Pinch That Ran Seven Miles

Published in Broke, Bruised, and Breathing - Just Cadets Once Again, a book released by the 63rd batch of NDA.

Every NDA cadet has fond memories of Jam Sessions. Officially, they were organised to foster squadron spirit, camaraderie and healthy interaction across terms. Unofficially, they were the Academy's pressure-release valve before the pressure cooker exploded.

Our first Jam Session in India Squadron during the Autumn Term of 1980 was eagerly awaited. We were twenty-nine ducklings from the Ghorpuri Wing, still smelling of innocence and boot polish. But at the sprawling NDA Campus, we were still greenhorns and were struggling to understand its geography and the multitude of nuances that we had with a larger number of seniors watching us with hawk eyes.

India Squadron, however, enjoyed the reputation of producing gentlemen. Our seniors took this responsibility seriously. They ensured we never missed meals, tea, snacks or breakfast, except, naturally, the legendary D-7 delicacies, which all went to sixth termers.

Jam Sessions were major squadron events. The Fifth Termers organised them with military precision, assisted by the Cadets' Mess, while the Battalion Duty Officer made a courtesy visit to ensure nobody had creatively upgraded the soft drinks into power-packed concoctions. Lady Luck smiled upon us that evening. The Battalion Duty Officer happened to be our newly posted Squadron Div O from the Air Force.

Doors were shut to spare neighbouring squadrons from our musical interpretation of civilisation, and within minutes the squadron ante-room resembled a cross between a discotheque, a wrestling championship and a natural disaster.

The atmosphere was electric. Music blared. Bodies flew. Furniture developed survival instincts. The trademark feature of every Jam Session was the "Lights Out" routine. At completely unpredictable moments, someone would plunge the room into darkness. In those glorious few seconds, the laws of physics, military courtesy and personal space all took voluntary leave. Cadets shoved one another and generally behaved like particles inside a nuclear reactor.

Then the lights would return. Everyone would instantly assume expressions of complete innocence. Our Div O was thoroughly enjoying himself. Perhaps he was reliving his own Academy days. He danced with infectious enthusiasm, laughed heartily and seemed to have forgotten for one magical evening, that he was an officer and we were cadets.

Then came one particularly enthusiastic blackout. The lights vanished. The usual chaos erupted. Someone shouted. Someone stumbled. Someone almost certainly lost a shoe. A few seconds later the lights returned. Our Div O had quietly moved to one side. He smiled politely, wished everyone good night and left without another dance step.

The music stopped soon afterwards. The Jam Session ended rather abruptly, but nobody thought much of it. We stacked chairs, cleared the room and retired to our cabins convinced that we had just experienced one of the happiest evenings of our Academy life. How innocent we were!

Monday arrived. India Squadron looked as though war had been declared. The Squadron appointments stood outside the Squadron Office in immaculate ceremonial dress wearing expressions usually reserved for courts martial. By lunchtime, the first order arrived.

"Entire Squadron. Seven-mile run. Full FSMO. Immediately after lunch."

Collective despair. For us Second Termers, this bordered on cruelty. We staggered back in the evening believing the worst was over. It wasn't. Cabin cupboard inspection before dinner. Periphery run after dinner. This magnificent punishment continued for nearly a month, conveniently coinciding with our Phase Tests. Even Sundays lost their constitutional right to be Sundays. Academic casualties mounted rapidly.

Yet nobody knew why. Rumours travelled faster than official orders. Finally, the truth emerged through the Academy's highly efficient unofficial intelligence network. During one of those famous Lights Out moments, an unidentified patriot, whose identity remains protected under the Official Secrets Act, had apparently mistaken our handsome bachelor Div O for someone else... and administered a perfectly aimed pinch on his posterior.

Whether it was intended as affection, appreciation, mistaken identity, or sheer athletic miscalculation has never been established. The culprit was never found. The entire squadron, however, served the sentence. Justice, NDA style. For a very long time afterwards, Jam Sessions in India Squadron became rarer than weekend leave.

Some mysteries are simply too sacred for history to solve.