jaagir nahin thi, chaar ghadi ka dera tha.
Kisko pata ab is nagri mein kab ho tera aana..
Chal udhja re panchhi ke ab yeh des hua begana.”

I was to become a Communicator – a kind of independent choice given to me by my Captain on Himgiri as my father was used to giving me. I understood the importance of my job through the ditty of the Railway Signaler:

It is not my job to run the train,
The whistle I cannot blow,
It is not my place to say how far,
The train’s allowed to go.
It is not my job to shoot off steam,
Not even to clang the bell,
But let the damn thing jump the track
And see who catches hell!

I came across many an ASW or Gunnery or ND officer who could have done wonders in their tasks if only the signal had reached them in time! I do not want to sound parochial but I have a feeling that your very character changes depending upon which branch you join! As a Communicator you learn to take all things in your stride because the buck stops at you; you have no one else to blame. For example, when I handed over the P&C File to Subbu I realized that as compared to my predecessors I had made nil letters to higher authorities on issues concerning officers and sailors.

Somewhere along, I cannot place when, the Navy claimed me totally. It did not matter who thought what of me; I became consumed by the naval ethos. I thoroughly enjoyed working for the Navy. A senior officer exhorted me at this stage to “let my hair down and relax”. I was reminded of following passage from ‘Lust For Life’, the biographical novel of Vincent Van Gogh:

“He had an excellent ability to paint. He’d get tired, he’d paint some more; he’d get fatigued he’d paint some more; he’d get exhausted he’d paint some more. After that he would be relaxed and could go back to his painting.”

A person was climbing a hill with a guide. Half way through he was in a thick forest with thorny bushes and sharp rocks. The going was tough. Exasperated he turned to the guide and said, “Where is that wonderful scenery that you were talking about?” And the guide said, “You are standing in it now, which you will see when you reach the top.”

Today, when I have detached myself from the thick jungles of day-to-day goings on in the navy I look back and really marvel at the scenery. I have no desire to fly over the cuckoo’s nest. The loony bunch is family, for heaven’s sake.

“I have come home, dad. I belong to the navy simply because I cannot belong anywhere else. Not now, after seven and thirty years. And dad many of them know words other than mono-syllables. Indeed, yesterday at the end of my farewell Billoo used more words for me than I would have used for myself.”

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