RAISING A FAMILY
by
Lt Col VK Singh
I
had always been intrigued by the term "raising a family". How does
one raise a family, I wondered? Does "raise" imply that the children
are gaining height, and "rising"? Or does it simply mean increase in
size, like a raise in one's salary? Now, after raising a regiment, I know
exactly what it means. It is used in the same sense as applicable to crops. One
"raises" a plant out of the Earth, and where there was nothing, a
flower blooms. Raising a unit is a similar experience.
In
July, 1982, I received a cryptic note from the MS Branch (commonly referred to
as the "chit"), telling me that I had been "placed in an
acceptable grade for promotion to the rank of acting Lieutenant Colonel".
After the celebrations were over, the speculations began. Where would I go? To
command, or on staff? To field, or peace? My wife, of course, was confident
that I would be sent to a God forsaken field station, as I had many times in
the past. I scoffed at the suggestion—hadn't I done three field tenures, more
than my fair share? In any case, there was still a lot of time. By all
accounts, my turn would not come for at least another year.
In
November, I returned to the unit, after an unsuccessful bid in the Himalayan
Rally- the vehicle broke down, and so did a finger in my right hand. I was all
set to go on a well-earned leave, and unwind. Then, like a bolt from the blue,
came the signal from Delhi. I had been posted out, and to a new raising, to
boot. The fact that I was going to command a mechanised divisional signal
regiment seemed to be a dubious distinction. Of course, there was no question
of leave, or even joining time, and after hurried farewells, I packed my bags
and boarded the train.
When
I reached my destination, I found that my "command" comprised four
officers, and one solitary Other Rank. I asked the officers what they had been
doing till now, and they replied in unison "waiting for you, Sir". I
promptly appointed one of them as my Adjutant, another as the Quartermaster,
and the other two as "GD" officers—their duties included, among other
things, making tea, dusting the furniture, and running errands. The OR, we
decided was too precious a commodity to waste on mundane activities, and he was
assigned the most important job—cooking our meals. My first day in the office
was spent under the open sky, and for a chair, I had a packing case of Hercules
rum, which was the only item which did not seem to be in short supply. Of
course, there was no stationery, and for the first few days, "verbal
orders" were the order of the day. Before I had left my previous unit, I
had telephoned another officer, who had raised a signal regiment, to ask him
for some tips. He advised me to get some rubber stamps made and take them
along, since they would be required for indenting everything, including
rations. Of course, he forgot to mention that I should carry some paper also.
(So while I had the stamps, there was no paper on which to use them).
Naturally, there were no vehicles, and one had to ‘foot slog' all over the
place So much for the much vaunted mechanised division! On the second day, I
borrowed a vehicle, and drove down to a neighbouring station, which was almost
two hundred kilometres away. I borrowed a cook from one unit, a dhobi from
another, a sweeper from the third, and some pencils and teleprinter rolls from
the fourth one. When I returned, the others greeted us with whoops of joy; like
children on a Christmas morning. Now, I thought, we were all set to set up
shop. All officers chipped in with a hundred rupees each, and Luke, our
enterprising QM, was sent off to buy the wherewithal to start a mess. That
night, we toasted to our new mess, a cookhouse which was still under
construction, requisitioned from the contractor for a bottle of rum.
Most
of the correspondence was with units reluctant to despatch the men posted to
us. In fact, we found the attitude of certain units downright funny, if not
strange. One unit, having eleven clerks posted against an authorisation of
twelve, refused to send the man till the Records had sent a replacement.
Another pleaded that the OR had "domestic problems" and could we wait
for two months. A third unit represented that the man was a "key
person"—we found later that he was an officer's batman—and thus could not
be spared. In many cases, units did not send the person nominated, but offered
to send replacements, who were either "bad hats", or were locals, who
wanted to go home on every weekend. Every day, we shot off about twenty or
thirty letters or signals, pleading, cajoling, or requesting other units to
have mercy on us, and send us the men posted to us.
When
the first lot of vehicles, consisting of eight jongas, was released, I personally
had to lead the convoy from the CVD to our location—we had only seven drivers, and
I had to drive the eighth vehicle. Now, we were mobile, and started feeling
somewhat "mechanised". When the first two radio sets arrived, we
unpacked them like Sevres pottery, and caressed them lovingly, as one does a
newly acquired work of art. Finally, I felt, we had started
"raising".
We
had been raising for barely a month, when we were told that we were going for
an exercise. Where? To the desert. But I have no equipment, I pleaded. Take
your two radio sets, I was told. But we were still under raising, and not
supposed to be exercised for the first six months, I reasoned. You are not
being exercised, I was told, but only being sent as observers, to get a feel of
things. Feel, indeed. Having spent the last three years in an armoured
division, I had had enough of feel. But we went, and my first assignment was
that of the GOC's Rover Officer! Naturally, my assets were dished out to all
and sundry—Jai Appachu got my operators, Anil Kumar my mechanics, and Madan
Toteja my generators. I am not too sure if they proved of any help, or were
only a hindrance, but I was glad that at least they learned something, and for
this I was grateful.
When
we returned from the exercise in March, we were all in high spirits. Everyone
wanted to go on leave, and bring his family. In April, we got another shock.
The station was granted field service concessions, and declared a non-family
station. We cursed, and swore and tore our hair, but there was nothing to be
done. When I went on leave, my wife said, "Didn't I tell you? I think
someone doesn't like you, and that is why this has happened". I tried to
reason with her that I may have tread on a number of corns, but no one's
vengeance could extend to changing the status of a station from peace to field,
which affected thousands of troops. As usual, she was not convinced. Anyway, we
packed our belongings, and left for Lucknow, where I left my family with my
parents - for the third time in eight years, as my wife reminded me. I admitted
my children in the same old school and returned to my good old EPIP. By now,
summer was upon us, and the tents were like ovens. Some enterprising officers
managed to get a couple of desert coolers and these were put in the larger
tents, which looked like school dormitories in the afternoons. But for most of
the men, who were staying in 180 pounders, it was miserable, even at night. We
made a few `cool rooms', in a couple of store tents but these were hardly
enough for half the men. The situation was aggravated by violent sandstorms,
when almost all the tents flew away. Even the store tent housing the Officers
Mess came down one day, and broke the dining tables. In a neighbouring unit, an
unfortunate man lost his life when the shelter under which he was working
collapsed and dragged him along, blown by fierce winds. Another calamity struck
when a newly constructed water tower collapsed, inundating the officers’ tents,
and killing an unfortunate labourer who was sleeping under it.
In
spite of such vicissitudes, life goes on. We are now nine months old, and can
say we are fully raised. All officers and JCOs, and some of the men live in
tents. The dining halls, messes, mandir, gurudwara, and tradesmen shops are
also under canvas. But all the same, we are a Regiment. Where there was
nothing, now there is a family, like a tree sprung from the Earth, throbbing
with life, its branches covered with leaves, and its flowers in full bloom.
Every man is conscious of the part he has played in the birth of the unit, and
its growth to manhood. We have witnessed a miracle of nature - the birth of a
child. Today, we have no peers we are the only one of our kind. We are, in
truth, the "Founding Fathers" of THE mechanised divisional signal
regiment. It has been a rare honour, and a rewarding experience - the raising of a family.
(Published
in The Signalman, Jan 1984)
