By
Maj
Gen VK Singh
As
old timers will remember, an emergency was declared after the Sino-Indian war
of 1962, and the duration of training at the IMA as well the School of Signals was
reduced. Two courses – 30th
and 31st – passed out together from Dehradun on 11th
December 1962 and proceeded to Mhow for the truncated YOs course of three
months. On 30th June 1963, three courses – 32nd, 33rd
and 34th – were commissioned. The ones assigned to Signals from the
34th course were singularly fortunate – they did just three months
in IMA and were then sent to Mhow for a truncated YO’s course of two and half
months, after which they were given commissions along with their course mates
who passed from IMA on 30th June 1963. By this time, OTSs had
started functioning at Poona and Madras to train GCs for grant of emergency
commissions. During the period 1963 to
1965, twelve emergency courses passed out from the two OTSs and the IMA, in
addition to the regular courses. As a result, 16 truncated YOs courses were
conducted at the School
of Signals
In
July 1965, thirty three ‘one pippers’, as second lieutenants were called, reported
to the School of Signals, Mhow for the YO-47 course. Later, three more ECOs who
had missed out their truncated YO’s courses joined us, bringing our course
strength to 36. When we detrained at Mhow railway station, we found a Havildar
from Signals, who guided us to a 3 tonner parked outside. One of our course
mates who had been commissioned into 3/4 Gurkha Rifles (Chindits) which was
also located at Mhow, arrived with us in the same train. In sharp contrast to
our reception, he was received by a Captain, accompanied by several men in uniform,
to help him with his luggage. (In those days, the standard luggage was a large
steel trunk, painted black, along with a bed roll or hold-all, which had mattresses,
quilts, bedsheets and pillows, in addition to assorted items such as boots,
shoes, rain capes etc). The three tonners had no seats at the back, so we made
ourselves comfortable sitting on our bedrolls, which was the standard practice
in those days. Of course, the infantry officer got to sit in a jeep, while his
luggage was carried in a 5 cwt truck.
On
arrival in the School of Signals, we were off loaded near the Airfield Mess, which
later became the Annexe, and shown our rooms, in the ET (emergency temporary)
barracks. These were hutments built during WWII at
almost all military stations in India. These were supposed to have been demolished
after the War, but some of them were still there when I retired from the Army
in 2002. Two of us were to share a room. The toilet was outside, in the
verandah and there was dry sanitation (In 1971, when I got married, I stayed in
Mhow in ET barracks and Roberts
barracks, and the situation had not changed. Water borne sanitation came to
Mhow many years later). For moving around, we were issued bicycles, which were
used not only for commuting in the School but also to go the market, club and
even to Indore, on weekends. This arrangement existed in all Army schools of
instruction including the Infantry School, which was also located in Mhow.
Unlike officers attending short course who dined in the Airfield Mess, YOs had
the privilege of dining in the HQ Mess, with a view to inculcate dining
etiquette and Corps customs.
The
first day of training comprised talks by the Commandant, Commander Tactical Wing,
OC Junior Wing and our Group Officer. When Major Natarajan asked us how many of
us had volunteered for Signals, nobody raised his hand. He was surprised. But
this is a fact – in those days, Signals was rarely the first choice of GCs in
the IMA. There were various reasons for this, which we later realised were ill
founded. In 1964, when we passed out from the NDA, Captain BP Murgai from the 1st
JSW course was one of the instructors. He had just returned from the Congo and
was held in high regard by everyone. Still, he was only a captain while all
other officers from his course on the staff were majors, lt cdrs or sqn ldrs.
This led many cadets to believe that promotions in Signals were slow. Of
course, the entry age for cadets in NDA then was just between 14-16 years, so
they were not as mature as cadets are today. The other reason was a perception
that Signals was a very ‘OG’ arm.
At
that time, the OST course, which later became the SODE course, was not
compulsory and one had to pass an entrance examination to attend the course. Once,
when Major Vinod Krishna, the Group officer, asked how many of us wanted to do
the course, there were no takers. Then he asked “How would you like it if the
Government was to give you a bottle of beer free every day, for the rest of
your life?’ Everyone raised his hands. He then explained that once one did the
OST course, he was entitled to a qualification pay of Rs. seventy five every
month. Since a bottle of beer cost Rs 2.50, this could be translated to mean a
bottle every day, on the house!
At
that time, there was a severe water shortage in Mhow. When the situation got
really bad water was supplied twice a day, a bucket at a time. To have a proper
bath, some of us often went to Indore on Sundays. You got out of the train and
went straight to the first class waiting room. For 25 paise, the attendant gave
you a bar of soap and a clean towel. After a leisurely bath, you could catch a
movie before returning to Mhow in the evening. The only means of local
transport in Mhow was the tonga. After
our first visit to Indore when a few of us alighted at Mhow railway station, we
asked a tonga wala to take us to the
School of Signals. He gave a blank look, until a bystander explained to him
that we wanted to go to One Tree Hill. We soon learned that everyone in Mhow
referred to what was to become our Alma Mater by this name.
A
YO’s life was hectic, as it still is. Apart from the formal training, there was
a lot of stress on customs and etiquette. In small groups, we had to call on
senior officers, such as the Commandant, Deputy Commandant and the Wing
Commander. If they were not at home, we left cards with the orderly or servant.
Of course, we were later invited for dinner or cocktails at their homes. Once, when
we reached the Deputy Commandant’s house, we found him in mess kit, was all set
to leave for a formal function, probably in the Infantry School or some local
Army unit. We apologised and offered to come on another day. But he would have
none of it. He ensured that we left only after a drink. Meanwhile, he
telephoned the hosts and told them that he would be delayed. According to the
custom then in vogue, it was considered bad form to inform someone in advance
that you intended to call on him.
There
was a movie every week in the open theatre. The Infantry School had a similar
arrangement. On Saturday evenings there was dancing and tombola in the CIC
(Central India Club), which later became the DSOI. YOs had priority rights in
dancing with wives and daughters of officers posted on the permanent staff as
well as those doing the OST or OLT courses. Even if a lady was dancing with her
husband, she gladly obliged the YO, if he tagged her partner by tapping on his
shoulder. Of course, all this came to an abrupt end in September 1965, when the
war with Pakistan escalated, and there were air strikes by both sides. There
was a blackout not only in the cantonment but also the civilian areas of the
town. All residents had to ensure that not even a sliver of light escaped
through chinks in their curtains. The police ensured that the blackout was
strictly followed in the town. In the School, the duty officer made several
rounds during the night. YO’s had to do night patrolling, in two hour shifts,
along the outer boundaries of the airfield. Thanks to an injury suffered in my
back during morning PT that resulted in two fractured ribs, I was exempted from
the patrolling and had to man the telephone. Though Mhow was nowhere near the
border, the fear of Pakistani infiltrators or terrorists targeting military installations
was real and palpable.
During
our stay, we got to know the several legendary characters that made Mhow what
it is. Pyare Lal, the barber who cut our hair, was a source of news about
everything that happened or was about to happen. He would tell us who is
becoming the next SO-in-C or coming as the new Commandant. Morris was the
legendary barman, who rarely talked, but knew exactly what everyone drank and
when to serve the next drink. There was a famous Kulfi wala who came round
every afternoon as soon as we had returned from our classes. Then there was
Abdul Sattar, the tailor who made all our clothes. He sometimes gave three or
four fittings and refused to deliver the clothes until he himself was
satisfied. Years later, his son and grand children would see the label on
clothes we gave for alteration, and refuse to accept payment. Then there was Tota
Ram, who made our half wellingtons and OP shoes. And who can forget Effie
Guerra, who took all the group photos with his famous pin-hole camera. We
continued to rely on these guys, during all our tenures in Mhow. For most signallers,
Mhow was a second home. I did eight courses and three instructional tenures, at
the Infantry School, College of Combat and MCTE, during the 37 years I spent in
uniform. I suppose the same is true for
most of us wearing the Jimmy.
7
July 2017
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