The valley had not yet surrendered the night. A faint, bruised haze clung to the ridgelines of the Pir Panjal, and the bitter air carried the metallic scent of frost mixed with smoke from the burnt villages along the northern approaches to Srinagar. Major Somnath Sharma tightened the wool collar around his neck and looked eastward. Dawn was still a rumour, but war did not wait for the sun.
Far below, in the half-light, the first signs of movement flickered—shadows drifting between pine trunks, muffled crunches on frozen leaves, the slow crawl of a fanatical host that refused to relent. The lashkars were preparing another assault. Sharma glanced at the men of his Company, 4 Kumaon. Some crouched behind sandbags, rifles resting on numb fingers. Others checked their magazines, their breath dim clouds in the cold. None spoke. Fear lived here, but discipline held it by the throat.
A jawan whispered, "Sahab, they will come again before sunrise."
Sharma did not turn. "They will," he replied softly. "And we will stop them again."
He felt the dull throb in his injured wrist. The bandage underneath his glove was stiffness itself, and a lesser man would have been relieved by the medical officer's earlier recommendation to withdraw to the aid post. But if he left and someone died, he would never forgive himself. His hand trembled slightly, but his resolve did not.
Across the valley, the first mortar round arced in the darkness and exploded near a cluster of rocks, shaking dust loose from the frozen ground. Another followed, then another. The Indian line hunkered down. Sharma raised his binoculars as streaks of flame flickered in the distance—the raiders lighting their torches, a barbaric old-world intimidation that would have terrified lesser foes. Behind him, a runner sprinted up the slope.
"Major sa'ab, message from Battalion HQ! Helicopter supply from Jammu confirmed. ETA thirty minutes."
Sharma's jaw tightened. The helicopters had started flying in from 22 October—fragile, underpowered machines pushed into war months before India truly had the infrastructure for them. But necessity had forced innovation, and this morning's drop carried more than ammunition. It carried survival—bandages, morphine, sulfa drugs, dry rations, and desperately needed winter clothing. In 1947, much of the army still wore cotton uniforms better suited to peacetime parades than Himalayan war. Sharma made a mental note to distribute them first to those who had fought bare-armed through the previous night.
A faint hum entered the valley, alien, mechanical, rising above the rumble of mortar shells. The men looked up. Through the thinning mist, a Sikorsky helicopter cut across the sky like a clumsy metal bird struggling against mountain winds. The raiders heard it too. A cry went up from their ranks—rage at the sight of Indian resolve defying the terrain.
The first wave surged.
"Positions!" Sharma barked.
Rifles cracked. Light machine guns rattled. The defenders of Badgam stood firm, fighting with the grim determination of men who knew there was no fallback left, no second line behind them. Srinagar lay only a few kilometres beyond. If the raiders broke through, the airfield would fall. And if the airfield fell, the valley would be lost.
A mortar round exploded close to Sharma's position, throwing two jawans off their feet. He crawled to them at once. One had a deep wound in his thigh, blood welling darkly. The other clutched his abdomen. A field medic, Subedar-MO Ashok Tiwari, slid beside them, his haversack open, his hands moving rapidly. They had no luxury of time. Tiwari cut through the trouser cloth, pressed gauze on the thigh wound, and injected morphine while bullets snapped overhead.
"Evac needed," Tiwari told a stretcher-bearer. "Critical. Stabilize at orchard post."
The orchard post—the 1st Forward Aid Station—was a cluster of canvas tents near a shattered apple orchard. It was the closest thing to a hospital the valley had right now. It smelled of antiseptic, blood, and wet earth. Men groaned on stretchers while medical personnel worked with the speed of desperation.
Inside, Surgeon-Captain Joglekar of the Indian Army Medical Corps stood over a jawan whose leg was mangled from a grenade blast. He had been operating for four hours straight, pausing only long enough to wash his hands in a cold enamel basin. His spectacles were fogged, the bridge of his nose bruised from where they pressed. He ignored the ache. He ignored everything except the beating pulse under his fingers.
"BP?" he asked.
"Ninety over fifty," replied a medical student from Medical College Srinagar who had joined the field volunteers after the city fell into panic.
"He's slipping. Plasma."
The orderly handed him a bottle. A shakily hung lantern cast their shadows large against the tent wall. Outside, the muffled thunder of artillery rolled over the mountains. Joglekar made a swift incision, cleaned the wound, set a traction pin, and directed the splinting. The soldier whimpered but did not cry out. Men here knew pain as intimately as breath.
"Next," Joglekar murmured when the stretcher-bearers carried the soldier away for airlift.
For those too injured to walk, air evacuation was their only lifeline—to the bigger hospitals under the newly formed National Health Authority. There, real surgical theatres waited. There, legends of Indian medicine were manning the barracks and civilian wards: Dr. Bidhan Chandra Roy in Calcutta overseeing trauma units; Dr. R. N. Chopra ensuring drugs were rationed scientifically; Dr. P. K. Sen in Bombay instructing young surgeons in emergency thoracic techniques; and in Delhi, Lt. Col. D. R. Thapar reorganizing military triage with terrifying efficiency.
None of these luminaries were present in the valley, but their minds dictated the techniques these field surgeons used. India, newborn and burning, had thrown its entire medical intellect into the war.
Back at the front, the lashkars pushed up the slope again, their cries mingling with the shriek of bullets. A grenade exploded near Sharma, showering him with pebbles and dirt. He staggered, coughing out the dust, and fired his rifle one-handed, his injured wrist screaming with each recoil. Every shot felt like a nail hammered into bone, but he did not stop.
Around him, the company held firm, pushing the attackers back foot by foot. Sharma saw a young jawan, barely eighteen, freeze when a raider charged toward him, wild-eyed. Sharma hurled his own body forward, knocking the raider aside and finishing him in a swift, brutal motion. The jawan stared at his Major, eyes wide with shock.
"Steady yourself," Sharma said, gripping his shoulder. "You're a Kumaoni. Fear we accept—retreat we do not."
The boy nodded, breath ragged, and resumed firing.
As the sun crested the mountain ridge, a brief quiet fell. Smoke wafted through the cold air. The helicopter landed in a clearing behind the Indian lines, its rotor wash lifting snow and dust in swirling eddies. Soldiers rushed forward to unload supplies: bandages, sutures, morphine ampoules, ammunition, tins of biscuits, and boots—precious boots for men fighting with torn soles.
Two medical officers boarded the helicopter with critically wounded men. The aircraft was bound for Jammu. From Jammu, Dakota aircraft would fly them to the metropolitan hospitals now functioning under NHA command.
But many wounded could not wait. They needed immediate intervention.
Dr. Joglekar stepped out of the orchard tent for a moment of air. His gloves were stained brown with dried blood. He stretched his aching shoulders and shut his eyes briefly. He had seen death too often in the last forty-eight hours. Men came in missing limbs, their chests blown open, faces unrecognizable. But this war had no room for despair. Every man saved meant one more rifle for tomorrow.
He returned inside.
A new stretcher had arrived—a Sikh soldier with shrapnel embedded near his upper abdomen, bleeding badly but conscious. His turban was half undone, soaked with sweat. Tiwari held pressure on the wound.
"Pulse weak. Shrapnel may have nicked the liver."
"Prep him," Joglekar ordered.
The soldier met his eyes. "Doctor sahib," he whispered, "I must return. My company… we cannot let them through."
"You will return," Joglekar said firmly, though he knew the odds were uncertain. "But only if you stay alive these next thirty minutes."
The soldier allowed himself a small smile before the mask descended over his face.
Outside the tent, the war raged anew.
The raiders had regrouped for a massive push. Smoke from burning huts cast a dark haze over the valley. Civilians fled along muddy tracks, some clutching babies, others dragging old parents, all praying to reach the safety of Srinagar before the wave engulfed them.
Sharma saw the movement on the left flank and cursed under his breath. They were trying to envelop. He grabbed the radio handset and contacted Battalion HQ. Static crackled.
"Badgam to HQ. They are preparing another pincer. We need reinforcement on the west slope."
The reply was faint but clear. "Hold as long as you can. Brigadier Sen is sending a platoon from 1 Sikh. They will take twenty minutes."
Twenty minutes was near impossible. But Sharma did not allow himself to think in minutes. He thought in seconds, in rifle bursts, in how many grenades they had left, in the courage of his men.
He signalled his platoons. "Left flank, shift fire! Grenadiers forward. No ground will be given. Not one foot."
The next assault was the worst yet. The lashkars charged in waves, bullets, arrows, and stones flying. The ridge turned into a theatre of close combat. Men grappled in the mud. Knives flashed. Rifle butts struck bone. The ground trembled with the weight of dozens of bodies clashing.
Sharma shot until his shoulder burned. A raider slammed into him, and they tumbled down a slope, punches thrown with animal desperation. Sharma's injured wrist gave out under a blow, but he locked his arm around the man's neck and crushed with every ounce of strength. The raider fell limp. Sharma gasped, pain flooding his body.
He dragged himself back up the slope, every muscle screaming.
Minutes stretched like years.
And finally—
A bugle sounded from the west. Reinforcements.
The men of 1 Sikh Regiment surged into the fight with fury. The raiders, taken by surprise, faltered, then broke. They scattered down the valley, some dropping weapons, others screaming in frustration.
The ridge held.
Sharma exhaled, the breath shaking out of him. He looked around—his company was battered, bruised, bleeding, but alive. They had done what seemed impossible. They had held the doorway to Srinagar.
But the price was everywhere.
Bodies on stretchers. Blood staining the snow. Men limping, clutching wounds. Medics running with satchels. The faint whine of another helicopter approaching for evacuation.
Sharma walked slowly, exhaustion etched into every step, toward the orchard post. He wanted to check on the men brought earlier. He stopped when he heard a familiar voice—Tiwari arguing with an orderly.
"He must be taken now! He'll die if delayed."
"He is third on the list," the orderly insisted. "Priority goes by protocol."
"There is no protocol in hell," Tiwari snapped. "Put him on the chopper."
Sharma stepped in. "Whose case?"
A stretcher lay between them. A young Kumaoni soldier with a deep chest wound, barely breathing.
"Take him," Sharma said without hesitation. "I'll sign whatever is needed."
The orderly nodded reluctantly.
A cold gust swept through the clearing as the helicopter's rotor began spinning. The stretcher was carried aboard. Sharma glanced at the injured man, wondering if he would ever fight again. Then he looked at the other two on board—both unconscious. The helicopter lifted off, rising into the pale sky.
He felt a tightening in his throat.
He had sent them to live. Or to die elsewhere instead of here.
War was a ledger, he thought grimly. And all he could do was try to keep the balance from drowning his men.
That evening, as the sun bled crimson over the ridges, Sharma received new orders. He was to hold Badgam at all costs. The raiders were regrouping. This was only the beginning.
He sat for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle. He remembered the groans in the orchard tent, the blood on Tiwari's hands, the steel resolve of Surgeon-Captain Joglekar, the helicopter carrying the wounded away like fragile hope.
He wondered how many would reach the hospitals alive.
He wondered how many would walk again.
Then he pushed the thoughts aside. A commander had no room for ghosts.
Around midnight, a courier from HQ arrived with hot tea and a note scribbled by Brigadier Sen:
"You held the valley today. Hold it again tomorrow."
Sharma folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.
The wind howled across the mountains like a warning.
War would not relent.
And neither would the defenders of the valley.
But as the stars emerged, faint and hard, Sharma felt a strange comfort. Not in weapons, but in the knowledge that somewhere far away—
in Calcutta, in Bombay, in Madras, in Delhi—
India's finest doctors stood ready to rebuild the men he was trying to keep alive.
The National Health Authority, dismissed as a welfare scheme by foreign observers, had become the silent backbone of the nation's war effort. It was the unseen army fighting under lamps and scalpels. And every helicopter, every stretcher, every bottle of plasma carried the same unspoken promise:
No man would be abandoned.
Not in this war.
Not in this new India.
On the ridge of Badgam, as another distant explosion echoed through the valley, Sharma lifted his face to the night sky and whispered a vow to the darkness:
"As long as I breathe, Srinagar will not fall."
And somewhere far away, in a hospital ward lit by a dim bulb, a wounded soldier opened his eyes after surgery, alive because of that very vow—alive because India had chosen to fight two wars at once: one for land, and one for the souls of its defenders.
The valley slept fitfully.
The orchards whispered.
The helicopters circled like lone guardians in the sky.
And the war marched on.