A DISASTROUS FLIGHT

The thirteenth day of December 1971 was never speculated to be a day of disaster when I maidenly developed a premature idea of taking up a career in the Indian Airforce.

A catastrophe in the war was an abstract idea in my mind as the Indian Airforce was considered to be safest so far as ground staff is concerned. But my nightmarish experience on 13th December 1971 was an antithesis to my hitherto conviction.

After the ab-initio training in December 1971, my posting to a war field, somewhere in the western sector during the " black out' nights, was the opening of a new chapter in my biography. When the train reached Adumpur, I saw for the first time the rural beauty of Punjab with its golden wheat fields and the all-pervasive clustering inflorescence of mustard bushes, on a blackout the night, when the light was forbidden due to the imminent war.

From Adumpur, I reached the Air force station, where I had to undergo a "difficult " test in the guard room to confirm whether I was a real Indian Airman or a spy from Pakistan.

After reporting to SSQ, being juniormost, I was given the order to go in the Crash ambulance to be stand by for the flying which was heavy going on by three fighter squadrons. The all-pervasive thunder sound of fighter planes gave the whole station a war feeling and alertness. Trenches and bunkers were made far and wide to safeguard from the splinters of bombs. Antiaircraft guns were arranged in such a manner that, when they were operated at night, their huge cartridges formed a dozen galaxies in the sky above 500 acres of Airforce station.

My crash duty was uneventful for the first few days. Like a newborn child, I greedily watched hundreds of fighters, bombers, and interceptors, technically I don't know what all type, taking off and landing, with and without arms and ammunition, sometimes with gunshot perforations in the fuselage and wings. Many times I counted when a sortie took off and recounted when they landed back and found mysteriously missing. Those missing had become the victims of Pakistani anti-aircraft guns.

On the memorable 13th December, as usual, I prepared for crash ambulance duty. But a trace of melancholy retarded my enthusiasm, as if coming events were casting the shadows. The driver took me to the runway end in the crash ambulance. The real war was at its peak at that time. I could listen through the RTset of AFSO, the station commander, Air Commodore Randhir Singh himself controlling the flight from the underground ATC. Suddenly I saw five armed Russian-made SU _7 aircraft fully loaded advancing the runway end where we were parking followed by" red siren" to line up. All the five kites lined up in two minutes. In split second there was the order from station commander to scramble".Two aircraft took off one by one. The third one started and picked up speed. Meanwhile, we noticed fuel dripping from its drop tank. Before it was reported there was a big fire underneath and in seconds it engulfed the whole plane. I along with the rescue party rushed to the site while the station commander ordered from underground not to proceed. We stopped and were watching the conflagration. The commander knew that it was futile to proceed for rescue as there was an explosion and we would have been hurt or lost our lives. But the view of Flt. Lt. Rishi, the pilot of the crashed aircraft, through the transparent canopy, attempting to escape from the jammed ejection seat was heartbreaking. It was a rare horrifying experience to watch inertly, a human being in fire and struggling to escape. Had there not been a blast, the crash tender could have approached and put out the fire. When the flame was partially put out and the blast stopped, we approached and could see no movement in the cockpit on the burned ejection seat. The safety operators put out the fire completely by foam compound. I was there for the rescue of the crashed pilot, who became a shapeless burned object on the pilot seat, still bound with seat belts. A meticulous examination was done and found a hand severed from the elbow joint, lying a hundred feet away from the aircraft. We collected the body and put it in the mortuary of the station sick quarters, where it rested. The body was taken to his hometown and cremated with full military honors in the absence of his beloved life partner who had lost her senses with the dreadful news of the disaster.

Fifty long years have passed after the warfare.

Still, any burning smell of flesh reminds me of the disastrous flight as fresh as it happened that day.

(This eye witness report was made an article by me censoring all confidential matters and published in an old Sainik Samachar, and awarded prize when published in periodicals of Professional and Employees Associations)