False alarm in Nagaland village

BACK in the early 1970s, my infantry battalion was thrown into the thick of things in Nagaland, battling insurgency. Our HQ was nestled in Jessami, a village with a rich past dating back to World War II. It earned us the nickname, ‘The Jessami Unit’. Our outposts were scattered across treacherous terrain, often reachable only on foot.

Phek, a significant village in our area, was home to the chief commander of the erstwhile Naga underground, Zashie Hurie. Needless to say, keeping tabs on Phek was a top priority.

We had a company permanently stationed on the village’s fringes, hoping to snag Hurie on one of his visits to his family. Capturing him alive would have been a massive feather in our caps, a real morale-booster for the troops. Every soldier in that company understood the stakes. We pored over reports, desperately seeking intel inputs on the underground, especially Hurie’s movements.

Our company commander, a shrewd officer, befriended a local. Rum and whiskey flowed freely, and soon, this guy was a regular visitor to our outpost, revealing secrets in exchange for the good life. Counter-insurgency operations are all about local intelligence, and this guy was our golden ticket, even though language was a hurdle.

Counter-insurgency operations require hard work to gain local intelligence. After much cajoling, we were finally able to crack a deal with this man. Phek had a prominent church, and its light burned brightly every night. Our source, who had access to the church, promised a unique signal: the extinguishing of the light would mean Hurie was in the vicinity. Excitement crackled through the company. We showered our source with gifts, eager for the big score. A sentry was posted every night, eyes glued to the church.

Then it happened. The light vanished! The sentry alerted the company commander, and the message raced up the chain of command, from battalion to brigade. A massive operation was launched. Troops converged on Phek; a meticulously planned cordon was put in place. We waited, hearts pounding, throughout the night.

Dawn broke as we descended into the village to begin our door-to-door search. But there was no sign of Hurie. Disappointment washed over us. We confronted our source, grilling him about the false alarm. His nonchalant response: “I got drunk and don’t remember a thing!”

To this day, I wonder whether he was loyal to us or his fellow villagers. Perhaps it was neither and the allure of alcohol had clouded his judgment. It’s a mystery that continues to haunt me.

Musings