Unlikely Saviour

I was tired.

I was wading through the thick jungle with my left shoulder bleeding from gun wound; I had wrapped it with whatever bandage I could get from the emergency supply pocket in my military uniform, but the bleeding did not stop completely.

It was so dark and silent, that except for night sound made by jungle creatures, the only sound was coming from my heavy boots falling on broken branches and dried leaves.

I did not care about making noise.

I knew he was alone, wounded badly and could not have gone too far.

I adjusted the light from my head band and searched around.

Suddenly, my eyes caught blood fallen on dried leaves. I bent down and touched it to find it was fresh.

The terrorist, only one of nearly 30 persons to have survived our sudden attack – rest were dead – was nearby and I knew he was unarmed.

Then I saw him!

He was lying with his head down and was half unconscious; must have lost lots of blood. The gaping wounds on his leg and shoulder were the reason.

I went close and nudged him with the bonnet of my rifle.

He made no sound, nor did he move.

I kept my rifle aside, sat on my heels and turned him around with my good right hand.

He was unconscious, alright. He looked very young, around 25 or so.

I removed my backpack, sat next to him and checked his pulse. It was beating, but barely.

I took my canteen and sprinkled water on his face. He slowly opened and widened his eyes after seeing me, sitting very close to him.

I saw fear in his eyes; fear, probably not of dying but being captured, alive?

He tried to get up but couldn’t; he was wincing with pain.

He opened his mouth to say something; blood gushed out of his mouth.

I made him sit and opened and poured a little water in his gaping mouth.

He gulped and few minutes passed; he never took his eyes of me.

“tell me who you are; in case you don’t know already, all your colleagues are dead.

 Also, I know for certain, that your other hide out is nearby. Any one left there?”

I spoke looking directly into his eyes.

He spoke laboriously; “Sirji. You must help me. I have….” He couldn’t continue and suddenly, he collapsed.

It was very late at night, and I had already lost two of my associates in the battle. Two were seriously injured and I, as their commanding officer, told remaining soldiers to take the injured quickly to the camp few miles away.

I thought deeply about the terrorist lying unconscious. I had two choices; end his misery by putting a bullet in his head or carry him to the camp and hope to get more information. We deliberately had left all our communication tool fearing the terrorists might tap and find out about our sudden and unexpected attack which was carried out from information coming from a reliable source.

So, I was left to fend for myself and not seek any transport or help from the camp.

I bent and checked the pulse once again. He was alive, barely.

Then I saw from the corner of my eyes, his injured hand moving, ever so slowly, towards his pant pocket.

I thought he was reaching out for a concealed weapon, removed my revolver and shot him in the arm.

He screamed loudly and something fell from his hand; could not make out what as it was too dark, and the light produced by the revolver shot made me blind for a few seconds. Blood gushed from the wound, and he was unconscious, again.

I had shot him on his right hand.

I went near and tried to find the weapon he was trying to reach; there was no weapon.

Instead, I found a photograph. I adjusted the head band torch and light fell on a young boy’s face, smiling broadly wearing a bright coloured dress. The photo was folded in the middle and looked old.

I went closer and sat next to the man and looked at the wound caused by the gun shot I had just fired. He was already wounded in his legs and now, his right hand muscles were ripped open and the hand was dangling, held by the skin.

The man did not look older than 25; was bearded and had knife wounds on his legs. He was injured in some sort of fight. I frowned; so, this man, apparently belonged to the same gang of terrorist from his outfit, but not injured in the gun fight we initiated! So, when and how did he get the wounds on his legs?

I had to make up my mind on my next course of action.

I can simply put a bullet in his head and can walk to my camp. I looked at the young boy’s photo I was holding in my hand and cast a glance at the wound man and contemplated.

The only way I can carry that man was on my back, walking nearly 8 kilo meter distance to camp. He was so badly wounded, he couldn’t even stand, leave alone, walking.

I smiled at my situation; here I am, a commander of a special unit entrusted with the task of hunting down the terrorists, away from base camp, without any sort of communication equipment or vehicle, forced to carry a man whom I should have shot down.

I decided to take the man to the camp. 

First, I patched up the wound as best as I could with the left-over bandage and some antiseptic lotion. 

He was still unconscious.

I strapped my bag to the waste, tied my gun in the front and lifted the man and put him on my shoulder.

He hardly weighed 50 or 55 kilos.

Slowly I started to walk towards the base camp halting every now and then to breathe. 

The body weight appeared to increase every step I took.

I heard him murmur and halted. I made him lie on the grass and stood over him.

His eyes were closed; but he was trying to say something; hardly audible.

I removed the strapped bag and sat down and bent, keeping my ears close to his mouth and listened.

“Please, sir ji. Save them…. Please Sirji. Save them.”

I was confused after hearing the words. Save? Whom? Does he want to live? But then, he used them? Whom is he referring to?

I searched my bag and found the last bottle of brandy. I opened his mouth and poured a little.

He gulped the liquid.

After few minutes, he slowly opened his eyes. His eyes widened after seeing me in close quarters.

He tried to sit but couldn’t.

“You were saying something. I could hardly make out. What is it that you are you trying to say?”

I asked, softening my voice.

He started to cry; slowly first and then a little loudly. Water streamed out of his blood shot eyes.

I just sat there, allowing him to cry. 

After a while, he spoke, still in a very low but audible voice.

“They got me kill my own boy, Sirji. I never wanted to be part of the gang. I was told something else…”

He continued to cry.

I removed the young boy’s photo from my pocket and held it before his eyes and spoke.

“Is he your boy? Who killed?”

He made an effort to take the picture from my hand, but he was so weak, his frail bleeding hand, just fell away. He winced in pain.

I gave the picture, and he held it in his good, unwounded hand and kissed it with all the affection and spoke.

“He just completed six years last week, Sirji. he was so loving, caring and bundle of joy for me. But they had no remorse and my little boy……” He couldn’t control his emotions. 

He cried very loudly.

“You have still not told me who did this? And how did you get the wounds in your legs? They look like knife wounds?” I looked at his blood shot eyes and spoke.

“Sirji, I will tell you everything. But first, we need to rush. We don’t have time. More lives will be taken. Sirji, please….. I need …..” he collapsed again.

I checked him and he was unconscious again.

I heaved a sigh more out of frustration on my present situation, lifted the man put him on my shoulder and started walking slowly.

Now his body appeared heavy as I have been carrying him for some time. His hands were lying in front of me along with his face and blood still dripped from his bandaged hands.

After walking a furlong or so, I heard him stir and found he was trying to open his eyes.

I laid him on the grass and sat on a stone nearby and looked at him.

Indeed, he came back to consciousness and indicated that he needed some water.

I helped him sit with his back to the tree, opened my canteen and poured water on his gaping mouth. He gulped the water, his eyes, never leaving my face.

Finally, after a few minutes, he spoke; slowly at first and then very animatedly.

“Sirji. We need to rush to save the lives of children. I could not save my boy… they took him away from me…….” He stopped talking while water fell down in streams from his eyes.

“Who took away? And by the way, what is your name?”

He looked, his eyes filled with water and spoke, his voice shaking.

“Iqbal is my name. They planted a bomb in a school Sirji the wiring was done by me; they had lied to me saying it was for a Indian military camp. I found out very late. My boy was one of the hundreds of students died. I found out too late. My concern for the young children was conceived by them as my weakness, that’s why they had lied. We were only two bomb experts left after five others who were trained by us across the border had died in encounter.

They tried to stop me; they shot at me and caught and injured me from knifes. It was your attackers who killed my perpetrators. I ran. God knows, I ran to protect my boy and others. But…...” He stopped talking and started to cry, loudly

I sat there and looked. Obviously, he was speaking the truth. I could see it in his eyes.

I went near him, put my hand on his shoulders and spoke. “What was the name of your boy?”

“Jameel. Do you know Sirji what does it mean in Urdu? It means beautiful not only in appearance but also in behaviour. That was exactly how my boy was. I just couldn’t save him. Allah will not forgive me for my deeds. I am a very bad father, Sirji. I never understood what my wife was saying all along. She was totally against my joining the training camp. She said that for my sins, the family will pay a price. God knows, I have paid a very heavy price.”

I allowed him to cry for some time.

It was time to leave and what he said about saving more lives, we should leave immediately, I told myself and got up to leave.

Iqbal also got up, with my help laboriously, and assured me that he can walk on his own. 

We set out towards the camp and all along Iqbal started talking about his life as a terrorist so far. He opened up about the camp – though he himself did not know the actual place – and some of his encounters with the Indian Military.

“Sirji, please trust me. I swear on my living wife and my boy that what I am about to tell you, though I don’t have too much of information, is absolutely truth. You can shoot me whenever you want. If I could save few more children’s life, perhaps, Allah will lesson punishment for me. I wanted to join military but like hundreds of others, I am from a poor family and no education. Always they target poor and un educated youth as we are easy prey. My family shunned violence and my father is a priest. I am so ashamed…..” He was tired of speaking. He cried softly and water slowly fell from his eyes.

I detected some sound coming from the bushes.

Before I could turn around, I heard the sound of a bullet and felt my right ear burning.

Iqbal snatched the rifle which was kept on the ground and shot several rounds.

We heard loud sounds of cry and then there was silence.

I walked slowly towards bushes and then in my torch light could see two bodies lying on the ground. On close inspection, Iqbal, who was walking behind me told me they belong to the same gang and perhaps, were searching for him.

“Sirji, our gang leader is a paid mercenary. He is not fighting Jihad like all of us followers. He is a mercenary and kills for money. He is from another country as well. No mercy and always targeting civilians’ women and children. I thought of getting away from them but once you join and get trained, only way of liberation for us is death. I could not count exactly, but we were, around 25 or so. He hand-picked us from across the border where we were trained.”

I searched the bodies of the dead men hoping to find nothing as most of them are well trained not to keep their identity etc. But to my surprise, I found a piece of folded paper in one of the dead man’s shirt pockets. The words were in Urdu, so I handed it over to Iqbal.

“Sirji, we were not supposed to carry anything with us. This is surprising.” He went and asked me to show the face of the dead man and when my torch shined on him, he exclaimed.

“Oh God. Sirji. This man is brother of Suleiman, the Afghanistan man who is the commander of the group.”

Iqbal unfolded the paper, and a loud cry escaped his mouth.

“Allah!

Sirji, this paper says, they are advancing the day of attack. No dates, but it simply says, do it one day early. If I get it correctly, the attack will happen tomorrow morning itself. Oh God, how they forced me to prepare two sets of lethal bombs, Sirji. They told me the targets are Indian military camps and both with will be attacked simultaneously.”

I stood still; a million thoughts coming at the same time.

Oh my God. If what this guy is saying is true, there will be storm coming, I thought even when I looked at the chit of paper I held in my hand.

“Ok, Iqbal, let’s go as fast as we can and reach our camp and I will have to sound my superiors if what you are saying is correct.”

“Sirji, I swear on my dead son. There is no one else whom I loved so much. I couldn’t save him from the clutches of those demons. At least, he will forgive me from wherever he is, if I could help you save more lives. In all probability, they would be targeting another school.”

Spoke Iqbal even as his eyes started welling up and his voice shook.

It took better part of an hour for us to reach the camp and the sentry who saw us coming from a distance, readied his rifle and lowered it only after he saw me.

He saluted and looked questioningly at the injured Iqbal who was dragging his feet.

I had stopped on the way and had put a chain on Iqbal’s hand and held it in my hand, mainly to make sure that that on spotting him from a distance, our sharpshooter will not hurt him.

I arranged for an urgent meeting on the scrambled line to my boss who sat almost 600 kilo meters away and explained as best as I could on the circumstances; he listened without interrupting me and just asked one question. “Do you completely trust this guy?”.

“Yes Sir. I would have shot him first even before he saw me in any other circumstances. I got the news of attack on school that he mentioned independently from our own sources across the line. It is true. Also, our sources informed that the gang was indeed looking for a man who has crossed the line but after talking to Iqbal, it appears he is the man.”

“Ok. If you are so certain, I respect your decision. You are too seasoned soldier to get duped so easily. Go ahead with your plan and keep informing me the developments. But for God’s sake, if what that guy, what’s his name……. ha…. Iqbal was telling the truth; God save all of us. We can’t take chances.” Spoke my boss, even his voice shaking.

There were 3 schools in the vicinity under my command and each of them at least 10 to 12 kilo meters apart.

I mentally counted the number of persons I must deploy at each of the places as quickly as possible as alerting other troops might trigger the alarm about our activity.

We were 45 in all and I decided to send 15 each to every school while I decided to visit all three in the next two hours or so. It was already early morning, and the schools would open at 8.30.

I walked towards where Iqbal was lying on one of the empty makeshift hospital bed. He was being attended by the duty doctor and was patched up.

Iqbal tried to sit when I walked and looked into my eyes and spoke.

“Sirji. Something is missing. That chit you showed me did contain what I translated. But, there must be something else in that chit which will directly inform the persons where to attack. Can you please tell me where are the schools and how many are there around 15 kilo meters range “?

I looked at the wounded Iqbal and spoke.

“ I can't give you details at this stage, Iqbal. As it is to keep you in this camp alive, I have taken few risks.”

“Sirji, please, Sirji. Its very important we know the exact place. Sirji, I told you; the bomb has been made by me. It is not like the normal once you guys defuse. Trust me, Sirji, the time limit set to explode is very little and it is done remotely.

Even if your experts trace the bomb, the time would be very short. Please Sirji, for my son’s sake, please allow me to help you save lives.”

I looked at the crying terrorist and for the first time in my life, felt sympathy. I never ever sympathized with the terrorist; I was trained to shoot them down without remorse.

I removed the chit we found on one of the dead terrorists and gave it to Iqbal even as soldiers who were around me looked in bewilderment.

They had never seen me showing sympathy to anyone.

Iqbal held the paper in his and scrutinized it carefully.

After a while, his face lit up.

“Sirji, please ask them to give me a match box. Please Sirji.”

I nodded my head and one of the soldiers gave a match box.

Iqbal held the lighted matchstick under the paper and few words in Urdu started appearing once the paper got heated.

Iqbal exclaimed loudly.

“Sirji, the chit says it is Sitampur. Is there a school there?”

I felt my knees giving way and thought I am going to fall down.

Indeed, there is a military school in Sitampur and my son aged 7 studied there.

“Are you sure, Iqbal that the place is Sitampur? Because, apart from a military school, there is nothing else is there in that village but for few village houses. No military camp or anything of that sort.”

“Sirji, the words are very clear, it is Sitampur. Please Sirji, please take me there with you. I will dismantle the bomb as I know how it is wired. Please, Sirji, don’t delay.” Iqbal, crying loudly blurted out.

While everyone around the room looked at me, I made up my mind.

I called out loudly for everyone to get into jeeps and Iqbal was helped by two soldiers to get into my jeep.

We sped away towards Sitampur school which was nearly 8 kilo meters away.

I called the remaining battalion and told them to go to other two schools as well as a precautionary measure.

We deliberately did not call the principal on the phone, fearing our call might be intercepted. Also, we did not want panic-stricken staff and children to be running helter-skelter and might even cause more damage though stampede.

We reached the school and while I went to meet the principal, the bomb disposal squad went looking for the place where they could have hidden the bomb.

Iqbal too went along with them though there were mild protests from the military bomb disposal squad.

I went and closed the principal’s cabin and very briefly told me the facts and my plan to evacuate the student at the earliest.

Fortunately for me, the school, as per the instructions given earlier, had conducted a fire alarm drill and the students were told that there would be surprising drills in future.

Without giving details, the teachers – there were fifteen of them on the premises – quickly made all the children come out and were made to assemble in the field which was away from the school premises.

Next, we called out the drivers and all the children were made to get in to bus as quickly as possible and the buses left.

All these things were achieved by us in less than 8 minutes from my arrival at the school.

As soon as we made the teachers and even the principal get in to the last bus that was waiting, the bomb disposal squad along with five other soldiers were running towards us.

The leader of the squad, Harvinder Singh, removed his face mask and spoke haltingly as he came out running.

“Sirji, we found the bomb. Iqbal did not allow any one of us to go near, he is there trying to diffuse the bomb.”

Even before he could complete, we saw Iqbal running holding something.

He ran towards the empty ground and beyond.

There was a small hillock away from the village houses.

His damaged legs did not allow him to run too far, and we first saw the flash of light and then sound of bomb exploding.

Iqbal’s body was flung away from the force.

We all ran towards him and found that he was barely alive.

Iqbal saw me and, in his eyes, I could see that he was grateful for me to have provided an opportunity to save the lives of children.

I sat on my knees and held Iqbal’s band.

He whispered something and I could not hear.

I bent down and put my ears near his mouth and heard him say, “Sirji, please …. Bury me with my son please sirji.”

I looked confused.

“Iqbal, you said your son was dead. What do you want me to do?”

He indicated his pocket.

I put my hand in his pocket and removed the photograph of his dead son and held it for him to see and spoke. “Is this all there is, right?”

He nodded his head sideways and indicated that I search his pocket again.

I put my hand once again and this time, I removed something soft and held it at his eye level.

I saw Iqbal eyes welling up with water even as his soul left his body.

I looked at the soft object in my hand.

It was a severed finger of a small child!