IN THE ARMY NOW

Anything is possible. We don’t believe in miracles anymore. If you ask me, a miracle is having an unemployed young man, from a small village in an enslaved nation, achieve glory, despite the prejudices against his privileged ancestors, whose name he bore. What makes this tale even more astonishing is that everything I’m about to describe to you happened during the Second World War, a terrible era in human history, a time when one would never believe anyone could get ahead in life. This is the true story of this miracle, which changed the course of my grand-father’s life – and the lives of all of his descendents- forever.
In the 40s, India was still under British colonial rule. My grandfather, Kavaseri Krishnaiah Venkateswaran, was a young man who had just finished his Bachelors’ degree in Arts. In the year 1941, it was pretty unusual for a native Indian to be so well-qualified. Unfortunately, because of belonging to the ‘Brahmin’ caste, the former elite caste which was generally hated (and not without good reason) by the emancipated folks of the new age, this exceptionally well-educated young man couldn’t get a job anywhere.His father (my great grandfather) still wanted his son to live with his family and wanted him to follow in his father’s professional footsteps. “I will get you a job as a Collector,” he boasted to his son, with the rider, “Stay at home, my son.” In those times, nearly every Indian family was a joint family. Unthinkable to let a son of the house go far from the bosom of the family home.
But my grandfather had a better handle on reality, bitter experience having opened his eyes to the truth. The Brahmins had abused their privileged position in society for far too long, and nobody, but nobody wanted to give a Brahmin a chance to regain a position of power once again. So young Venkateswaran decided to hide his caste from prospective employers. He applied for a position as a train conductor at Trichy, the place where he lived, now part of modern-day Kerala, in the very southernmost region of India. He soon received a call for a job interview. At first, it seemed like everything would work out. But at the end, the person conducting the interview casually asked, “So, what is your caste?” Venkateshwaran was obliged to reveal the truth. “Brahmin? Get out!” shouted the interviewer rudely.
Most people would have been discouraged by the tough situation in which this unemployed young graduate found himself. My grandfather, the world’s biggest optimist, went to see the famous Christmas celebrations in the city of Bangalore. His best friend, Krishna Nayar, also wanted to go there, but to enlist in the British Indian Army. Young Mr Nayar, who had never travelled by train before, was afraid to go alone. “I don’t want to go alone! Come with me, please,” he begged his best friend.
At that time, the British were looking to recruit people from the colonies in Asia to fight against the fascists. The British Army had announced that it would send free return tickets for the train journey to people who came to enlist. My grandfather decided to take advantage of this opportunity. That was how fickle chance tossed young Venkateshwaran on a train journey with his best friend K. Nayar, who was on his way to enlist as a recruit in the great war that had engulfed the entire world.

The two friends gave the exam, and they both passed. When he was invited to join the army, young Venkateshwaran hesitated. Krishna Nayar pressed his friend to enlist. Peer pressure seems like a modern phenomenon. But 75 years ago, my grandfather went to Bangalore to give a friend moral support, and ended up being a recruit in the British Indian Army – that too, in the dangerous time of the Second World War! Like any teenager today, he lied to his father to do so, too. The adventure which led my grandfather all across the Asian sub-continent had begun. In those days, it wasn’t unusual to spend one’s entire lifetime in one place. But destiny led my grandfather to the ends of Asia, across seas and deserts. It was perhaps the force of his optimism that led him to realize his dreams of grand adventure, and to give him what he had been looking for all along – a job. 

 

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UNDER FIRE

Coming head-to-head with the enemy is the quintessential war experience. That’s when you find out what you’re really made of. My grandfather was a very resourceful man. And out in the wilderness of the Burmese jungle, he proved it.

  On that fateful day, having driven the whole day, at six o’clock at night, my grandfather thankfully got to base camp – only to be sent back.

“Waran! I’ve run out of petrol. You need to drive to the POL Point and get it tonight!” said the Commanding Officer. The Petrol, Oil and Lubricant Point or POL Points were the basic refueling stops for the Allied Forces in Burma, set up by the army to make sure that the all the cogs in the machinery of war moved with well-oiled precision. As the Quartermaster, all supplies were my grandfather’s responsibility. So when the petrol ran out, he was the one who had to drive back 50 miles to the last POL Point for it. They needed that petrol- they had to start driving the next morning.

He gathered a ‘working party’ - a group of men to do the heavy lifting- which consisted of four men, and set off to get the necessary fuel.

This time, however, there was another, unforeseen danger.

They had driven about 20 miles when the air was rent with the rattle of machine-gun fire. The staccato bursts came from Japanese troops who were hiding in the trees, waiting to pick off any enemies who might passing by on that road.

“Stop, stop!” said the co-driver, who was fortunately a man experienced in the ways of war. “We must stop, and hide, so that the enemy thinks we’re dead and moves on,” he said. They stopped hurriedly, scrambled out of the vehicle and dived into the shallow ditch-like trenches dug on the side of the road. At that point, my grandfather confessed, he thought it was all over for him.

Or almost.

My grandfather was never the sort of man to give up.

In tense silence, crouched in the trenches, the men waited breathlessly for a sign that it was safe to move. My grandfather had his service revolver on him which had five rounds. He fired five shots, one after another, to lure the enemy out.

Nothing.

He and his men made their way cautiously back to their vehicle. No sooner had they started the engine, than - rat-a-tat-tat! The staccato of machine guns spat fire with redoubled fury.

The truck standing conspicuously in the middle of the road presented a large and easy target to the enemy. The men in the truck scrambled out and hid in the trenches once again.

The service revolver was now empty, and there was no more ammunition left.

Then my grandfather had an idea. In one of those happy strokes of luck that came so often to my grandfather, he had held on to his haversack while making a hasty exit from the truck. Being the Quartermaster, his haversack held, among other things, matches – and Bicat Strips. Bicat Strips were used as training ammunition. Their chief feature was that they went off with a real bang. With nothing else to hand and nothing to lose, my grandfather lit them up like firecrackers and tossed them towards the enemy. The Bicat Strips made an enormous noise, and the Japanese, believing that their enemy had brought out the machine guns too, turned tail and retreated, with many shouted curses and threats.

They then went on to the POL Point at Mile No. 50, filled the steel drums in the vehicle with petrol and drove all the way back to base camp. It was 6 am by the time he returned. The CO (Commanding Officer) upon hearing what had gone down during what was meant to be a routine refueling trip, commended him warmly on his presence of mind.

That was how my grandfather won a gun-battle against the Japanese without ammunition, and came back not only alive, but unscathed.

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