The day I was commissioned in the Gorkha Regiment, I knew I have been put with the most dynamic yet simple soldiers of the mighty Indian Army. The physically undersized and naïve Gorkha with small, barely discernible eyes, can be the most ferocious and heroic warrior in the combat zone on one hand, while on the lighter side he can be the unanimously proclaimed dope amongst his counter parts in other regiments. To add to his woes are the weird and wonderful traditions that the army has inherited from the British, which again, at times, can be too sophisticated for this juvenile soul to figure out. But one can never anticipate the ways these traditions can boomerang into the most hilarious situations, courtesy our dear soldiers.

It was during my younger days in the battalion when I was appointed the Officer In-charge of the ‘Ummeedwar’ cadre, run for the recruits who land up in the units straight from the Regimental Centre after their basic military training which is more of an year long transformation clinic for a simple village lad, to condition him into the tough army regime. Being the first major responsibility bestowed on my newly starred shoulders, I did my best to train them well and familiarise them with the traditions of the paltan.

Finally, it was time to test them with a written exam. To prove my witty and smart intellect, I put a question to name the adjutant of the battalion in the question paper, in an attempt to test the presence of mind of the examinees.

The real shocker came to me while correcting the answer sheets. I saw that one of the sepoys had written ‘54’ as the name of the adjutant of the battalion. Perplexed, I could not figure out as to how anyone can commit the mistake of writing a numeric figure when asked for a name. The whole day I kept wondering to myself that even if he was not aware of the correct answer why did he not write  any name but ‘54’.

Like most discoveries are unearthed by men in bliss, I also cracked this mystery after cocktails in the officers’ mess late that evening.

The origins of the mistake actually was an old custom followed in our Gorkha Regiment. The soldiers were often called by the last two digits of their army numbers instead of the names. This was because of the indistinguishably similar names that their parents had bestowed them with. Everyone was either ‘Hem Bahadur’ or ‘Dhan Bahadur’ with little ambiguous variations to the first name, followed by common ‘Thapa’ in the last.

So, to keep it simple for the gentlemen officers in command, some intellectual soul pre-Indian independence, devised a novel method of addressing them as ‘zero saat or solah or ikkees’ and likewise. This convention was gladly followed over the years and had become a regular practice. However, this bright spark in the ‘ummeedwar’ cadre had turned the tables and applied the same rule for his officer. Our Maharashtrian adjutant who was called Chavan (Maj B Chavan) by all seniors, had become army number ‘chauwan – 54’. It was a howler that was the talk amongst officers for weeks to come.

Each day in the battalion, thus, gave us numerous amusing memoirs to cherish our association with our brave men.

Image: From the Internet