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His chopper ambushed and flying thumb gone, how a pilot saved his co-pilot and returned safe

In 'I'd Rather Fly a Chopper', former IAF pilot Rajesh Isser shares his personal anecdotes from his life as a helicopter pilot for 37 years.

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After Jaisalmer, a hard-field area where I started my family, we moved all the way across India, and an ocean named after it, to Car Nicobar in the Andamans. It was to be an idyllic break with quality family time. It was, except for some interesting interludes in Sri Lanka as a Mi-8 pilot who was part of the Indian Peacekeeping Force. If there was a high-intensity counter-insurgency operation to be experienced, it was here. The main opposition was a highly motivated, intelligent and crafty bunch—the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Elam or LTTE. Its leader, Prabhakaran, who was finally killed in 2009, still evokes fear and admiration for his adaptability and ruthlessness.

There were four main bases where IAF operations were concentrated—Jaffna or Palaly airport, Vavuniya, Trincomalee and Batticaloa. From these bases, thousands of IAF aeroplane sorties provided the link and support to India, with a hub-and-spoke model of helicopter support to hundreds of helipads at army outposts. Initially, the going was crazy. Sometimes, in the same day, you could end up doing sorties and supporting the Indian Army, the LTTE or even some other rival militant groups such as Eelam People’s Revolutionary Liberation Front (EPRLF)or People’s Liberation Organization of Tamil Eelam (PLOTE). The issue was so complex and dynamic that strategy and tactics changed and evolved throughout. Some memories, however, are vivid.

Ambushed

Once, while Kama and I were flying a support mission from Vavuniya to a southern outpost, we heard some urgent operational calls on the radio. The action was taking place at a helipad close by, and we were almost over it. An army Ranjit (light machine gun-mounted helicopter) was getting down to take out some LTTE rebels who had attacked an army camp. Abruptly, there were panic calls as if the radio of the Ranjit had got jammed in transmitting mode. A burst from an AK-47 had hit the Ranjit. While little damage was done by most bullets, one slug had broken the Perspex, hit the control stick of the captain (Daman), taking out his thumb, and hit the jaw of the co-pilot, a Sikh officer whose name I do not remember. Almost a dozen of his teeth had been dislodged and he was gagging on them. It was a commendable effort by Daman to fly the helicopter without the thumb of his flying hand, pass urgent instructions to the gunner to save the co-pilot’s life and, at the same time, head back to Vavuniya. It was not only a brave task but one that showed his great presence of mind in a calamitous situation. All this was broadcast to everyone flying, since the transmit switch had jammed due to the bullets.

There was a similar scene that I witnessed in June 1989, while overflying a place called Pankulam on the road north to Killinochchi. A Jat regiment battalion’s convoy had been ambushed. The CO had taken nine bullets and many others were injured. From the top, we could see the battalion get its act together and the LTTE cadres making a getaway in the face of sustained fire. The attack helicopter had been called in, but by the time it arrived, the LTTE had simply vanished. We really felt helpless since we were not armed
for that mission.

The forces that were more than a match for the LTTE in every way were the Special Forces, or the Paras. I operated with 1, 2 and 10 Para in various missions. The most remarkable thing about them was how small teams were secretly placed during evening or night by slithering or winching down from a helicopter in an area they had designated. For the next few days, they would go about their act, negating the advantages that the LTTE had over the usual large-scale army operations. We would pick them up from a different location after a few days. It was an honour to operate with the Special Forces. With them, one gets a drift of the meaning of ‘junoon’ or passion in its truest sense.


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Mortar Mani

The threat on ground was far more sinister and difficult to manage than the one in the air. A number of cases of infiltration, even by women and children who blew themselves up, ensured that base protection was treated with utmost seriousness. We had our weapons with us at all times. Vavuniya was especially vulnerable because of the geography and the extant situation. There were multiple tiers of defence, as in a fortification. Once, when threat levels were declared high, the tension was palpable all across the camp. Whether it was a mischievous act or genuinely out of fear, a Sri Lankan soldier fired a burst of his machine gun in the night. More sporadic fire burst out from different parts, and within minutes the whole camp was letting out tensions—and all in the air. An early Diwali followed in the middle of a dark night, with thousands of rounds being fired.

Because of the geography, the camp was particularly vulnerable to mortar fire, and therefore, special measures were taken to alleviate the threat such as active patrolling and intelligence gathering. One day, the army boss called for a meeting of all units. There was credible intelligence that the LTTE were planning to use mortars to hit our helicopters on ground. These had been zeroed-in on by them. A decision was taken to park them at different places when we came in for last landing. This went on for a few days till logistical challenges forced a return to the earlier practice.

However, the really amusing story is another related incident. The air force camp was right next to the runway. It was a square set-up around a large volleyball court with tents arranged all around, including the larger mess tent. The base commander (IAF) was Groupie Sahota, a fighter pilot whose tent was similar to everyone else’s on the outside but better done up inside. He was of a very empathizing and decent disposition, but he was clearly out of his comfort zone. Ravi, the chief engineering officer, a witty and intelligent officer, was very fond of pulling Sahota’s leg whenever an opportunity presented itself.

During the mortar high alert, when we had gathered for our usual drinks before dinner, he told us that the latest inputs and analysis had revealed that the LTTE believed getting helicopters and pilots was not worth it because they could be replaced. What was crucial was to get the leadership—to cut the head off. Sahota, too, was listening intently. Ravi went on to explain that, at night, any assassin would recognize our commander’s tent by the unique white jeep parked in front of it, and therefore, it called for a dispersal plan just like the helicopters. Realizing the joke, all of us laughed; but in hindsight, Sahota’s laughter seemed a little nervous.

We went to bed and, as usual, fell off to sleep instantly after a gruelling day. I used to share my tent with Atri, another pilot. He would get up ten minutes earlier, since he was junior to me, to ensure the staggered use of the common toilets. The next morning, before the sun rose, he got into his routine and went out of the tent.

Instantly, he came back and woke me up, laughing loudly all the time. Lo and behold, the white jeep was parked in front of our tent, while our olive-green jeep was in front of the commander’s. When confronted, Sahota assured us that it would be parked randomly
every night. Ravi had struck—again!

This excerpt from Rajesh Isser’s ‘I’d Rather Fly a Chopper’ has been published with permission from HarperCollins.

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