Free Four Miles to Freedom by Faith Johnston

in good shape, would remain a mystery. Like everything else in their present world, the decision was completely out of their hands.
    The ICRC plane that took Mulla-Feroze home returned to Pakistan with the first batch of mail. When the Red Cross representative arrived at the camp, all the prisoners met him once again in the interrogation room. It was another man, not Mr B—and they were far more interested in getting their mail and parcels than they were in a long conflab.
    When they were questioned about their treatment, they mentioned the obvious deficiencies of their camp: one toilet and shower for the lot of them, and the same tasteless food day after day, trucked in from the enlisted men’s mess though they were all officers. But they admitted the camp staff were treating them decently and that the medical care had improved (though Pethia was still no better). They were all pleased when the rep told them that he believed the treatment of POWs, on both sides of the border, was the best he’d seen in any conflict.
    â€˜This can be used to your advantage,’ he told them. ‘When the authorities here know that their own prisoners are being treated well, they are more inclined to treat you in the same manner. We call this “simultaneous reciprocity”.’ It was a term they would remember and use later on.
    After the formal part of the meeting, the Red Cross rep distributed the mail. They were disappointed to find that there were no parcels. Some of the POWs received four or five letters but Bhargava received none. He thought of his wife Anu and their two children waiting for him at home. What could have happened? Had there been some disaster and no one wanted to inform him? He was beside himself. ‘You can read my letters if you like,’ said Dilip. Grewal made the same offer, and Bhargava took them up on it.
    Those who did receive letters found that all of them had been written before anyone had received their letters. All the news was more than a month old and some of the letters had sentences blacked out by the censor. Dilip received letters from his parents and sisters but nothing from his friend Inder Khanna. Shortly after the mail arrived, he wrote to Inder again.
    IAF Officers POW Camp
    Rawalpindi, Pakistan
    7 Mar ‘72
    Dear Inder and Pamma,
    Last week we got our first batch of mail and was slightly disappointed not to find one from you … perhaps you did not receive the earlier letter which I wrote from here.
    The mind goes back to the palmist and her rather gloomy forecast that you would be badly injured about this time in life. I for one have only believed the good things palmists have to say and rejected the rest. Consequently I do fervently hope that when we next meet, soon, we shall have a good laugh and scoff at miserable predictions.
    Both ’65 and ’71 have been eventful years for yours truly. The chance of ending up in a POW camp had never crossed my mind but this is also a great experience as long as one does not make it a habit.
    Life at this camp is better than tolerable. We spend the whole day from after breakfast to 5 p.m. in a small walled compound. The day passes playing carrom, chess, bridge—which I learned just before the Ops—we also have some lively games of 7 tiles and a little bit of non-hard-hitting cricket. The ball must not leave the compound.
    The food is certainly adequate, in fact almost every single one of us has put on weight since we came here. We even had a tape recorder for a few days but it went out of order and we haven’t seen it for almost a month.
    Now that the first batch of mail has arrived we are all anxiously waiting for parcels to follow, and above all we all wait for news about repatriation. The other day some sick and wounded were exchanged. Only one pilot from this camp managed to get his name on that list and even as I write he is probably having himself a gala time in Delhi or Bombay. Now since that