50 after1965 Indo-Pakistani war, articles, interviews ,pics

In 1965, the Keelor brothers and their Gnats wrote war history. The pilots are the only siblings to be awarded Vir Chakras for the same feat

Officers at Ambala Air Force Station were heading to the mess for a dining out—a formal farewell dinner for an officer who is getting posted out—when they got news that Pakistan had started shooting across the border. They would learn later that these were the opening shots of Operation Gland Slam, a bid to take over Akhnoor and the road to Kashmir. “Our squadrons were told to move to the front immediately,” said Air Marshal Denzil Keelor, 82. Then a 33-year-old squadron leader, Denzil commanded the Folland Gnats of Squadron 9.

The battle had begun badly. The Indian Army was not able to stop the Pakistani advance, which had reached Chhamb, Jammu and Kashmir. The Indian Air Force sent Squadron 45’s de Havilland Vampires to support the Army. But, on the evening of September 1, a Pakistani squadron of F-86 Sabres, led by their flying ace Sarfaraz Ahmed Rafiqui, shot down three Vampires. It was a huge blow to India. The Pakistani Air Force was exultant.

“Then, at 7.30am on September 3, our radars picked up a Pakistani air patrol at Chhamb. Squadron 23, which had moved to Pathankot, scrambled their Gnats,” said Denzil, alumnus of Lucknow’s La Martiniere. “They assembled two sections of four Gnats each, one led by Squadron Leader Johnny Green and the other by Trevor [Keelor].”Trevor was his brother, exactly a year younger.

Jimmy Goodman flew a decoy ahead of the Gnats. The Pakistani Sabres took the bait and rushed to intercept. Gnats are not so sensitive to radars, so they remained unseen till two Sabres got caught in the formation. Trevor got behind one and shot it down. “That was first blood,” said Denzil, grinning wide. “What a blow it was to Pakistan’s Air Force, which thought it was invincible. There was panic in their ranks even before our Gnats returned to base.”

Trevor became an instant hero, and a Vir Chakra was announced. At the first opportunity, Denzil called him up and said, “Well done, bro!”

The very next morning, one more Sabre was shot down far out on the eastern front. The kill was made by Flight Lieutenant Alfred Tyrone Cooke, another Lucknow boy and a schoolmate of the Keelors. Cooke had intercepted two Sabres over Kalaikunda and, after a fantastic dogfight, brought down one. “The other is a ‘probable’, meaning we are not sure if it was shot down or not,” said Denzil. Another Sabre down, another Vir Chakra announced.

Then, on September 19, Denzil was called to escort four Dassault Mystere fighter-bombers to Chawinda, near Sialkot. Two Army strike corps were engaged in a fierce ground battle here, while the Pakistani Air Force rained bombs on them. “It was late afternoon, around 4.30pm, when we took off in formation,” said Denzil. “Gnats behind Mysteres. We flew low, 100ft above ground, and I could see the battle on the ground through the smoke and the dust. We saw a huge column of tanks heading from the west to the east. It could only be the enemy. At the same time, we sighted four Sabres, targeting our ground forces. I called up [Flight Lieutenant Viney] Kapila and told him and buddy Mayadev to take on the two Sabres to the left, which were higher. Muna Rai and I tackled the lower flying ones.”

Soon, two simultaneous dogfights were on in the hazy sky. As the Sabres and Gnats engaged each other, Denzil noticed a dim burst of fire and thought more Pakistan aircraft had joined the fight. But, he quickly realised that this was anti-aircraft fire. “I was above the Sabres, and so had an advantage,” said Denzil.

Rai could not keep up with the air attack and was ordered to return to base. Through all the smoke, haze and fire, Denzil saw the Sabre in front of Kapila trailing black smoke before it turned sharply and hit the ground. “Kaps, you got him,” shouted Denzil over the radio, even as he tackled his own Sabres.

He got his chance when the Sabre below him rolled out and began turning left and right, searching for him. “He had lost sight of me,” said Denzil. “I took the chance, dived down and fired three bursts. The Sabre was leaking. Kapila joined me and tried shooting the craft, but his guns jammed and we headed back to base. Later, we learnt that the Sabre never made it to base, its pilot bailed out.”

Denzil’s adventures were not over. As he touched down, he realised that his left tyre had deflated, probably hit by anti-aircraft fire. He manoeuvred the Gnat to safety, but Kapila had to fly to Air Force Station Halwara to land. “That night, I learnt that Kapila and I were awarded the Vir Chakra. This time, Trevor called up and said, ‘Well done, bro’,” said Denzil.

The enormity of the day hit him only much later. “It is not like the movies,” he said. “There is so much happening that one does not have time to think of anything but the next action. Even when you land, the ground crew want to be briefed on how the engines and guns performed. And we know it is team work.”

Kapila’s buddy, Mayadev, was shot down and taken prisoner. He returned after a few months. “One does not exult in such an atmosphere,” said Denzil. He admits that once a few pegs are downed at the bar, inhibitions vaporise and tall tales are spun. Denzil’s tales, however, can never be as tall as his achievements. He has had an adventure-packed career, picking up a Kirti Chakra, a Param Vishisht Seva Medal, an Ati Vishisht Seva Medal and eight commendations, making him one of the most decorated officers of the IAF.

The Gnat fights of 1965 go down in history for several reasons. For the first time, three Vir Chakras were given for similar acts, gunning down Sabres. For the first time, two brothers got Vir Chakras for the same feat. And, La Martiniere, Lucknow, became the first school to have three alumni who were awarded Vir Chakras in the same war for the same feat.

So, on September 3, a grateful Indian Air Force will present the proud school with a Gnat, in a ceremony presided over by Air Chief Marshal Arup Raha himself.

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Thee Rajasthan sector is the least acknowledged among the theatres of war. At the commencement of the 1965 war, border states of Rajasthan and Gujarat were divided into two sectors of operation. Rajasthan fell between two stools, being the responsibility of different formations—Delhi Area and Southern Command.

The 11 Infantry Division prosecuted the war in Rajasthan (Barmer) sector. Its track record was bizarre. This formation had been freshly raised in April 1965 in the Himachal hills as a Mountaineering Division. In July, it was converted to an Infantry Division, relocated at Ahmedabad and within weeks sent to war in Pakistan’s Thar Desert. Troops in the division, commanded by Major General N.C. Rawlley, had no desert warfare training, no desert gear, no combat vehicles, no artillery, no armour and no air support. 17 Madras Regiment, in which I was a second lieutenant, was part of this division.

At the start of the war, 17 Madras was in the peace station of Madukkarai in Tamil Nadu and was rushed to Ahmedabad. When the movement took place, I was at the School of Signals, Mhow, undergoing the Regimental Signalling Officer’s Course. The course was wound up and I rushed to the battalion camping at Ahmedabad.

Just before I reached there, the battalion had left for the battle zone. When the unit moved into the battle zone, they had no air, anti-aircraft, tank or artillery cover. As the troops were alighting from the train at the Uttarlai station near Barmer, Pakistan air force planes returning from a bombing mission to Jodhpur spotted them. What followed was a massacre in broad daylight. The battalion was shattered even before they commenced operation.

Instead of applying the balm and facilitating the unit to pull together, Gen Rawlley acted as a mercenary and ordered the battalion to be cannibalised. One rifle company and mortar platoon were detached from 17 Madras and attached to a different regiment. Another company was deployed to defend the small border town of Gadra, which was captured earlier. Balance of the battalion formed part of the brigade group and advanced against heavy odds with unaccustomed weapons, alongside unknown troops in unfamiliar terrain without a battle plan. Yet they did well and secured the strategic Dali village on the Barmer-Gadra-Hyderabad (Sindh) axis.

As they were digging in to form firm base for further advance, came the ruthless counter attack from Pakistani forces. The battle was fierce with several fatal casualties. The remnant of the battalion retreated to Jesse-Ka-Par; some jawans sneaked through and landed at Gadra Road railway station. This infuriated Rawlley and the perverse general condemned the ‘Madrasi’ soldiers as cowards, stripped the commanding officer of his command and confined him to the rear-base at Barmer.

This left the battalion without a commanding officer. The second-in-command, being a low medical category major, was incapable of combat. Officers senior to me were holding their own companies tight and in fighting form. So, the onerous responsibility of mobilising the dispersed soldiers into a fighting force fell upon me.

I along with a small team quickly put together a company-plus at Gadra. We reached Jesse-Ke-Par early September 24, this time with artillery support. As we were forming up to launch an offensive to recapture Dali, news of ceasefire reached us. Since the momentum could not be contained, we attacked and captured strategic points of Kinra and Point-413 and then halted.

The battalion then settled down on the dreary sand dunes 25km inside Pakistan, with their forces just across the dune. Soon we were joined by Lt Col T. Sudarsanam, a dynamic commanding officer, and things started moving. Being the only officer in the battalion trained in signals and 8mm mortar, I was put in charge of support company, commanding mortar, signals and MMG platoons. We were in open wilderness with sky above and sand below and some make-shift bunkers to keep our equipment. Climate was extreme; we lived on one water-bottle a day and when we were out on reconnaissance patrol we had to survive on watermelons sprouting from creepers. In the trenches, boredom was broken by intermittent exchange of artillery and mortar fire, which promptly got reported to UN peace-keepers.

Meanwhile, I happened to visit Bombay briefly on duty. Walking around Marine Drive, I found the city full of vibrancy and its youth living with abandon, blissfully uncaring of what was happening on the borders. This touched a chord in me and I scribbled this lyric to salute The Solitary Soldier:

Look yonder, what you see,
Under the shade of the farthest tree;
It’s a solitary soldier on duty,
A sentinel for India’s immortal beauty.
Standing solo in the thick of the night,
His mind hovers around his heart’s delight;
Sweet thoughts fill his heart,
As he dreams of his beloved sweetheart.
Looking up he sees the stars,
Shining smartly from skies afar;
Drops of tears trickle down his eyes,
Touching his heart heaving up a sigh.
Are these tears of lament or joy?
What is in the mind of this youthful boy?
Passing the prime of flowery youth,
Guarding the land of Freedom and Truth.
Answer he mutters softly aside,
These are tears of supreme pride;
For it is great to give one’s life,
To save the nation of war and strife.
And so it goes in the ‘Book of Gold,’
The pain and pride of the soldier untold;
Pain he forgets, but the pride is his bounty,
For it is glory to die doing one's duty.

This is the motto of Indian Army’s oldest Infantry—the Madras Regiment. This also is every soldier’s honour in the midst of all-pervading dishonesty!

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