Chapter 114: Fruits of Past Labour (1)

Sargodha District, West Punjab, Pakistan

Late March 1949

The training ground had once been a British remount depot, a flat, dusty expanse of acacia scrub and irrigation ditches forty miles north of the Chenab. Now it held eleven thousand men. They sat in loose circles beneath the winter sun, cleaning rifles, sharpening knives, and listening to mullahs who walked among them reciting verses of the Quran in cracked, carrying voices.

Major General Akbar Khan stood on a raised wooden platform at the edge of the field with a pair of binoculars hanging against his chest. Beside him, Brigadier Habibullah held a clipboard. Below them, a young lieutenant was trying to explain something to a circle of Mahsud elders. The elders did not appear to be listening.

"Eleven thousand," Habibullah said. "Mahsuds, Wazirs, Afridis, Orakzais, Mohmands. Another four thousand are on the road from Kohat. The maliks have been generous with their young men."

"The maliks have been generous because we paid," Akbar Khan said dryly. "A hundred rupees a head in advance, and the promise of the rest on completion. Last time we promised them loot instead of cash. It cost us Srinagar."

"It cost us Baramulla’s reputation too," Habibullah said, lowering his voice. "The Frontier mullahs still speak of how the Kashmiris suffered. The maliks do not want a repeat of the stories, not because they pity the Hindus, but because it tarnishes the cause."

Akbar Khan did not answer immediately. Down on the field, the lieutenant had given up on the elders and was drawing something in the dust with a stick.

"You are too kind, Habibullah," he said at last. "It did not tarnish the cause. It destroyed the operation. Three days. Three days those men sat in Baramulla dividing carpets while the Indian Dakotas landed at Srinagar every six minutes. If I had been permitted to hang twenty of their ringleaders on the first night, I would be drinking tea in the Maharaja’s palace today."

"Instead, I am forced to be patient, with the Firangis, and with the maliks," Akbar Khan said. He lowered the binoculars and turned to face his subordinate. "Show me the force structure."

Habibullah turned a page on his clipboard. "As you ordered, General. Every thousand lashkars are divided into ten jathas of a hundred men. Each jatha has a regular army officer or senior NCO attached, in civilian dress. We call them ustads, instructors. The jatha commanders are chosen by the maliks, but the ustad holds the radio and the map. If the commander disobeys, the ustad has authority to relieve him in the name of the Council."

"And the communication equipment?"

"Four hundred radio sets, mostly British Wireless Set No. 19 from the old stores in Lahore. Each ustad can speak to his battalion commander. The battalion commanders speak to us. A grid code, nothing sophisticated. We have drilled it for three weeks."

"And the lashkars’ loot?"

Habibullah hesitated. "That is the difficult question, General."

"I did not ask for difficulty. I asked for the answer."

"A pay chest accompanies each battalion. Fifty rupees a month, and two hundred on the capture of any objective. Anyone caught looting before the objective is secured will be shot by the ustad on the spot. The maliks have agreed. They have also agreed that after the objective is secured, they may take what they like from the Hindu quarters, for three days."

Akbar Khan’s mouth tightened. "Three days again."

"They would not move without it. I told them the pay would be sufficient, and they laughed at me. For a Mahsud, General, a jihad without plunder is an unpaid labour contract."

"Then they will have their plunder," Akbar Khan said grimly. "After Amritsar. After Jullundur. After the roads to Delhi are open and the Indian army is a memory. Let the maliks choose their three days in Hindu cities where there is no longer an Indian army to answer for them."

A third man had joined them on the platform. Lieutenant Colonel Zaman was one of the few regular battalion commanders Akbar Khan had retained after the purge of the old British-trained cadre. He was a tall, thin officer from Jhelum with an old shrapnel scar across his jaw, a veteran of the Burma campaign who had served alongside Indian soldiers for six years and did not share the Brigadier’s contempt for them. He saluted, and Akbar Khan returned the gesture without warmth.

"Colonel. You have seen the field exercise?"

"I have, General." Zaman’s voice was level. "The second battalion crossed the canal under simulated mortar fire. Their formation held for approximately four minutes. Then half the men broke toward the nearest cover and the other half charged the simulated guns. Discipline is... improving."

"Improving?"

"Improving from non-existent, General."

Habibullah drew himself up. "Colonel, these are men of the faith. They do not need drill to find courage-"

"Courage, they have in abundance, Brigadier," Zaman said, not raising his voice. "I have seen Wazir tribesmen walk into machine-gun fire for the sake of a rifle. It is not courage I doubt. It is the arithmetic." He turned to Akbar Khan. "The Indians destroyed our 6th Armoured Brigade at Munabao with infantry carrying German anti-tank rockets. They destroyed the 1st Armoured Division at Feature 412 with fixed guns they had dug in six weeks before. These are not men who stumble into battle. They fight with maps, and they have known the ground for months. A lashkar charge across the Punjab plains, against prepared canal lines, against Sherman tanks, against the Indian Air Force-"

"The Indian Air Force will be occupied," Akbar Khan said.

"Occupied, General?"

"With Kashmir." Akbar Khan walked to the map table at the rear of the platform. He spread his hand over the northern border. "That is the second stage of the plan, Colonel. Let me explain it properly, since you have earned the right to hear it."

Zaman followed him to the table. Habibullah, who had heard it before, looked out over the field.

"The Indians expect another thrust into Kashmir," Akbar Khan said. "Through the passes, the old route. They have fortified Zoji La, Kargil, the approaches to Skardu. Cariappa’s divisions sit in the mountains with their eyes on the snow. We will give them what they expect. Two weeks before the real operation, a diversion will be launched in the north. Small, noisy, designed to draw their reserves, and above all their air transport, into the Himalayas."

His finger moved south. "Then, in a single night, the main force crosses the Ravi near Dera Baba Nanak. Eleven battalions of lashkars, supported by our remaining regular infantry and every artillery piece we can assemble. They do not stop to capture towns. They advance down the Grand Trunk Road and the canal embankments toward Amritsar and Jullundur, with orders to cut the railway at Beas. The Indian armour will move to meet them. But armour needs fuel, and fuel needs roads, and the roads will be choked with fleeing Sikh villagers. Once Amritsar is ours, we hold the Golden Temple and the Punjab rail junction, and Delhi has to bargain."

Zaman studied the map for a long time.

"It is the Kashmir invasion," he said finally, "repeated on the Punjab plains."

Perhaps he wasn’t able to hide the scepticism in his voice as the General gave him a sharp look, "Better coordinated," Akbar Khan replied. "A distant memory from the debacle of Baramulla."

Akbar Khan smiled thinly. "India believes a Pashtun lashkar belongs to the mountains. They think of us as raiders, as irregulars who strike and flee. They will never imagine an organised jihad army on the open plains of the Punjab."

"They may not imagine it," Zaman said carefully. "But they will adapt to it within an hour. General, with respect, I have seen what the Indians did in the desert. They do not hesitate. They do not panic. They have a sort of... cold efficiency I did not see in the British Indian Army, and I served in it for sixteen years."

"The British Indian Army was ruled by white officers who did not trust their own men," Akbar Khan said. "The Indian Army today is ruled by babus and shopkeepers who do not know how to fight."

"Cariappa is not a babu."

"Cariappa is a British-trained clerk with a swagger stick." Akbar Khan closed the map folder. "Colonel Zaman, you will continue your duties. You will train your battalion to the standard I have set. You will not question the plan in front of the maliks. And if, after the first week of the operation, you still believe the arithmetic is against us, you may report that to me privately. Is that understood?"

Zaman looked at him for a long moment. Then he saluted.

"Understood, General."

When he was gone, Habibullah leaned toward Akbar Khan.

"He will be trouble."

"He will be useful," Akbar Khan said. "The sceptics are always the most thorough." He lifted his binoculars again and looked out over the field, where eleven thousand men sat under the pale March sun. "Besides, Habibullah, there is only one thing that matters. The Qaid-e-Azam is dying. When he dies, we must give the people a victory to bury him with."

South Block, Delhi

The brass heater in the corner of the Prime Minister’s study clanked and hissed. Outside, a cold wind carried the smell of woodsmoke across the lawns of the Secretariat.

B.N. Mullick stood before the desk with a single sheet of flimsy paper in his hand. It was not a decoded telegram or a surveillance photograph. It was a typed transcript, and the typewriter ribbon had been faint.

"This is the sum of what we have, Prime Minister," Mullick said. "Over the past six weeks, the whole of what we know about Pakistani military preparation derives from a single source: British diplomatic traffic."

Ram, seated at his desk, took the paper. Sardar Patel, in the armchair by the heater, shifted his wool shawl. The Home Minister’s face looked greyer than it had a month ago, though his eyes were as sharp as ever.

"Explain," Ram said.

"Since the purge, the Pakistanis have shut us out," Mullick said. "Every informant we had in Karachi, Lahore, and Rawalpindi has been arrested, executed, or has simply vanished. The telegraph operators have been replaced. The signals officers who used to leak to us have been dismissed. We cannot read their cypher traffic; they have switched to a one-time-pad system for operational communications."

"Where did they get one-time pads?"

"From the British, Prime Minister. Ironically. Gracey’s staff trained them in the system last year, when the British still held command. Now the system is being used against us."

Patel grunted. "And the British traffic?"

"That is our only window." Mullick tapped the transcript. "The British High Commissioner in Karachi sends weekly dispatches to the Commonwealth Relations Office. Gracey’s sidelined staff officers send private letters to their old regimental colleagues in London. We cannot read the cyphers directly, but our people in London have a contact in the Foreign Office registry, and through him we receive copies of the decrypted summaries. It is slow, sometimes two weeks old, and filtered through the prejudices of British diplomats."

Ram read the transcript. "Large concentrations of irregular tribal levies reported in the Sargodha and Gujrat districts. Estimated fifteen thousand. Pakistani Army instructors attached in civilian dress. Purpose unclear but widely assumed to be preparation for a renewed Kashmir offensive in the spring." He lifted his eyes. "The British think another Kashmir offensive."

"A deception?" Patel asked.

"Possibly. Or possibly the British themselves are deceived. Gracey’s staff have no operational access any more. They see only what is visible from the outside." Mullick hesitated. "There is one more detail. One of Gracey’s brigadiers wrote a private letter to a friend in the War Office, which our contact copied. It says, and I quote, ’The training areas are in the wrong place for Kashmir. One does not train mountain levies on the Chenab doab.’"

Ram set the paper down. Neither he nor Patel spoke for a moment.

"The Chenab doab," Patel said slowly. "That is the plains. That is Punjab."

"Yes, Home Minister."

"They are not preparing for Kashmir at all."

"It is one brigadier’s observation, Sardar-sahib," Mullick said. "I cannot call it intelligence. But it is the only signal that does not match the Pakistani cover story."

Ram rose and walked to the wall map. He laid a hand on the border between East and West Punjab and stood very still.

"They are going to try the plains," he said. "It makes sense. Our entire northern posture is fortified for Kashmir. Zoji La, Kargil, the passes. Our armour is in the Punjab and Thar, but our reserves of infantry are in the mountains. They want to catch us looking the wrong way."

"We can order the divisions to shift," Patel said.

"If we shift visibly, they will know we have learned something, and they will change the plan again." Ram turned back. "Director Mullick, what are your thoughts on the creation of a dedicated external intelligence wing?"

Mullick’s expression changed slightly. "I believe the Intelligence Bureau is perfectly capable of handling both the internal and external intelligence."

"The Intelligence Bureau has always been a domestic agency. Using it abroad stretches its legal mandate. And besides, the stretched boundaries of the country have also stretched the Bureau quite thin." Ram said.

"Now. We cannot spend another winter reading British gossip to understand what Pakistan is doing." Patel added.

"Have an internal discussion about it. Also, Mullick, the order to the Army is this: no visible repositioning, but General Cariappa is to quietly raise the readiness of every Punjab formation by one level, and the engineers are to prepare the canal bunds along the Ravi and Beas for flooding. If the Pakistanis want to cross the Punjab plains, let them cross it ankle-deep in mud."

"It shall be done, Prime Minister."

When Mullick had gone, Patel looked up at Ram from his chair.

"You are going to London in three days," he said. "With this hanging over us."

"With this hanging over us, I must go to London," Ram said. "The financial operation cannot wait. If the pound devalues before we have settled, we lose the leverage we spent the past year building. And if I stay here, Sardar-ji, I would only pace this room and read the same transcript again."

"I shall hold the fort in your absence." Patel said with a dry, wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. He pressed the inhaler to his mouth and breathed in the eucalyptus vapour until his chest eased.

"You ought to rest more, Vallabhbhai," Ram said quietly.

"I will rest when the Republic does," Patel said, waving the inhaler away. "Go to London. Plunder the British. Leave the domestic affairs to me."

South Block

The next afternoon

Loy Henderson, the American Ambassador, was a lean, tired-looking man in a grey suit who had spent most of his career studying the Soviet Union and who regarded the rest of the world with suspicion. He sat opposite Ram in the Prime Minister’s study, holding a cup of tea he had not touched. Beside him sat Dr. Lo Chia-luen, the Chinese Nationalist Ambassador, a heavyset, silver-haired man in a dark Western suit who looked as if he had not slept properly in a year.

"Prime Minister," Henderson said, "I have a message from the Secretary of State, which I am instructed to deliver in person."

"Please."

Henderson put down his cup. "Mr. Acheson wishes me to convey that the United States Government has reviewed the intelligence assessments you provided last April concerning the Chinese Communist campaign plans. We have also reviewed the operational results since."

"I am glad the assessments proved useful," Ram said.

"Useful is an inadequate word, Prime Minister." Henderson’s dry voice carried the faintest warmth. "I will be candid. When Director Mullick first handed those documents to Mr. Ringwood, the State Department’s China desk dismissed them as improbable. The Joint Chiefs thought them exaggerated. They assumed Communist forces were years from conducting multi-army strategic campaigns."

"And?"

"And on the first of October, Lin Biao’s army struck at Jinzhou, precisely as the dossier predicted. But because General Wei Lihuang had reinforced the city and stockpiled ammunition and rations at the railhead, as your document advised, Jinzhou held. The Communist siege stalled. Changchun held. Shenyang was resupplied by air. Lin Biao’s armies took heavy casualties and withdrew northward."

Dr. Lo spoke for the first time, in careful English. "It was a very near thing, Prime Minister. The Generalissimo told me personally that if Jinzhou had fallen, the whole northeast would have collapsed. We would have lost half a million men."

"You are too generous," Ram said. "The credit belongs to General Wei and his officers."

"They would not have known to prepare without your warning." Dr. Lo leaned forward. "And Huaihai, too. Su Yu and Liu Bocheng attempted their great encirclement at Xuzhou in November. General Du Yuming had been warned of the exact axis of attack. He did not wait in the city. He broke their encirclement at the river, with the new American artillery, and they bled for two months. They have been unable to cross the Huai. The Communists are now short of ammunition, short of food, and their peasant labourers are deserting. Mao Zedong has had to order a pause."

"A pause," Ram repeated.

"A winter pause, perhaps a spring one. But the line holds, Prime Minister. Nanjing is secure. Shanghai is secure. And for the first time in two years, Washington is speaking of the Nationalist government as something other than a lost cause."

Henderson cleared his throat. "That is the context for Mr. Acheson’s message. The Secretary wishes you to know that the President personally appreciates the role India has played. The Pentagon has asked me to say that if India has particular requests regarding equipment, technical assistance, or diplomatic support, they will receive favourable consideration. President Truman used the phrase ’a friend who delivered when it counted.’"

"The President is gracious," Ram said, though his expression did not change. "And the Chinese Communist advance south into Yunnan?"

"Stalled, as well," Dr. Lo said. "The Burmese hill tribes along the border, which your organisation supplied, have continued to harass their supply lines. Communist forces attempting to open a southern corridor to Burma have been unable to establish a stable line. The Generalissimo has asked me to convey his personal gratitude and a request."

"A request?"

"That India permit the Republic of China to maintain the overland supply corridor through Assam and northern Burma for at least another year. Our armies in Yunnan still depend on American aid arriving by that route."

"The corridor will remain open," Ram said. "On the same terms as before. Colonel Rawat’s logistics command will continue to guarantee transit."

Dr. Lo bowed his head. "Thank you, Prime Minister."

Henderson shifted in his chair. "There is one more matter, Prime Minister, that I raise in an unofficial capacity. I understand you are travelling to London next week."

"I am."

"The Secretary asked me to say, informally, that Washington understands India’s financial negotiations with Great Britain are a bilateral matter. However..." Henderson chose his words with obvious care. "The treaty to establish a North Atlantic alliance will be signed in early April. Mr. Acheson’s attention is, to put it plainly, entirely on Europe. It will not be easy for the United States to support any move that appears to weaken Britain’s financial position in the weeks before the signing."

"I understand," Ram said. "I hope that the interests of Washington and New Delhi need not conflict."

"I hope so too, Prime Minister."

"May I make an observation, Mr. Ambassador?"

"Please."

"The oil companies of the West have operated in this country for half a century through a single British firm. Burmah-Shell holds a near-monopoly on marketing, refining, and distribution. American oil houses such as Standard-Vacuum and Caltex have been shut out of the Indian market by a combination of British preference and the sterling area. I suspect some of your countrymen would welcome a change in that arrangement."

Henderson’s eyes narrowed with interest. "Go on."

"India is considering a large refinery at Visakhapatnam," Ram said. "Built with American equipment, American engineers, and American capital. A joint venture, with a major American oil firm as the technical partner. It would be the largest industrial investment by a United States company in Asia outside Japan. It would also, naturally, be conditional upon a changed ownership of India’s oil distribution."

"Burmah Oil," Henderson said slowly.

"I make no specific claim, Mr. Ambassador. I merely observe that American refinery equipment is more easily purchased by a country that controls its own oil sector."

Henderson was silent for a time. Dr. Lo, who clearly understood the implication, studied the carpet.

"I will convey this to the Secretary," Henderson said at last. "I make no promises. But I think he will find it interesting."

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