Page 123 - Love Story of a Commando

local disguises, except Virat who was in black overalls. They were carrying
Tavor TAR-21 assault rifles unlike the semi-automatic MP5 submachine
guns of the NSG commandos. Two of them carried weapons tote bags.
I guessed the weapon preference depended very much upon the kind
of training they received. They exchanged salutes together which is
equivalent to civilian pleasantries like good morning or good afternoon and
even qualifies for a good night among faujis.
‘My magazines are almost over. Do you have some full pellets for
MP5?’ Virat asked.
‘Yes, Captain, I do.’ One of the para commandos searched his pheran
pockets casually and produced some magazines pellets.
Everybody checked their weapons again while discussing their next
course of action. Right at that moment we heard some loud voices that
sounded like an argument. It was coming from above the rocks, where we
had been. Everybody lurched back and crawled to the bushes to hide
themselves while Virat hooked his arms around me and pulled me down
along with him. A startled little shriek escaped my mouth but Virat swung
around and placed his hand over my mouth and gestured towards the bushes.
While he made his way towards it swiftly, I managed to follow him,
scratching my hands and legs badly. Crawling is not as easy as it looks when
faujis do it with complete ease and panache.
It hurts.
A few men were climbing down the rocks, crossing the boulders
where we sheltered for the night. In such situations seconds count, between
life and death. Those fiddly seconds which seem so small and insignificant
decide the winners and the losers. Sometimes the cost of losing that one
second could mean death.
I knew this, because I had witnessed it before.
I could see a few men wearing fake army uniforms and a few in
flowing grey pherans stepping down the grass at the foot of the rocks. Then
they ambled over, talking to each other and swinging their Kalashnikov
assault rifles as if they were umbrellas. They strode across to the bushes
where we were hiding, and I could see them more clearly now.
There were six of them, a few of them had beards, probably in their
thirties. The others were clean-shaven and looked extremely young, maybe
in their teens. Their thick woolen pherans, kufi caps and fair complexion
made them look like typical Kashmiris but their accent was certainly
different. The army uniforms looked like cheap imitations of Indian Army
combat uniforms which they had teamed up with sports shoes instead of
combat boots.
Their gait was aggressive and tense. The elder one pushed one of the
teens aggressively, waving his Kalashnikov on his face and shouted some