India had decided to walk the talk of Brass Tacks in 1985. We were moved to Shakargarh salient in anticipation of the escalation. The unit was tucked in under different clumps of trees to avoid detection. I had put my office lean-to in a small clearing near the edge of an empty field where balmy winter sunshine caressed like a tonic. Next to mine but at a respectful distance was that of my unit Subedar Major’s office through which the pulse of the unit always passes. I was feeling particularly relaxed that morning as we had sailed through unit promotion board a day before. There were celebrations in the air or so I thought. Just then I saw a soldier leave a clump in a hurry and someone trying to stop him. He made a beeline towards where I was basking in the morning winter sun. I saw Subedar Major also leave his office tent and walk briskly on an interception course. Both arrived simultaneously. The soldier saluted smartly and said, “Sahib, I have been passed over during the promotion board unfairly. I am fully qualified.” When asked who had been promoted instead, he said, “Sahib, your office runner.” We went through records, detected the mistake, and the young soldier was promoted. My office runner would have to wait for his turn. The real test came a few weeks later. We were returning from a partridge shoot when a Military Police (MP) jeep with a local villager hemmed in between two burly MPs entered the unit area. It transpired that the villager had reportedly bought a drum of diesel oil from a Lance Havildar of our unit. I thanked the MPs for their good work and retained the villager. He was right; a pilferage had taken place. He was to receive two more drums but was caught. I told the Subedar Major that a decision would be taken about the fate of that Havildar at the next morning parade. I needed to speak to the unit. There was pin drop silence at the parade as the unit stood still. I called over the Havildar and asked him if he had sold unit diesel oil to the villager. He confessed. Then I turned to the unit and said, “This man has sold your unit’s honour for a few hundred rupees. What punishment do you recommend?” The response was instant and unanimous: “Maximum.” He was court martialled and sent home. A very hard decision indeed, but extraordinary times require extraordinary reactions. War was just around the corner, the unit could not afford weak men. We had moved to a lower but firm patch of land closer to Basantar Nulla in Jassar area. Dark clouds were hovering low over the sky since quite sometime that day. We were expecting rain any time during the night, so were prepared to move out at short notice if need so arose. After an early dinner I retired to my tent to catch some sleep. When I woke up a thunderstorm was raging with a heavy downpour and madly whistling winds. Lightning was lashing across the dark sky with frightening flashes and a deafening roar. My tent appeared ready to fly off any moment. With every lightning flash I could see the outline of a sack-like thing holding a corner of my tent down. I did not remember such a thing in my tent. When I shone my torch, I found my buddy drenched down to his bones in that freezing cold trying to prevent my tent from ripping away. This was a great display of loyalty and comradeship at its very best. I quickly threw him my raincoat, asked him to forget about the tent, change into dry clothes if possible and load up to move. The unit was already lining up and Basantar Nullah was rising by the minute. One by one, with infinite care and determination, we drove through the raging nullah over to a narrow flood protection bund on the other side and stood there, soaked wet to our toes and shivering uncomplainingly. Not a needle was lost, not a soul was injured or missing. We were ordered to move to a different location a few miles away. There were no regular roads but narrow and winding farm tracks, sometimes turning at impassible right angles. It required careful reconnaissance to map out a route for the movement of the heavy guns, as their powerful towers needed a larger turning radius. The problem multiplied as the whole area was paddy growing and it was plantation season. At one place we were forced to pass through a paddy field, albeit with a heavy heart. Orders were given to strictly follow the track marked through the paddy field to minimise the damage. I decided to plant myself there. Soon the gun group began literally to swim through the paddy field. It was perhaps the 10th gun tower that descended into the deep track right up to the top of its giant wheels, then began to draw a fresh parallel track. Terrible carelessness, I thought. As the tower reached the other end I snapped at the driver. It was a younger lad, who pulled down his window glass calmly and said, “Sahib, I am sorry, but I will never let my gun be stuck in mud when moving for action.” He was right; the track had become dangerously deep and slushy. The rest of the column was allowed to follow his track. That is the great advantage of having a few good men around when the going gets tough. When everything around you seems to fall apart, these strong reliable men make your day worthwhile. An attempt has been made to state the case of these inarticulate but solid men as truthfully as one could and might go on and on. But before that, if the general mindset in the country has been so conditioned, and by reckless choice at that, go ahead and ridicule your rank and file. Khushias and the likes of that soldier from Bannu were around for the great comradeship and honour and not the pathetic few pennies. Once disgraced and disowned, they will never come back again. The self-righteous arrogance of the high and the robed-mighty, sharp tongues, sleek looks and designer clothes do not defend nations. It is this rare breed of hardy, determined and fearless men who stand up and die for us in our times of need. Take a pause and think before hurling the next sack of harangue, your lofty crested chairs, borrowed pomp and cushy surroundings notwithstanding. These men have a habit of bowing out quietly if we rub their noses in the dust. Our loss will be guaranteed and irreparable, to be sure. (Concluded) The writer is a retired brigadier of the Pakistan army and can be reached at clay.potter@hotmail.com