SHRAPNEL AND SURVIVAL : LIFE LESSONS FROM THE LINE OF CONTROL

01 October 1996 - Twenty Nine years ago this day

The First Battalion, The Ninth Gorkha Rifles (1/9 GR for short) to which I belonged, held the Line of Control in the Kargil defended area. Alpha Company ('A' Company) of which I was the company commander, was responsible for defending the Hathimatha Complex.

The Hathimatha Ridge is a tactically dominating feature that provided observation as well as fields of fire onto infiltration routes and potential launchpads. It is key to the defence of Kargil Town and the National Highway 1A that connects Srinagar to Leh. Precisely for this reason, it had artillery defensive fire tasks registered so that any enemy approach could be engaged immediately. Though the defences on Hathimatha would have been considerably enhanced with modern technology in the present day, back then it was heavily fortified with bunkers, sangars, and minefields.

Troops in this sector of the LoC on either side were deployed in what is classically known as "eyeball-to-eyeball posture” - sometimes within pistol range of the other, just metres apart. Sporadic unprovoked firing - mostly small arms and occasionally mortars - had become a routine part of our operational environment, and the sector had been highly volatile for the past few months. It hadn’t, however, always been so. The situation was comparatively peaceful when the 1/9 Gorkha Rifles took over the Battalion-defended area from the last unit - 26 MADRAS. An undercurrent of tension always prevailed, but there was no actual firing. A landslide in the neighbouring Delta Company area changed that.

Before taking over Alpha Company, I had been in command of Delta Company. The 'D' Company defended area adjoined 'A' Company's to the east, and was on the western bank of the Shingo River. The company headquarters was at Post 43 - another tactically important post. Post 43 besides being a defensive deployment served as a contact point for communication between the two sides. It also was a point for the exchange of bodies between Indian and Pakistani forces in the 1999 Kargil War.

In April 1996 a massive landslide on the mountain slope overlooking Post 43 cut off the track connecting Post 43 - to one of its satellite posts, Piffer. The Pakistanis promptly seized the nuisance value in this situation and any attempt by us to cross the rubble by night was picked up in the light and was met with Pakistani machine gun bursts. A tunnel was eventually created to act as a conduit for supply and communication with Piffer - but that is another story in itself See my blogpost The Saviours of Piffer.

The fragile peace that had existed so far had been broken and regular exchanges of small-arms fire became the order of the day. The surge in hostilities in the sector had less to do with tactical imperatives and more with the psychological battle unfolding on the ground. The firing to hamper supply and communication with Piffer was unprovoked and unnecessary. There was a deep sense of betrayal on our side. Some lines have to be respected by both sides, even between enemies. These had been crossed by the Pakistanis by taking advantage of a natural calamity - the landslide. My commanding officer (CO) wanted to give not just a response, but a message - a message that this would not be tolerated. The time and place would, however, be of our own choosing. It had been my company that had been harassed, and the CO wanted me to be the one responsible for delivering that message.

Post 43 and its satellite posts were less dominant than A Company’s sector on Hathimatha Ridge to the west, making Hathimatha better suited to launching a fire assault (a planned, concentrated attack using supporting weapons).

Consequently, I was relieved of command of D Company and placed in command of A Company. A 106 mm recoilless gun was moved to the Hathimatha complex. Battalion and Company - level support weapons like 81 mm mortars, medium machine guns (MMGs) and 30 mm automatic grenade launchers (AGLs) - were re-deployed.


On the appointed day a coordinated fire assault was launched: all Pakistani posts within sight and range of Hathimatha Ridge were subjected to intense, simultaneous fire and bombardment for roughly 30 minutes. Their defensive positions suffered considerable damage. Peace was no longer possible anytime soon. Alpha and Delta Company positions were thereafter regularly harried by Pakistani small arms fire. Over the following months, the scale of engagement intensified, with intermittent mortar shelling disturbing the silence at odd hours - day or night. It was, in every sense, a baptism by fire - a thorough and unforgiving battle inoculation.

The Fateful Day

On the morning of 01 October 1996, I was in the process of handing over command of Alpha Company to Major Raju George - a capable officer who had just returned to the unit after an instructional tenure. He was to relieve me.

Around 0930 hours, a sudden volley of artillery fire landed on one of our satellite posts. Until then, the engagements had largely been limited to small arms and occasional infantry mortars. The intensity and volume of this artillery barrage marked a significant escalation - an unprecedented fire assault on our position.

I conducted a quick tour around the company complex, ensuring that all my troops were at their posts and under cover. The situation was tense. As I returned to the Company HQ, I found it also under concentrated small arms fire, and to my dismay, also under direct fire from what appeared to be air defence guns.

Major Raju was inside the telephone exchange, likely coordinating with the CO at the Battalion Headquarters. At that moment, I observed fresh artillery fire impacting a satellite post on higher ground - accurate and deliberate. The entrance of the telephone exchange was shielded by a breastwall, so I advanced along its length, keeping low, and leaned in through the doorway to report the strike to Maj George. I urged him that we might need to request the Battalion HQ to call for counter-battery fire immediately to take the pressure off our forward positions.

That is when it happened….

The Injury

As I turned to speak, I felt a sharp, blinding pain at the back of my head. My body went numb, and everything faded to black. I would later learn of the hypothesis that a fragment of shrapnel - likely from an air defence shell - had ricocheted at an angle into the gap between the breastwall and the doorway of the telephone exchange where I was at that time positioned and pierced the back of my skull. The fact that it was a ricochet and not a direct hit probably prevented deep penetration and saved my life.

(As I learnt later) I collapsed, face-first, into the exchange. It was only when blood began pooling around my unconscious head that Major Raju and the exchange operators realised I had been hit. I was immediately moved to my bunker. Under telephonic instructions from Maj Setlur, the field surgeon at Kargil Forward Surgical Centre (FSC), the Company Nursing Assistant (NA) - Nar Bahadur - carried out emergency measures. He even had to gently reposition exposed brain tissue and disinfect the wound - a grim but life saving act performed admirably in a climate of extreme tension and pressure.

I drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time I regained awareness, a surge of searing pain in my head hit me - so intense that slipping back into unconsciousness felt like a form of mercy. Enemy fire continued, and the terrain provided no cover. In that exposed and perilous position, attempting an evacuation in the daylight would have been suicidal. There was no alternative but to await nightfall.

The Evacuation

As darkness fell, a party of jawans began the dangerous task of carrying me down the steep mountain trail to Post 43. I was strapped onto their backs, passed from one to another, each step jostling my injured head and sending waves of pain through me. That journey, which took four to five hours, remains one of the most agonising memories I carry - even unconsciousness refused to shelter me during that trek.

At Post 43, Maj Setlur was already waiting. So were the Brigade Commander and the CO. Following a quick examination, Maj Setlur determined that I needed urgent neurosurgical attention. I was moved by an Army ambulance to the Field Surgical Centre near Kargil, which had a makeshift helipad next to it.

The weather the following morning, 02 October 1996, was, as described in Army parlance, 'packed up'. In those days, helicopters - whether Army Aviation or Air Force - had limited night flying capability. Add to that the treacherous terrain and unpredictable weather of Kargil, and evacuation became a daunting prospect. Yet, CASEVAC (Casualty evacuation) sorties are high priority and risk-taking is permitted. Thus it was that a pair of brave Army Aviation Cheetah helicopter pilots managed to land their craft at the helipad next to the FSC to airlift me to Leh.

From Leh, I was flown first to Chandimandir and from there to Dehi in IAF aircraft, where I was taken to the Army Hospital Delhi Cantt (AHDC) — the predecessor of today’s Army Hospital (Research & Referral). There, a pair of skilled neurosurgeons – Brig HS Gill and Lt Col PK Sahoo operated on me and removed the shrapnel that had lodged itself inside my brain. The road to recovery was long thereafter and though I have recovered all my body functions, I still remain dependent on anti-seizure medication 29 years after that fateful day.

Epilogue: Lessons learnt

That day in October 1996 changed my life. What began as a routine morning on a cold LoC post ended in a blur of pain, darkness, and survival against extraordinary odds — made possible only by the courage, skill, and compassion of my fellow soldiers, medics, aviators, and surgeons. Each of them, in their own way, brought me back from the edge.

And for that, I remain eternally grateful.

But there are lessons from that day which I believe every soldier should take to heart:

Lesson 1 - Complacency Kills

The danger isn't highest when a young, inexperienced soldier comes under fire — in fact, such a soldier is often more alert, more respectful of the threat. The real danger is when a battle-hardened, battle-innoculated soldier like I had become, starts taking the enemy for granted.

I had been under fire for so long that I lost my fear of it. That desensitization brought with it a dangerous complacency. On that morning, I wasn’t wearing my helmet — a lapse that nearly cost me my life. A simple act of discipline might have saved me from the shrapnel wound that left permanent scars. Never assume the enemy will do what you expect. Never drop your guard.



Lesson 2 - Equipment is Part of Tactics

Wearing your helmet, flak jacket, gloves, or eye protection isn't just following orders. It's a form of passive tactics. These aren't accessories; they’re lifesaving tools. What looks like routine kit today might be what allows you to fight, or even live, tomorrow.



Lesson 3 - Courage Must Be Matched by Preparation

It’s not enough to be brave. Bravery must walk hand-in-hand with training, procedures, and calm execution under pressure. The way my company nursing assistants handled my exposed brain injury, with just a field telephone and instructions from a distant surgeon, is a lesson in grit, presence of mind, and training drilled into instinct.



Lesson 4 - Leadership Doesn’t Stop With Rank

When you're hit or incapacitated, others will carry the baton. Whether it's Major George who was very new to the environment, the jawans who carried me for hours down the mountain, or the pilots who flew in bad weather, leadership is distributed. Courage and initiative exist at every level.



Lesson 5  - Respect Every Role in the War Machine

The man with the rifle, Nar Bahadur, the medic with cotton and disinfectant, the sapper under fire clearing a tunnel, the helicopter pilots landing blind in a packed-up sky, the neurosurgeon working through the night — every one of them is critical. No rank, no uniform, and no specialty is dispensable in battle.



These lessons aren’t abstract principles. They are etched in blood, bone, and memory. I hope that anyone who reads this - whether soldier or officer, young cadet or seasoned veteran - takes them to heart.

Because on the LoC, or anywhere in combat, the difference between life and death often lies in the smallest choices made before the first shot is fired.

(All the information in this blogpost is previously available on the public domain. No privileged or classified information has been used)