RAISING A FAMILY

 

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)