Satnam Jit Singh’s right leg had to be amputated mid-calf because of the mine injury he sustained during the 1965 India-Pakistan war. Subsequently, he left the Indian Army to join the Indian Foreign Service and retired as Ambassador. He narrates the story of the 1965 war and his inspiring struggle to lead a normal life. Excerpts:
What made you join the Indian Army?
I was studying engineering in Ludhiana, when in the wake of the 1962 Chinese aggression, it was decided to expand the Indian Armed Forces. I chose to respond to the national call, discontinuing my studies. I appeared for the service selection interview in November 1963, commenced my training at the Indian Military Academy, Dehradun, and was commissioned in the Corps of Engineers in August 1964. After spending eight months at the College of Military Engineering, Pune, in May 1965, I was posted to Roorkee in a newly raised unit under Bengal Engineering Group & Centre.
The war began on September 6. It’s amazing you should have been sent to the front within months of your first posting.
I volunteered. As the war began, I wondered, "What am I doing sitting here while the war is on?" I went to the Centre Commandant and said, "Please send me to the front. I don’t want to twiddle my thumbs here." Soon, there was news of a landmine casualty in 77 Field Company in the Khem Karan Sector and the Commandant immediately posted me there. I reached the front by September 13-14.
What was the atmosphere like?
We started in a convoy from Jalandhar for Khem Karan, and the reception we received from the civilian population on the way was simply overwhelming. They would insist on stopping us at different points, offer us food, sweets, tea, soft drinks, etc. and tell us, "Jit ke aana! (Return victorious!)"
Sounds as if you were headed for a cricket match.
Absolutely – it was very touching and also a morale booster. On reaching the war front, I was positioned with my unit close to Cheema village, located a couple of kilometres away from Asal Uttar, where the famous battle of tanks had just taken place. I heard about the valour of Havildar Abdul Hamid. I saw about 20 Patton tanks in a field of about 200sq mt, all of which the Pakistanis had deserted. That said, Khem Karan was one area where the Pakistanis had wrested control over a 4-5 km wide strip of Indian territory. Mind you, all this was in my home district; I was born in Amritsar.
What was your main task?
To lay landmines and obstacles, keep road communications open for our troops and deny them to enemy troops. Army engineers are first to enter a war theatre and last to withdraw. There is always a possibility of fatal or serious casualties. In fact, the officer whose position I took had sustained a mine blast injury. Landmines are often laid at night and under great pressure of time in a stressful environment. A platoon of my Field Company was undertaking the task of planting anti-tank mines, which need heavy pressure, say, of 200 kg to explode. They are normally safe for human beings. A sapper, as soldiers of Corps of Engineers are called, was carrying a couple of armed anti-tank mines. He stumbled against a boulder and the mines exploded. He was blown into smithereens. A pall of gloom enveloped the entire company.
Deaths in the middle of war do rattle soldiers?
Yes. It is not that soldiers who go to battle do not fear death or injury. But they don’t let the fear come in the way of doing their duty to the best of their ability. The dynamics of the war theatre carry the soldier forward and maintain momentum.
Another episode saddened me immensely. On the evening of September 16 or 17, I saw a column of Gurkhas marching towards the front to launch an attack before dawn. The column was led by Captain Mandke, who had been my instructor at the IMA. I wished him best of luck. Next morning I heard Capt Mandke was no more. He was a fine officer, a great human being. You expect deaths in war. But when a person whom you know well dies, you react differently.
How did you get injured?
In January-end, 1966, we were asked to return to our location on the front from near Ludhiana, where we had pulled back after the ceasefire of 22 September. It was for clearing the landmines we had laid, to enable the farmers to access their fields.
We had the map of the minefield. When you lay mines in the dark, your maps of the mined area can hardly be precise. Another complicating factor was that these were plastic mines which, because of the absence of any metal component in them, couldn’t be detected by mine-sweepers. Therefore, each inch of the ground had to be prodded, a tedious task indeed!
One particular spot on our map indicated a mine. But the sapper looking for it had gone far beyond that spot without detecting it. Apprehensive that he might step on another mine, I decided to double-check and asked him to stop. I followed in his footsteps, prodding each spot he had already checked and then stepping on it, thus moving forward slowly.
I prodded a spot and put my left foot there. Reflexively, my right foot moved to join with my left. And that’s where the little green monster was! ‘My God, it has happened,’ I muttered.
You weren’t knocked out unconscious?
No, you don’t become unconscious. The idea behind these small mines is to injure, not to kill. When a soldier is injured, it mounts psychological pressure on his companions. The injured has to be evacuated; it slows the advancing troops.
But the pain must have been searing.
I didn’t feel any pain for a good 45 minutes. I was evacuated to the field hospital in Harike Pattan, Ferozepur. The heel of my right foot had been blown off. I began to feel the pain on my way to the hospital. Soon, it became unbearable. They gave me morphine. I was shifted under sedation to the Army hospital, Delhi, overnight.
It must have been terrible to find the military hospital overflowing with the war-wounded.
At the hospital, I met my predecessor, Lieutenant Subhash Gulati, whose place I had taken in 77 Field Company. It was a meeting full of poignancy. Normally, when you take over charge from an officer, there is an overlap and involves formal handing/taking over. But here we were meeting for the first time, both lying on our hospital beds.
Lt Gulati’s right leg had to be amputated twice; first below the knee and then, because gangrene had set in as his wound had been neglected, above the knee as well. It was a big shock to him, to us as well. Unlike the below-knee amputation, the one above it limits mobility to a much greater degree.
How did they break the news to you about your amputation?
One day, the attending surgeon explained, "Your heel is blown off; one option is to reconstruct the heel but that could result in a terrible limp and pain right throughout your life. The other option is to amputate the leg mid-calf, and fit it with prosthesis. I would neither have a discernible limp nor much pain." The way he explained, I felt the second option was better and accepted it.
Were you married then?
No; I was just 22 when I was injured.
Where were your parents?
In Amritsar. I hadn’t informed them about the injury.
But weren’t they writing letters inquiring why you hadn’t come home after the war?
My Officer Commanding, as is required, wrote to them that I had been injured, but that I should be alright soon. It was a reassuring letter. I, too, told my parents that my injury was minor. They wanted to visit me. But I just fobbed them off by saying I was being shifted to Pune and assuring them I would be back home soon. But I had informed my eldest brother posted in the Railways in Bihar of the possibility of an amputation. Soon thereafter, I was shifted to Pune, where I was fitted with a prosthesis.
Didn’t you get depressed?
No, not at all! I viewed my accident as an occupational hazard. I was more focussed on adjusting to the new reality and the life ahead and how to make the best of it. Initially, I was given a conventional wooden prosthesis and sent home on leave. On return, I was fitted with a better one fabricated with material imported from Germany.
A major concern for most of us with long period of hospitalisation was that as per the then prevalent rules, those hospitalised for longer than three months had to face 50% pay cut. But, fortunately, by the time my turn for pay reduction came, the rules were relaxed for war casualties.
I reckon you spent your leave with your parents.
Yes, I went home to Amritsar. My parents, as expected, were sad, my mother particularly. She wanted to see my wound. I wouldn’t let her. When they found me attending to all chores cheerfully, they too reconciled.
When did you get married? I am asking this question because I guess arranged marriages must have been the dominant social norm then and a prospective groom with prosthesis might not seem the best bet to most.
I found my own lady-love and got married after I joined the Indian Foreign Service in 1970.
Considering you were injured in the war with Pakistan, what kind of feelings that country evoked or evokes in you?
No rancour, no hard feelings at all! There is nothing personal about a war. It is always a political decision. I got injured in the process of doing my job. How can I blame Pakistan or anyone else for it?
While in the hospital, I concluded that the real battle one has to fight is in one’s own mind. You can overcome any adversity, any disability, if you are emotionally well-adjusted to the new reality. I said to myself, "Alright, this thing has happened. Now let me make the best of the rest of my life and move on." From then onwards, I never looked back. I can say with confidence that psychologically, emotionally, I am perhaps the best adjusted disabled war veteran.
It is said that people with an amputated limb occasionally feel its presence. Call it a ghost limb. Did this happen to you?
True to a large extent. Even now, half a century after my injury, at times when I move my limb in certain position, I can feel my missing foot, as the nerve-endings are there. Occasionally, I get phantom pain in my missing limb like electric sparks. Earlier, it was frequent.
When did you leave the Army?
I continued in the Army for another three years. Thereafter, I decided to take the UPSC Civil Services Exam.
What made you decide to take the UPSC examination?
When I was in the hospital, the government announced a special entry scheme in the civil services for Emergency Commissioned Officers. Under it, an officer who was eligible to appear in the UPSC Exam before joining the service, his eligibility would still be maintained, giving age relaxation. Also, such officers would be exempted from appearing in optional papers. Certain percentage of vacancies in all services was earmarked for them, subject to their meeting the laid down standard applicable to all.
Fine, but what made you decide to leave the Army?
I realised that my disability and consequent low medical category would limit my postings largely to peace stations and affect my career growth. I thought I might as well opt for civil services in which my full potential could be optimised.
But I faced a major constraint – I didn’t have a degree. I had left engineering and joined the army and my training in College of Military Engineering was not equivalent to a degree. So, to appear for the UPSC exam, I had to study to pass BA as a private student. In October 1969, I took the UPSC examination, topped the list of defence candidates and opted for the Indian Foreign Service.
I had six postings as Ambassador and retired from Egypt, reaching the highest grade in my service, Secretary to the Government of India
Did the amputated limb affect your performance as a diplomat?
Normally not! What bothered me at times was when I had to stand for long hours at diplomatic receptions. Also, while my gait is natural, I am not able to walk too long, limiting myself maximum to one kilometre or so. But sometimes walking longer out of compulsion caused sores on the stump and immobilised me for a length of time.
Any disappointments during your army career?
What was disappointing was that I was released from the Army with disability on the grounds, "Services No Longer Required", while the rules provide that any member of the armed forces discharged with disability would deem to have been invalided out. Not only that, at that time Emergency Commissioned Officers were not entitled to any kind of pension. I was simply given terminal gratuity of Rs. 5000 for 5 years' service; that was the total compensation I got for losing a limb while defending the country.
In 1972, I wrote to then Defence Minister Babu Jagjivan Ram asking whether he thought the blood of an Emergency Commissioned Officer was any less precious than that of Regular Commissioned Officers. Six months later, the government changed its policy, granting war injury pension to the Emergency Commissioned Officers at par with others. I got my war injury pension, but not as an invalided out officer.
Why didn’t you fight for it?
Initially, I was not fully aware of my entitlement. I realised I was being short-changed when the Fifth Pay Commission gave much more favourable dispensation to the invalided out war disabled compared with other categories of disability. I took up the matter with Ministry of Defence, but to no avail. Finally, I had to file a petition before the Armed Forces Tribunal. It was in 2011 that I got my due and was awarded war injury pension as for invalided out.
So after fighting a war, it has been a fight against the bureaucracy?
True! This is sadly the case with many other disabled ex-servicemen. For the last seven-eight years, I have been working with Defence Ministry and other organs of the government at policy making levels to get justice for the war-wounded. I found that numerous disabled ex-servicemen were being unfairly denied their entitlement, leading to litigation on a mammoth scale.
I discerned a great deal of insensitivity and antipathy among he middle and lower level bureaucracy in the Defence Ministry towards veterans, including the disabled and widows. They thought it was their sacred duty to defend government policies and decisions at all costs. So, whenever a Tribunal judgement came to them, an appeal against it was filed in the Supreme Court as a matter of routine. Tell me, how many ex-servicemen have the means to fight their cases at the Supreme Court level?
Happily, that mindset and overall situation is changing for the better now. Rattled by the flood of litigation involving veterans, Defence Minister Manohar Parrikar constituted a committee to recommend measures to reduce the litigation and bridge the prevailing trust deficit between veterans and the establishment. The committee is expected to submit its report in a couple of months.
No working the wheels of diplomacy post-retirement?
For well over a decade, I worked on humanitarian disarmament issues, advocating a ban on the use of anti-personnel mines and cluster bombs which keep harming innocent civilians much after a war is over. There is always more than enough on my plate to fill the day; there is rarely a dull moment.
What made you join the Indian Army?
I was studying engineering in Ludhiana, when in the wake of the 1962 Chinese aggression, it was decided to expand the Indian Armed Forces. I chose to respond to the national call, discontinuing my studies. I appeared for the service selection interview in November 1963, commenced my training at the Indian Military Academy, Dehradun, and was commissioned in the Corps of Engineers in August 1964. After spending eight months at the College of Military Engineering, Pune, in May 1965, I was posted to Roorkee in a newly raised unit under Bengal Engineering Group & Centre.
The war began on September 6. It’s amazing you should have been sent to the front within months of your first posting.
I volunteered. As the war began, I wondered, "What am I doing sitting here while the war is on?" I went to the Centre Commandant and said, "Please send me to the front. I don’t want to twiddle my thumbs here." Soon, there was news of a landmine casualty in 77 Field Company in the Khem Karan Sector and the Commandant immediately posted me there. I reached the front by September 13-14.
What was the atmosphere like?
We started in a convoy from Jalandhar for Khem Karan, and the reception we received from the civilian population on the way was simply overwhelming. They would insist on stopping us at different points, offer us food, sweets, tea, soft drinks, etc. and tell us, "Jit ke aana! (Return victorious!)"
Sounds as if you were headed for a cricket match.
Absolutely – it was very touching and also a morale booster. On reaching the war front, I was positioned with my unit close to Cheema village, located a couple of kilometres away from Asal Uttar, where the famous battle of tanks had just taken place. I heard about the valour of Havildar Abdul Hamid. I saw about 20 Patton tanks in a field of about 200sq mt, all of which the Pakistanis had deserted. That said, Khem Karan was one area where the Pakistanis had wrested control over a 4-5 km wide strip of Indian territory. Mind you, all this was in my home district; I was born in Amritsar.
What was your main task?
To lay landmines and obstacles, keep road communications open for our troops and deny them to enemy troops. Army engineers are first to enter a war theatre and last to withdraw. There is always a possibility of fatal or serious casualties. In fact, the officer whose position I took had sustained a mine blast injury. Landmines are often laid at night and under great pressure of time in a stressful environment. A platoon of my Field Company was undertaking the task of planting anti-tank mines, which need heavy pressure, say, of 200 kg to explode. They are normally safe for human beings. A sapper, as soldiers of Corps of Engineers are called, was carrying a couple of armed anti-tank mines. He stumbled against a boulder and the mines exploded. He was blown into smithereens. A pall of gloom enveloped the entire company.
Deaths in the middle of war do rattle soldiers?
Yes. It is not that soldiers who go to battle do not fear death or injury. But they don’t let the fear come in the way of doing their duty to the best of their ability. The dynamics of the war theatre carry the soldier forward and maintain momentum.
Another episode saddened me immensely. On the evening of September 16 or 17, I saw a column of Gurkhas marching towards the front to launch an attack before dawn. The column was led by Captain Mandke, who had been my instructor at the IMA. I wished him best of luck. Next morning I heard Capt Mandke was no more. He was a fine officer, a great human being. You expect deaths in war. But when a person whom you know well dies, you react differently.
How did you get injured?
In January-end, 1966, we were asked to return to our location on the front from near Ludhiana, where we had pulled back after the ceasefire of 22 September. It was for clearing the landmines we had laid, to enable the farmers to access their fields.
We had the map of the minefield. When you lay mines in the dark, your maps of the mined area can hardly be precise. Another complicating factor was that these were plastic mines which, because of the absence of any metal component in them, couldn’t be detected by mine-sweepers. Therefore, each inch of the ground had to be prodded, a tedious task indeed!
One particular spot on our map indicated a mine. But the sapper looking for it had gone far beyond that spot without detecting it. Apprehensive that he might step on another mine, I decided to double-check and asked him to stop. I followed in his footsteps, prodding each spot he had already checked and then stepping on it, thus moving forward slowly.
I prodded a spot and put my left foot there. Reflexively, my right foot moved to join with my left. And that’s where the little green monster was! ‘My God, it has happened,’ I muttered.
You weren’t knocked out unconscious?
No, you don’t become unconscious. The idea behind these small mines is to injure, not to kill. When a soldier is injured, it mounts psychological pressure on his companions. The injured has to be evacuated; it slows the advancing troops.
But the pain must have been searing.
I didn’t feel any pain for a good 45 minutes. I was evacuated to the field hospital in Harike Pattan, Ferozepur. The heel of my right foot had been blown off. I began to feel the pain on my way to the hospital. Soon, it became unbearable. They gave me morphine. I was shifted under sedation to the Army hospital, Delhi, overnight.
It must have been terrible to find the military hospital overflowing with the war-wounded.
At the hospital, I met my predecessor, Lieutenant Subhash Gulati, whose place I had taken in 77 Field Company. It was a meeting full of poignancy. Normally, when you take over charge from an officer, there is an overlap and involves formal handing/taking over. But here we were meeting for the first time, both lying on our hospital beds.
Lt Gulati’s right leg had to be amputated twice; first below the knee and then, because gangrene had set in as his wound had been neglected, above the knee as well. It was a big shock to him, to us as well. Unlike the below-knee amputation, the one above it limits mobility to a much greater degree.
How did they break the news to you about your amputation?
One day, the attending surgeon explained, "Your heel is blown off; one option is to reconstruct the heel but that could result in a terrible limp and pain right throughout your life. The other option is to amputate the leg mid-calf, and fit it with prosthesis. I would neither have a discernible limp nor much pain." The way he explained, I felt the second option was better and accepted it.
Were you married then?
No; I was just 22 when I was injured.
Where were your parents?
In Amritsar. I hadn’t informed them about the injury.
But weren’t they writing letters inquiring why you hadn’t come home after the war?
My Officer Commanding, as is required, wrote to them that I had been injured, but that I should be alright soon. It was a reassuring letter. I, too, told my parents that my injury was minor. They wanted to visit me. But I just fobbed them off by saying I was being shifted to Pune and assuring them I would be back home soon. But I had informed my eldest brother posted in the Railways in Bihar of the possibility of an amputation. Soon thereafter, I was shifted to Pune, where I was fitted with a prosthesis.
Didn’t you get depressed?
No, not at all! I viewed my accident as an occupational hazard. I was more focussed on adjusting to the new reality and the life ahead and how to make the best of it. Initially, I was given a conventional wooden prosthesis and sent home on leave. On return, I was fitted with a better one fabricated with material imported from Germany.
A major concern for most of us with long period of hospitalisation was that as per the then prevalent rules, those hospitalised for longer than three months had to face 50% pay cut. But, fortunately, by the time my turn for pay reduction came, the rules were relaxed for war casualties.
I reckon you spent your leave with your parents.
Yes, I went home to Amritsar. My parents, as expected, were sad, my mother particularly. She wanted to see my wound. I wouldn’t let her. When they found me attending to all chores cheerfully, they too reconciled.
When did you get married? I am asking this question because I guess arranged marriages must have been the dominant social norm then and a prospective groom with prosthesis might not seem the best bet to most.
I found my own lady-love and got married after I joined the Indian Foreign Service in 1970.
Considering you were injured in the war with Pakistan, what kind of feelings that country evoked or evokes in you?
No rancour, no hard feelings at all! There is nothing personal about a war. It is always a political decision. I got injured in the process of doing my job. How can I blame Pakistan or anyone else for it?
While in the hospital, I concluded that the real battle one has to fight is in one’s own mind. You can overcome any adversity, any disability, if you are emotionally well-adjusted to the new reality. I said to myself, "Alright, this thing has happened. Now let me make the best of the rest of my life and move on." From then onwards, I never looked back. I can say with confidence that psychologically, emotionally, I am perhaps the best adjusted disabled war veteran.
It is said that people with an amputated limb occasionally feel its presence. Call it a ghost limb. Did this happen to you?
True to a large extent. Even now, half a century after my injury, at times when I move my limb in certain position, I can feel my missing foot, as the nerve-endings are there. Occasionally, I get phantom pain in my missing limb like electric sparks. Earlier, it was frequent.
When did you leave the Army?
I continued in the Army for another three years. Thereafter, I decided to take the UPSC Civil Services Exam.
What made you decide to take the UPSC examination?
When I was in the hospital, the government announced a special entry scheme in the civil services for Emergency Commissioned Officers. Under it, an officer who was eligible to appear in the UPSC Exam before joining the service, his eligibility would still be maintained, giving age relaxation. Also, such officers would be exempted from appearing in optional papers. Certain percentage of vacancies in all services was earmarked for them, subject to their meeting the laid down standard applicable to all.
Fine, but what made you decide to leave the Army?
I realised that my disability and consequent low medical category would limit my postings largely to peace stations and affect my career growth. I thought I might as well opt for civil services in which my full potential could be optimised.
But I faced a major constraint – I didn’t have a degree. I had left engineering and joined the army and my training in College of Military Engineering was not equivalent to a degree. So, to appear for the UPSC exam, I had to study to pass BA as a private student. In October 1969, I took the UPSC examination, topped the list of defence candidates and opted for the Indian Foreign Service.
I had six postings as Ambassador and retired from Egypt, reaching the highest grade in my service, Secretary to the Government of India
Did the amputated limb affect your performance as a diplomat?
Normally not! What bothered me at times was when I had to stand for long hours at diplomatic receptions. Also, while my gait is natural, I am not able to walk too long, limiting myself maximum to one kilometre or so. But sometimes walking longer out of compulsion caused sores on the stump and immobilised me for a length of time.
Any disappointments during your army career?
What was disappointing was that I was released from the Army with disability on the grounds, "Services No Longer Required", while the rules provide that any member of the armed forces discharged with disability would deem to have been invalided out. Not only that, at that time Emergency Commissioned Officers were not entitled to any kind of pension. I was simply given terminal gratuity of Rs. 5000 for 5 years' service; that was the total compensation I got for losing a limb while defending the country.
In 1972, I wrote to then Defence Minister Babu Jagjivan Ram asking whether he thought the blood of an Emergency Commissioned Officer was any less precious than that of Regular Commissioned Officers. Six months later, the government changed its policy, granting war injury pension to the Emergency Commissioned Officers at par with others. I got my war injury pension, but not as an invalided out officer.
Why didn’t you fight for it?
Initially, I was not fully aware of my entitlement. I realised I was being short-changed when the Fifth Pay Commission gave much more favourable dispensation to the invalided out war disabled compared with other categories of disability. I took up the matter with Ministry of Defence, but to no avail. Finally, I had to file a petition before the Armed Forces Tribunal. It was in 2011 that I got my due and was awarded war injury pension as for invalided out.
So after fighting a war, it has been a fight against the bureaucracy?
True! This is sadly the case with many other disabled ex-servicemen. For the last seven-eight years, I have been working with Defence Ministry and other organs of the government at policy making levels to get justice for the war-wounded. I found that numerous disabled ex-servicemen were being unfairly denied their entitlement, leading to litigation on a mammoth scale.
I discerned a great deal of insensitivity and antipathy among he middle and lower level bureaucracy in the Defence Ministry towards veterans, including the disabled and widows. They thought it was their sacred duty to defend government policies and decisions at all costs. So, whenever a Tribunal judgement came to them, an appeal against it was filed in the Supreme Court as a matter of routine. Tell me, how many ex-servicemen have the means to fight their cases at the Supreme Court level?
Happily, that mindset and overall situation is changing for the better now. Rattled by the flood of litigation involving veterans, Defence Minister Manohar Parrikar constituted a committee to recommend measures to reduce the litigation and bridge the prevailing trust deficit between veterans and the establishment. The committee is expected to submit its report in a couple of months.
No working the wheels of diplomacy post-retirement?
For well over a decade, I worked on humanitarian disarmament issues, advocating a ban on the use of anti-personnel mines and cluster bombs which keep harming innocent civilians much after a war is over. There is always more than enough on my plate to fill the day; there is rarely a dull moment.
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