The soldier, above all other people, prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war. — Douglas MacArthurThe writer (second from right) with other crew members of 31 Recce & Observation flight. This photo was taken atan aviation base in Kashmir.It was a sweltering summer afternoon and we were watching a World Cup cricket match. “This is the time to be in Kashmir,” said Paramjit, my closest friend in the squadron. Sometimes, a casually expressed wish comes to pass. Because that very evening, we received orders to mobilise and to provide aviation support to our troops battling intruders in Ladakh. Kargil, until then a little-known town, had suddenly emerged on the world map. The war had begun. Thirty-six hours later, we were headed for Kashmir.There hasn’t been a more tearful goodbye than the one I received from my newly-wed wife that morning of departure.New to the profession of flying with no hill-flying experience, I underwent on-the-job training, co-piloting alongside seasoned aviators. While these mavericks executed unconventional flight manoeuvres, I kept watch for enemy activity in air and on ground. Our fighter jet and a helicopter had recently been downed by the enemy and we couldn’t afford to let our guard down. “Sir, I see low clouds on the valley floor,” I once reported to the captain. “Dammit, that’s the enemy’s artillery barrage,” he replied, making me instantly wiser.Pre-flight briefings outlined our missions; post-flight debriefings revealed the ground situation to us. With the Line of Control rendered irrelevant, another challenge emerged; we had to determine whether the landing sites lay in friendly or hostile territory. Many would realise that they had been fortunate to return unscathed from ‘foreign’ territory. Others who returned with the enemy’s ‘autograph’ — splinter marks on their helicopters — truly deserved gallantry awards.Operating at those unforgiving altitudes, with thin air and reduced oxygen, tested both human and machine endurance. The helipads were barely wide enough to land, leaving no margin for error. Flying in pairs offered some solace that at least our location would be known in an emergency. Every sortie was a new experience and every landing back at base felt like a great homecoming. Stress and anxiety were writ large on the faces of commanders, as we flew on reconnaissance missions. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown; many lives depended on their decisions.Evacuating the wounded, with hope flickering in their eyes, was deeply gratifying. Sadly, some would not survive or be maimed for life. Carrying body-bags was heart-breaking; a dead man weighs as heavy in the aircraft as he does in the mind of the pilot.The media had inundated the war zone. We flew many other journalists as they covered the war which the nation watched unfold on television. For the first time, war scenes went live in everybody’s homes, stirring a wave of patriotism, which till then had been hijacked by cricket. Watching Tiger Hill being bombarded by our soldiers became a greater thrill than India defeating Pakistan and knocking it out of the World Cup. For a soldier at the front, however, war never evokes the same elation it does for a citizen watching on TV.Bollywood stars Vinod Khanna, Nana Patekar, Salman Khan and several others visited us, bringing a welcome splash of colour to the otherwise grey battle zone. For a change, these celebrities requested to be photographed with us. The moral support extended by the nation was deeply heartening. Restaurants and shops proudly offered ‘Army discounts’, while donations poured in from across the country. Thousands thronged the funerals of the ‘unknown soldiers’ killed in action.Every day was an emotional seesaw. Paramjit’s crash one day reduced me to tears; a stunned silence engulfed the crew room. Thankfully, he survived with only minor injuries. News of his wellbeing became a cause for celebration.Capt Vikram Batra’s legendary words on TV — “Yeh dil maange more” — cheered us up; his death just days later came as a rude shock. There was jubilation when we recaptured Tololing Ridge and Tiger Hill. Yet, that joy was dampened by the solemn task of carrying the mortal remains of those who had secured this victory.Those fateful days were filled with anxiety, uncertainty and anger. We prayed for the safe return of Flt Lt Nachiketa, who had ejected and was taken prisoner; the enemy’s unsoldierly treatment of Lt Saurabh Kalia was still fresh in our minds. For my parents, too, it was a harrowing time, with both their sons in the war zone. One newspaper even carried our story. The ceasefire was declared as the enemy retreated. Having lost over 500 men, with more than twice that number wounded, the enemy certainly deserved no mercy; so we felt, then, in our twenties.We returned to Jalandhar with mixed emotions after the guns fell silent. Battle-inoculated, I now viewed life through a different lens. We had won the war, yet the relief of returning was overshadowed by tragedy. Paramjit did not come back with us. Providence had spared him when he crashed, but fate caught up with him three months later when carbon monoxide poisoning claimed his life. Such is the fickleness of fortune.Twenty-seven years later, I salute our hardy, patriotic and valiant soldiers who scaled those unforgiving heights against fearsome odds. Their victory resonated well with the codename of the operation: Operation Vijay.Otto von Bismarck observed, “Anyone who has looked into the glazed eyes of a soldier dying on the battlefield will think hard before starting a war.” Thankfully, there hasn’t been a major war since then. But who can predict a soldier’s fate or an enemy’s intent?