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Outside Magazine February 2003

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The Coldest War (Cont.)


	The entrance to Gyhari, below the Saltoro Ridge. "Morally, we occupy the high ground," said one Pakistani officer. (Teru Kuwayama)

TO REACH THE FRONT LINES we drove along the Shyok, then headed deep into the mountains to a village called Dansam, a hub for roads leading to the major Pakistani combat sectors. Our destination was a base called Ghyari, which is lodged at 12,400 feet in a narrow valley leading up to Bilafond La. We arrived on an August evening under a canopy of stars, coming to a halt beneath a wooden marquee emblazoned with the words GUARDIANS OF THE FROZEN FRONTIER.

Ghyari sits between soaring granite walls as bold and majestic as El Capitan, threaded with waterfalls that turn to mist before they hit the valley floor. Farther up this valley lie several Pakistani artillery batteries, which lob shells at the Indian posts dug in on the ridges above. Ghyari is a supply center and rehab station for worn-out soldiers—they recuperate after coming down from the front, or pause to acclimatize before marching up to relieve their comrades, who are rotated out every two to eight weeks to prevent high-altitude sickness and brain damage.

The Ghyari base consists of a dozen neatly whitewashed buildings and a 600-year-old mosque established by Sayyid Ali Hamadani, who introduced Islam to Baltistan in the 14th century. A

Ghyari sits amid soaring granite walls as bold and majestic as el capitan, threaded with thousand-foot waterfalls that turn to mist before they hit they valley floor.

few steps from the mosque sits an underground bunker that serves as a studio for a young man named Makhtar, who paints portraits of the shaheeds, or martyrs—soldiers who have been killed in this war and thereby gained admission to paradise. The Pakistanis believe their religious faith gives them motivation that the Indians lack. "The concepts of jihad and shahadat—or Ôlife after death'—help us strike hard," explained Major Sikendar Hayat, 41, second in command at Ghyari. "It is what we call a force-multiplier."

Islam isn't the only influence on this army; as is true on the Indian side, its rituals are clearly British. At the heart of the base sits a crude cricket field said to be the highest in the world. On our first afternoon at Ghyari, a Sunday, the officers gathered on a row of folding chairs to watch a match. In front of them was a low table with a field telephone that squawked every few minutes as posts called in reports.

After two hours of casual cricket talk—"Good batting, sir!"... "Shabash! Well done!"—the game was halted for high tea. The officers rearranged their chairs in a circle while the sirdar, a bearded man in a white lace skullcap, started serving them. Without warning, a massive, hollow boom resounded from the ridges up near the front lines.

"Artillery?" asked Major Sikendar, looking behind him.

"Rockslide," responded a second officer.

"Must be artillery," said a third.

"Phone!" barked the commanding officer, a chiseled lieutenant colonel on his third tour of Siachen duty.

Sikendar seized the green field telephone, cranked the handle, listened, grunted. Everyone else stared at the ground. After a minute or two, it emerged that dynamite was being used to clear a route blocked by a landslide. The tension ratcheted down a notch, but the tea was now cold. Sunday afternoon cricket was over.

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