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The Untold Story of Kargil
One evening, I was standing by a mountainside in the frigid heights of Kargil. Restless soldiers paced up and down.
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Their comrades had been killed and bodies were being brought down from the unsparing heights. It would soon be dusk and the waiting soldiers knew they had a long night ahead: bodies to take care haof; paperwork to be completed; families to be informed and coffins to be airlifted to Srinagar for the final journey home.
Against the fading light, the silhouette of the stretcher-bearers can finally be seen.
Eight bodies come back, faces blown, uniforms blood-soaked. The soldiers take a deep breath and start the process of identification, but wait, one body is beyond recognition. Who is this? Who is this?
An army battalion is like one big family.
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Not being able to identify one of your own brings immeasurable pain. He is finally identified by the service number on his belt. The rest of the evening is spent in silence. I retire to the tent, whe