Month: February 2022

5 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Indian Army

Second Lieutenant – The Extinct Species

The Unguided Missile

We were commissioned as Second Lieutenants from the academies and joined our Regiments—eager to go, like unguided nuclear-tipped missiles, primed for detonation but uncertain of trajectory.

Years later, when I commanded our unit, our young officers often remarked on a peculiar aspect of my leadership. No matter how serious their mistake, my response was invariably the same: “That’s all. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it from here.”

They wanted an explanation. Why no rebuke? Why no fault-finding mission?

One day, in a lighter moment, I obliged.

“When I was a Second Lieutenant, I messed up more than all of you combined.”

They clamoured for details. Dil Mange More. And so I delivered.

The Gurgaon Incident

I joined our Regiment in 1983 at Gurgaon. During a battery deployment exercise, our 130mm gun, towed by a Kraz vehicle, needed to cross the Delhi-Jaipur Highway. In those days, the highway was narrow and followed a different alignment. Traffic was halted for the military convoy.

Enter the Superintendent of Police of Gurgaon, who demanded passage and was refused. The refusal escalated. Words were exchanged. Then fists. Whatever transpired—and the details remain mercifully hazy—I ended up facing a criminal charge of attempted murder using lethal weapons, alongside a Court of Inquiry.

I escaped both. Thanks to our Commanding Officer, Colonel Mahaveer Singh.

Teen Murti Bhavan: Three Days That Defined a Second Lieutenant

On 31 October 1984, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated. By evening that day, our Battery received orders to assume security at Teen Murti Bhavan, where her mortal remains would lie in state.

Our Battery Commander resided in Delhi, so I marched the Battery forward and reported to General K. Balaram, the Adjutant General, who was in overall command. Those who served in that era will recall General Balaram’s formidable reputation—the first, and perhaps only, AG to be granted Vice Chief status.

Late Lieutenant General K Balaram, PVSM

Our Battery Commander, then a student when General Balaram commanded at Wellington, warned me profusely. He narrated countless incidents of the General’s exacting standards—how he rode his own scooter after office hours, never touching his staff car. I braced myself for the worst.

Instead, I found an unexpected camaraderie. General Balaram and I smoked Capstan cigarettes together. In the chaos following the assassination, all cigarette shops in Delhi had shuttered. Naik Paul, my driver, inexplicably maintained a steady supply—to this day, I do not know how.

Whenever work pressure mounted, General Balaram summoned me to the Operations Room we had established inside Teen Murti Bhavan. He craved a deep inhale of smoke and a cup of tea—specifically, the tea brewed in steel glasses by our soldiers. Thus, every summons meant either the situation at the gate had spiralled, or the General simply needed a break.

The Gatekeeper’s Trials

We were responsible for the VIP entrance, through which every head of state passed. Whenever things went awry, General Balaram’s voice thundered across the compound: “Get that Second Lieutenant! Only he can solve this chaos.”

Enter Yasser Arafat, flanked by four bodyguards armed to their teeth. I refused them entry. “Our boys will ensure his security,” I declared. Arafat gave me a long, penetrating glance, then ordered his bodyguards to stay put with me. Even the Chairman of the Palestine Liberation Organisation thought better than challenging a Second Lieutenant.

Next came the Japanese delegation, led by Prime Minister Yasuhiro Nakasone. Over a hundred press personnel accompanied them—journalists, reporters, photographers. I informed their liaison officer that only five could enter with the Prime Minister. The officer pleaded helplessness. I solved the problem my way.

I assembled the entire press corps outside the entrance. When the Prime Minister arrived, I randomly called out five individuals and sent them inside. Chaos erupted. “My photographer is inside, but I’m the reporter!” “My reporter is inside, but I’m the photographer!” I announced calmly that whoever had entered would emerge with material for everyone to share.

Then came a man claiming to be the Commissioner of Police, Delhi. Denied entry through the VIP Gate, he exploded. “Who are you to stop me? What are you doing here?”

“If you had done your duty,” I replied evenly, “I wouldn’t need to be here.”

These were but a few highlights from those three unforgettable days.

With Veteran Colonel Mahaveer Singh during Golden Jubilee celebrations of 75 Medium Regiment in 2018

The Pattern Repeats

A few weeks later came another altercation with a senior Delhi police officer. Again, a Court of Inquiry. Again, our Commanding Officer saved me.

That was life as a Second Lieutenant.

The Extinct Species

When I assumed command in 2002, I realised something remarkable: the species of Second Lieutenant I had embodied—the unguided missile, the chaos magnet, the perpetual disciplinary problem—had apparently become extinct.

Or perhaps, like me, they had simply found Commanding Officers who remembered their own youth.

Now, when our young officers messed up, I saw not failures, but reflections. I heard not excuses, but echoes. And I understood that leadership is not about catching mistakes, but about catching people before they fall. “That’s all. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it from here.”

Because someone once handled it for me.

6 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Indian Army, Kerala

What Would I Have Done?

After a couple of years of my retirement from the Indian Army in 2004,  my friend Colonel Josey Joseph, wanted to know what I would have done post-retirement had I been in India. I laid out my plans and he wanted to know why I did not implement a much smarter and better plan than immigrating to Canada.

My post retirement plan in case I had stayed in India was to become a Priest at our Church and start with many meditation sittings – all to impress the people.

In all mock seriousness, I replied “To begin with, there must be a few fair-skinned followers, especially good-looking blonde girls, in low cut blouses, and a few white guys. Whenever I paused during my sermons, they would chorus ‘Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!‘ Now watch the fun as to how my coffers fill up.”

“Why did you not work towards your plan?” Colonel Josey asked.

“The plan was great, but I just cannot sing!  For such a plan to succeed, one has to be good at singing.  Look at any of the ‘successful’ pastors or swamis – They are great singers and dancers too!  A requirement to impress (fool) the poor masses and bhakthas,” I replied.

Colonel Josey said “Thank God! Your Dad did not put you through singing and dancing lessons, else you would have ended up selling your Dad first and then your God! Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!“

Now I laid my plan bare.

Syrian Orthodox Priests can marry, only those who aspire to be promoted as a bishop remain a bachelor. Fluent in  English, Malayalam, Thamizh, Hindi, Punjabi, indeed a rare combination for a Mallu Priest, I will be invited to all the International and Pan-Indian (NRI/NRK) weddings and showered in moolah. With my vast military experience and having travelled all over India, I will be invited as a speaker, a motivational speaker, as I specialise in impressing people. 

A Syrian Orthodox priest is often allotted a Parish and he may be the Vicar or the Assistant Vicar. A Parish means a small administrative district or village, including all religions, typically having its own church and a priest or pastor.  Vicar is derived from the English prefix ‘vice,’ similarly meaning ‘deputy‘ and here he is the deputy to the Bishop.

The Parish will be benefited in that every need of the Parishioners would be presented effectively to the District Collector or the Superintendent of Police. Naturally,  they  would be compelled by courtesy and etiquette to never refuse an audience to the Reverend Father-Veteran Colonel Reji Koduvath. The least I could do is to draft various complaints and applications for the Parish members.

There are various projects by the Central and State Governments for the benefit of the citizens. Many of them do not reach the public as people are unaware of the paperwork involved. Having written many Statements of Case while in service, and following it up to the Defence Ministry level, who else can do it better?

Employment opportunities for the youth, military, police (both central & state), bank, railways, state transport, UPSC, state PSC… I could have provided effective guidance and mentorship to youth aspiring to enroll into all these. I would have conducted orientation training for each specific job at the church, conduct mock tests, interviews, group discussions, public speaking, etc as well.  With more of the youth employed, obviously more money for the church (and me.)

I would also organise leadership training and adventure activities for the children and youth of the Parish. This would facilitate them to do better at the interviews.  

I would motivate the children of the Parish to read by initiating little ones to the habit of reading, the biggest bugbear for the Indian youth. I would publish a Church magazine with children contributing their stories, poems and articles.

Upon hearing my narration, Colonel Josey remarked “I think your idea is not only novel, but simply brilliant. And in these times when most of the clergy across the board propagate hate; a message of love, an effort to help the helpless and instill self-confidence in children : that’s the core of what our nation and the world really needs.  And, knowing you so well, I am quite certain that personal gain would hardly be your motivation. Also, more importantly,  although every parish priest is not a Colonel Reji Koduvath, I am sure most of them can undertake some of the activities you suggested.  Someone needs to take the lead.”

4 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Indian Army

Hussif and Button Stick

We were issued with a Housewife on joining the National Defence Academy (NDA) in 1979.  Why a housewife to a 16-year-old cadet? That too an item which was neither male nor female, and wasn’t even a living being.

It  was a simple Khaki pouch containing needles, thread, thimble, buttons, and a pair of scissors, meant for sewing on buttons, darning socks, and mending uniforms. It was called the Hussif by the officers at the Academy and Housewife by many Cadets and the soldiers who were the Havildar Quartermasters at the Squadron.

Housewife morphed into Hussif  and first appeared in print in the Oxford English Dictionary in 1749 suggesting that it had already been in common use. Hussif was later shortened to Hussy.

However, the term is now banned in modern armies which acknowledges that the gender specific term is not only outdated but also offensive to women.

By the mid 19th century these rolled-up sewing kits became standard army issue. Before the invention of safety pins, for a quick fix, sewing needles were used to remove splinters and, at times, even sew up the soldier’s wounds!

When I joined Sainik School, Amaravathinagar, TN at the age of nine we had to carry a small plastic box with contents like the hussif. 

I hardly used my hussif at the Academy during my three years other than for sewing some lost buttons. Behold! It had to be carefully maintained as it had to be produced during kit muster held at the beginning of each semester at the Academy and also during inspections. The hussif was part of the small pack we carried in  the Field Service Marching Order (FSMO.)

The name hussif comes from a time when it was common for mothers, wives and fiancés in the 18th and 19th centuries to personalise these kits with embroidery for their menfolk to take to war.  It was often packed  in the holdall and stowed within the man’s haversack. Few hussifs of those days were covered with flowers or other feminine motifs if the hussif was a gift from a needlewoman in their life.

The humble hussif played an important role in both the World Wars. Embroidery was widely used as a form of therapy for wounded soldiers, especially those recovering at the hospitals. The bright environment of the hospital was the perfect place for them to engage in  embroidery as an activity, which helped in their rehabilitation. The imagery and stories they stitched were  often reflective of pride in their regiment, the battlefields they had fought in, or messages of love to a distant sweetheart.

Military museum around the world proudly display many hussifs of soldiers, especially from the World Wars. The National Army Museum in London, England displays an ornamental hussif of Drummer Yeates (1867) with beautiful embroidery and bead-work with the motifs of the Queen, Union Jack, his regimental insignia and battle honours, and a message of nostalgia for home.

Armies and Navies, from Britain to Australia to North America, issued hussifs as part of the standard kit to their soldiers, at least up to the Korean War era. The British Army continued to do so, well into the 1960s and the Indian Army until the early 80s.

Australian soldier Henry John Harris who participated in the First World War wrote about an ingenious use of the hussif. “Owing to the extreme cold conditions and as there were a store of sandbags in the pillbox, I decided to sew several of the sandbags together to make a blanket, and believe me those sandbags did keep me and a cobber [comrade] warm for the four nights we stayed in that pillbox.”

The standard Canadian Forces Sewing Kit from the 1990s is in green material with pockets inside and a piece of felt to which needles could be tacked.  The cover is secured by by Velcro to the body of the kit. Inside the pockets are two plastic bags, one with buttons, and the other with thread, a thimble and a needle threader. Needles and safety pins are attached to the felt.

Another remarkable object that is etched in my memory is the Button Stick. These were used by the civilian bearers or orderlies to polish all the brass buttons, shoulder titles etc of our various Academy uniforms, though I never saw them later in my Army career.  

Merriam-Webster Dictionary describes it as ‘a strip of metal or wood slotted in such a way that it will pass over a row of buttons (as on a military tunic) allowing each button to appear through a slit so that the buttons may be polished without soiling the cloth.’

These button sticks were used by soldiers to polish the buttons on their uniform without spilling  any of the polish on the fabric. During WW I, when soldiers were out of the trenches, they often had to ensure that the buttons of their uniform were polished using Brasso. While tedious and time-consuming, soldiers used this brass button polishing guard to avoid staining the fabric with excess polish which left a nasty brown stain on their Khaki or Olive Green uniforms. 

It could well be that the button sticks used by the orderlies of the NDA may date back to the World War days!

Why did the armies over the world have done away with the hussif? Repairing or darning the  uniform, stitching a lost button… are still needs of the day!