Daily Times

A few of us are God-gifted, the rest seek a role model to emulate and succeed in life. General Bahadar Sher enjoyed a considerable reputation in the army, and he was just such an officer in many ways. He had just been appointed Corps Commander Lahore and was, for the moment, staying in our mess guestroom. Before his arrival, the mess had received new crockery, the furniture had been repaired and polished afresh, the waiters had gotten new uniforms and carpets and curtains had been washed. The mess was being readied for the Corps Commander. Tall and barrel-chested (Late) General Bahadar Sher had a set daily routine. In the morning PT, he would join some unit, sweat and then return to the mess hall having washed and changed into his uniform for breakfast. His breakfast was like any other officer’s, in fact rather simpler. He would sip his cup of tea, then drive off his jeep himself with its hood always pulled down. He was a dominating presence but never domineering or pretentious. He was a singular senior officer who radiated confidence and authority and not awe. We always felt comfortable in his presence.

His orders were that if he visits a unit unannounced, none was required to rush up to receive him. He would see what he wanted to with the help of the soldier or officer on the spot and then leave as he came. His aim was not to spring surprises but to know things firsthand and help in real terms. His help was always purposeful and total. A mechanised infantry battalion in Lahore got a whole fleet of brand new vehicles because of his constructive intervention.

He lived alone in the bachelor officer’s guestroom, right opposite our rooms. His gate and a small lawn could be seen across the road over a small parking lot. Exactly at half past four in the summer evenings, his orderly would place his golf set in his personal boxy looking Fiat car. He would emerge in his golf kit, drive off to Lahore Gymkhana and return after about two hours. In the meantime, we would have changed for dinner after the evening games and would be preparing to go to the mess. Invariably, the general would invite one of the young officers over for dinner and show exquisite courtesy. In the beginning, he dined in the mess for a week or so but finding the young officers becoming rather inhibited, he decided to dine in the guestroom after duly apologising. He was capable of causing a positive transformation of those under his command singlehandedly, which he did. A new pulse began to beat across the Corps and quite a few frills were stripped off the training events and official functions.

It was the month of November 1971; my unit was concentrated behind BRB Canal. Infantry units had dug their forward trenches as we had prepared our artillery observation posts. We were carrying out intensive reconnaissance of our areas of responsibility along the border. Although the enemy was invariably well concealed, occasionally we could spot an army jeep or a soldier here and there. By that time, we had occupied our defences twice and then pulled out. The time had come for me to leave Lahore as I was posted to East Pakistan. My abiding regret is that I could not go to battle with my unit. I became a prisoner of war on December 17, 1971, in Khulna as part of the gigantic but futile attempt to save, by force of arms, what should have been preserved through vision, justice and political sagacity 20 years ago.

I must acknowledge the concern of the officer in charge of air embarkation at Karachi Army Transit Camp who suggested that I might not be able to fly to Dacca on November 17, 1971, as there were too many officers and men and limited seats. There was a war in East Pakistan; I could not accept the veiled but kind offer to stay back. We were being sent to Dacca via Sri Lanka by PIA in private clothes just as the Indians had called our bluff, forcing us to play our bogey of ‘defending East Pakistan from West Pakistan’. Sri Lanka looked simply mesmerising from the air; a green gem in the spotless azure blue sea. Dacca was, however, a completely different story.

The writer is a retired brigadier of the Pakistan Army. He can be reached at clay.potter@hotmail.com