Leaving leave aside

Maj Gen PS Narwal (Retd)

ELEVEN of us were front-rolling in a row at breakneck speed. It was exactly the way demonstrated by our instructor earlier that day — diving on the ground with the chin pressed against the chest, landing on upper back and rolling like a football. The first three were to be excused after five rounds on a 50-metre stretch, while the remaining were to continue. Suddenly, in the second round itself, one of us rubbing his back after landing on a pebble screamed, “Uhhh, mummy!”

“I am your mummy and papa here for the next six months; don’t stop, continue front-rolling,” thundered our training officer from a distance. “You dare not be late for fall-in by even half a minute!” he roared again after a pause.

Till three days earlier, before being re-christened as young officers (YOs), we were accustomed to hearing ‘doctor sahab’ while being addressed. All of us were in jobs after graduating from veterinary colleges. Some were post-graduates, and five were married. Each had rock-hard individual opinion on almost everything under the sky, but the zeal of seeing brass on our shoulders united us.

We were aware of the hard training in the Army but unfamiliar with the actual gravity of the military dictum — ‘More you sweat in training, less you bleed in war.’ The previous evening, hauled one after the other by a barber on a rickety chair in front of our living accommodation, we, non-Sikhs, saw our fancied trusses floating in the air before falling. Those sporting moustaches were losing them too. Some of us even argued with the barber, “Don’t crop mine so short, at least leave it comb-worthy.” The barber ignored us and continued with his assigned job. One of us, too attached to his moustache, was grappling with his loss by moving his fingers repeatedly above the upper lip, with teary eyes.

After doing hundreds of rounds of Khajji, the palm tree farthest in the hamlet, and the wooden wall located at the other end of the training ground, we thought that we had developed adequate physical and mental strength by now in our sixth week. Our training officer, a veterinarian but who had served as an infantry officer during his early career, perhaps differed on the progress. Next week was to begin with Dasehra holiday. Being separated for such a long time, all of us were feeling homesick.

In unison, we infused courage in the reluctant Course Senior, who alone had access to the training officer, to request for two days’ leave during the approaching weekend. To our surprise and glee, leave was sanctioned.

We were on cloud nine. The strenuous double periods of physical training (PT) and drill appeared a cakewalk now. The countdown for Saturday afternoon, the day for break off for leave, started. Everyone shared his plan for departure and journey. In the evening, the civilian helpers were instructed to arrange rickshaws to bus stand bang after lunch the following day. All of us were ebullient and energetic during the first PT period the next morning. We even saw our stone-faced PT instructor grinning. As we were ‘at ease’ after the initial workout of the second period, the instructor started some elaboration. Suddenly, there was a muffled sound from someone among us in the rear line. Standing in front, the instructor burst out, “Sahab, here I am explaining something and you are laughing! I will teach you now.”

The remaining period was too demanding on us physically. The moment we assembled for the next period after breakfast, there was a message from the training officer. Our leave had been cancelled. Also, the PT and drill were to continue during the next two days. We cursed endlessly the YO responsible for our plight. He lamented that it was a controlled sneeze and not laughter. Sure enough, never again did I emotionally invest so heavily in leave.