The sun burned bright over Karachi’s airfield, just as it once blazed over the Alabama training grounds. Two different men, two different worlds—yet bound by a struggle against prejudice and a destiny of heroism.
The Barriers They Faced
In 1941, a young African American man named Benjamin Carter stood before a skeptical U.S. Army recruiter. The officer barely glanced at his application before muttering, “You people don’t belong in cockpits.” Benjamin clenched his fists but swallowed his anger. He had heard of the Tuskegee Experiment—a controversial program to train Black pilots. Determined, he pushed forward, proving his worth through grueling training, ultimately earning his wings as part of the Tuskegee Airmen, the first Black military aviators in the U.S. Army Air Forces.
Three decades later, in Pakistan, a Bengali officer named Motiur Rahman faced his own battle. Despite his excellence as a pilot, he was never fully trusted by the West Pakistani leadership. Bengalis in the Pakistan Air Force were often denied promotions, treated with suspicion, and overlooked for important missions. The divide was clear: West Pakistanis dominated command positions, while Bengalis were kept in the shadows. But Motiur’s loyalty was not to the artificial borders drawn by politics—it was to his people, his mother tongue, and the dream of a free Bangladesh.
Proving Their Worth in Battle
When World War II raged, the Tuskegee Airmen were sent to escort bombers over Europe. Despite doubts about their abilities, they became legendary for their skill and courage. Benjamin Carter’s squadron flew mission after mission, never losing a single bomber under their protection—a record unmatched by any other unit. The white pilots who once doubted them came to request them personally as escorts.
Meanwhile, in 1971, when Bangladesh’s Liberation War erupted, Motiur Rahman saw his moment. He could no longer serve an air force that oppressed his people. He planned a daring defection—to hijack a Pakistan Air Force T-33 jet and fly it to India to join the Mukti Bahini. But as he fought for control of the aircraft, the mission ended in tragedy. The plane crashed near Thatta, Pakistan, killing both Motiur and the Pakistani pilot Rashid Minhas. Though he perished, his sacrifice became a symbol of defiance and patriotism.
Their Legacy
The Tuskegee Airmen shattered racial barriers, paving the way for the desegregation of the U.S. military. No longer could anyone deny the brilliance of Black pilots. Benjamin Carter, like many of his fellow airmen, returned as a war hero, though still facing racial discrimination. But he had changed history.
Motiur Rahman became one of Bangladesh’s greatest war heroes, posthumously honored with the Bir Sreshtho, the highest military award of the new nation. In 2006, his remains were brought back to Bangladesh, where he was laid to rest with full military honors. The Bangladesh Air Force base at Jessore now bears his name.
The Flight Beyond Prejudice
Two men, born in different lands, fought battles not just in the skies but against the walls of prejudice built around them. Their enemies had underestimated them. The institutions that rejected them later honored them. Their wings had been doubted, but in the end, they soared higher than anyone had ever imagined.
Both Motiur Rahman and the Tuskegee Airmen proved that true heroism is not just about flying—it’s about rising above injustice, fighting for what is right, and leaving behind a legacy that inspires generations to come.
Wings of Defiance: The Story of Flight Lieutenant Motiur Rahman
The sun cast long shadows over the Karachi Airbase, where Flight Lieutenant Motiur Rahman stood, hands tucked behind his back, staring at the aircraft lined up on the tarmac. The distant hum of a jet taking off filled the air, but his mind was elsewhere—far from the land that had claimed his service, far from the uniform that now felt like a burden. His heart was in Dhaka, where his people cried for freedom, where the rivers ran with stories of oppression, and where war had become inevitable.
Motiur had not always felt this conflict within him. He had once dreamed of the sky, of defying gravity, of feeling the wind beneath his wings. As a young boy in East Pakistan, he had been fascinated by the sleek silver bodies of warplanes, their roar cutting through the clouds like a promise. When he joined the Pakistan Air Force (PAF), he had believed, naively, that skill and dedication would define his career.
But the bitter truth settled in quickly. Bengalis were not trusted in the military. Despite being just as talented as his West Pakistani peers, he was always overlooked, his promotions stalled, his loyalty questioned. He heard the whispers—how the high-ranking officers from West Pakistan dismissed Bengalis as weak, unfit for combat, incapable of leadership. Yet, Motiur endured. He flew his missions, perfected his maneuvers, and proved his excellence. But no matter how high he soared, the ceiling pressed down on him.
Then came March 25, 1971—Operation Searchlight. The night of fire and blood. The Pakistani military unleashed a brutal crackdown on Dhaka, slaughtering students, intellectuals, and unarmed civilians. Motiur’s world shattered. His people were no longer just second-class citizens; they were targets. The flag he had sworn to serve was now a weapon against his own kin.
He could not stay silent. He would not stay silent.
The Plan
Motiur made his decision. He would defect. He would take a plane and fly to India, where the Mukti Bahini—the Bengali resistance fighters—were gathering strength. The risks were immense. If caught, he would be executed as a traitor. But the alternative—standing by while his people were massacred—was unthinkable.
His opportunity came on August 20, 1971. He was assigned to train a young Pakistani pilot, Rashid Minhas, on a T-33 trainer jet. Motiur saw his chance. As the aircraft took off from Karachi, he made his move. Gripping the controls, he tried to steer the plane toward India.
Rashid struggled. A battle erupted in the cockpit, two men locked in a desperate fight at 10,000 feet. Motiur was stronger, but the young pilot was relentless. The plane spiraled downward, out of control. The earth rushed toward them.
And then—impact.
The Aftermath
The crash site was near Thatta, in Pakistan’s Sindh province. Motiur Rahman did not survive. The Pakistani military claimed him as a traitor, buried him in an unmarked grave. But in Bangladesh, his name became legend.
After the war, the newly independent Bangladesh honored him with the highest military award—Bir Sreshtho. His sacrifice was not forgotten. In 2006, his remains were finally brought home, laid to rest in the Martyred Intellectuals’ Graveyard in Dhaka.
Today, his name stands tall. The Birsreshtho Motiur Rahman Air Base in Jessore carries his legacy, and every Bangladeshi child who dreams of the sky knows his story—not just as a pilot, but as a hero who dared to rise above injustice.
Motiur Rahman never made it to India. But his mission succeeded. His flight may have ended in a crash, but his spirit soared, forever free.
Wings of Defiance: The Next Episode
August 21, 1971 – The Day After the Crash
A dry wind swept over the barren plains of Thatta, carrying with it the acrid scent of burning metal. The wreckage of the T-33 jet lay twisted and charred, a silent testament to a battle fought midair. Pakistani soldiers stood around the site, their faces grim, as they collected what remained of Flight Lieutenant Motiur Rahman.
At the Karachi Airbase, news of the incident spread quickly. To the high-ranking officers, Motiur was now a traitor who had died a fool’s death. But among the Bengali officers who remained, whispers of admiration ran through the barracks. He had tried. One of their own had dared to defy the oppressors.
A Message Reaches Dhaka
In the occupied city of Dhaka, word of Motiur’s attempt reached the underground resistance. Captain Shafique, a former PAF officer who had already joined the Mukti Bahini, sat with his radio, listening to the static-laced transmission.
“He almost made it,” a contact in Karachi reported in a hushed voice. “They’re saying he fought for the controls till the last second.”
Shafique clenched his jaw. Motiur had tried what many of them had only dreamed of. His failure would send a message of fear—or of hope.
“We can’t let his sacrifice go in vain,” Shafique said, turning to the other freedom fighters. “We need more pilots. More planes. If Motiur can attempt it, we can finish what he started.”
The Mukti Bahini had been gathering strength. Bengali officers who had defected from the Pakistan military were training young recruits in guerrilla warfare. But now, they needed an air force. Motiur’s mission—though incomplete—ignited a new urgency.
The Pakistan Military’s Response
In Rawalpindi, the top brass of the Pakistan Air Force held an emergency meeting. Motiur’s actions had shaken them. If more Bengali officers tried to defect, it could weaken their air superiority. Orders were issued: all Bengali officers were to be closely monitored. Any sign of disloyalty would be punished with immediate execution.
At the Karachi Airbase, Bengali pilots were suddenly reassigned to ground duties. Some were imprisoned on fabricated charges. The crackdown had begun.
But what the Pakistan Army didn’t realize was that suppression only fueled the fire. Motiur’s sacrifice had set something irreversible in motion.
The Rebellion Takes Flight
By September, in the hidden camps near the Indian border, former Bengali Air Force officers were training young pilots on stolen Pakistani aircraft. The Indian government, seeing the potential for a strategic advantage, began assisting them. The Mukti Bahini’s air wing—later known as the Kilo Flight—was being formed.
One of the trainees, a young man named Azizul Haque, had once idolized Motiur Rahman. He had dreamed of flying under his command. Now, with war looming, he vowed to take up Motiur’s mission—to fly for a free Bangladesh.
As the sun set over the makeshift airstrip in Dimapur, India, Azizul ran his hands over the fuselage of a light aircraft donated by the Indian Air Force.
“For Motiur Bhai,” he whispered.
And with that, the rebellion took to the skies.
To be continued…
Wings of Defiance: The Air Raids Begin
November 3, 1971 – Dimapur Airstrip, India
The night was heavy with anticipation. In a hidden airstrip in Dimapur, a group of young Bengali pilots gathered around a map, their fingers tracing the routes they would take. These men were the first of Kilo Flight, the newly formed air unit of the Mukti Bahini. Their aircraft were not fighter jets but converted civilian planes—an Otter and a Dakota, modified to carry bombs.
Squadron Leader Sultan Mahmud, a former Pakistan Air Force officer who had defected, stood before them. He looked at his men—pilots who had trained under oppression, who had dreamed of flying freely, and who now held the power to strike back.
“Tonight,” he said, his voice steady, “we send a message. They thought they owned the skies. They thought we would never rise again. But tonight, we fight back. For Motiur. For Bangladesh.”
The mission was simple but dangerous: attack Chittagong and Narayanganj—two key supply bases of the Pakistan Army. The aircraft were slow, their weapons improvised, but the element of surprise was on their side.
The First Attack – Chittagong
As the Otter took off, the roar of its engine was nothing like that of a jet fighter, but for the men aboard, it was the sound of revolution. The plane flew low over the Bay of Bengal, its dark silhouette blending with the night. Inside, the pilots and bombardiers steadied themselves.
In Chittagong, the Pakistani troops were unaware of what was coming. They had heard rumors that India was training Bengali pilots, but they never expected an air raid—certainly not from a group they considered untrained rebels.
At 0200 hours, the Otter reached its target. The bombardier took a deep breath and released the makeshift bombs. Explosions ripped through the fuel depot, sending flames into the sky. Panic spread among the Pakistani forces. They scrambled to return fire, but the Otter had already turned back, disappearing into the night.
The first successful Mukti Bahini air strike in history had just been executed.
The Narayanganj Strike
The Dakota, carrying heavier explosives, set its sights on Narayanganj, a key supply port near Dhaka. As they approached, the pilots could see the city lights reflecting off the river.
At 0300 hours, they made their run. The bombs hit an ammunition storage facility, igniting a chain reaction. The blast was so powerful that it was heard in Dhaka. Chaos erupted. Pakistani soldiers rushed to contain the fire, their shouts drowned out by the sound of destruction.
By the time enemy anti-aircraft guns opened fire, the Dakota was already gone, safely making its way back to base.
The Aftermath
At sunrise, news of the raids spread like wildfire. For the first time, the Pakistan Army realized that Bangladesh was not just fighting on the ground—it was fighting in the skies.
The strikes, though small, had a massive psychological impact. The Pakistani military, once confident in its air superiority, was now on edge. Their own bases were no longer safe.
In the Mukti Bahini camps, the pilots were greeted with cheers. The sky had been reclaimed.
That night, as Sultan Mahmud looked up at the stars, he smiled. Motiur Rahman’s dream had not died in Thatta. It had only just begun.
Wings of Defiance: The Enemy Strikes Back
November 4, 1971 – Pakistan Army Eastern Command Headquarters, Dhaka
The air was thick with cigarette smoke inside the heavily guarded conference room. General A.A.K. Niazi, the commander of the Pakistan Army in East Pakistan, slammed his fist onto the table.
“What do you mean the Bengalis have an air force?” he roared, glaring at his intelligence officers.
The Mukti Bahini’s air raid on Chittagong and Narayanganj had shaken the military leadership to its core. For months, they had mocked the idea of a Bengali resistance in the skies. Now, the joke was on them.
Air Commodore Inam-ul-Haq, the head of the Pakistan Air Force (PAF) in East Pakistan, cleared his throat. “Sir, our assessment suggests that India has provided them aircraft and training. The attack was limited, but it proves they have operational capability.”
Niazi’s eyes narrowed. “Then we crush them before they gain strength.”
He turned to Brigadier Siddiq Salik, his propaganda officer. “I want a media blackout. No news of this attack gets out. The world must believe we have full control of the skies.”
Then, looking at the Air Commodore, he issued his orders:
1. Identify the rebel airbase – Intelligence officers must track down where Kilo Flight was operating from.
2. Increase air patrols – PAF jets would hunt down and destroy any Mukti Bahini aircraft.
3. Punish the defectors – Any Bengali officer still in the Pakistan military would be interrogated, detained, or executed.
The Crackdown Begins
That same night, military police raided the homes of Bengali officers still serving in the PAF. Squadron Leader Shamsul Alam, a decorated Bengali pilot, was arrested and accused of conspiring with the enemy. He was taken to Dhaka Cantonment, where brutal interrogations began.
At Karachi Airbase, Bengali technicians and ground crew were suddenly transferred—or disappeared entirely. The Pakistan Army feared an inside rebellion.
Meanwhile, PAF F-86 Sabres were deployed to patrol the skies over East Pakistan. Any unidentified aircraft would be shot down immediately. The hunt for Kilo Flight had begun.
India’s Dilemma
Across the border in India, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi and her military advisors received intelligence reports on Pakistan’s response. The crackdown was swift and ruthless. Bengali pilots who had not yet defected were in grave danger.
Air Chief Marshal P.C. Lal, head of the Indian Air Force, advised immediate action.
“If we wait too long, they will destroy Kilo Flight before it can make an impact,” he warned. “We must strike first.”
But Indira Gandhi hesitated. Direct Indian involvement could trigger an all-out war. India was preparing for battle, but the time was not yet right.
For now, Kilo Flight would have to survive on its own.
The Trap
On November 6, Pakistani radar operators detected an unidentified aircraft flying south of Sylhet. A squadron of PAF Sabres was scrambled from Dhaka.
The target? A Mukti Bahini supply plane, piloted by a young aviator named Azizul Haque.
Azizul had just completed a weapons drop to resistance fighters on the ground when he saw two dark shapes appear on his radar—PAF jets closing in fast. His heart pounded. He was unarmed, flying an old cargo plane against supersonic fighters.
The radio crackled. “Unidentified aircraft, you are violating Pakistan airspace. Surrender or be shot down.”
Azizul gritted his teeth. There was only one way out—run for the Indian border.
He banked hard, pushing the aging engine to its limit. The Sabres pursued, their cannons locking onto his tail.
Would he make it?
Wings of Defiance: Azizul’s Daring Escape
November 6, 1971 – Over the Skies of Sylhet
Azizul Haque gripped the yoke of his battered transport plane, his heart pounding as the radio crackled with the chilling warning:
“Unidentified aircraft, you are violating Pakistan airspace. Surrender or be shot down.”
The two PAF F-86 Sabres were closing in fast, their sleek metallic bodies glinting in the afternoon sun. Azizul had no illusions—his slow, unarmed transport plane was no match for Pakistan’s state-of-the-art fighter jets. But surrender was not an option.
“Come on, old girl,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the throttle to its maximum limit. The plane groaned in protest.
He was less than five minutes from the Indian border. If he could just cross over, the PAF wouldn’t dare follow him into Indian airspace.
But the Sabres weren’t going to let him go so easily.
The Chase Begins
Azizul banked hard to the left, hugging the tree line below. Flying low was his only advantage. The Sabres, built for high-speed aerial combat, would struggle to maneuver in such tight spaces.
The Pakistani lead pilot, Squadron Leader Khalid, chuckled as he locked onto the target.
“Let’s end this,” he told his wingman. “Take him down.”
The Sabres dived, their 50-caliber machine guns roaring to life. Tracer rounds ripped through the sky, some tearing into the tail of Azizul’s aircraft. The plane shuddered violently, alarms blaring in the cockpit.
One more direct hit, and he’d be done for.
But Azizul had one last trick up his sleeve.
The Jungle Cloak
Ahead, the winding Surma River snaked through the thick forests of Meghalaya, India. If he could disappear into the jungle below, he might just evade his pursuers.
Azizul suddenly cut the engine power—a dangerous move. The transport plane dropped sharply, plunging toward the tree line.
Khalid’s eyes widened. Was the Bengali pilot trying to crash?
“Pull up! Pull up!” his wingman shouted. The Sabres, flying at breakneck speed, couldn’t descend as quickly without risking a crash themselves.
For a few terrifying seconds, Azizul’s aircraft disappeared into the thick jungle canopy.
The Pakistani pilots circled overhead, scanning the dense foliage below. No wreckage. No smoke. Nothing.
“Did he crash?” the wingman asked, frowning.
Khalid cursed under his breath. “Either that, or he just pulled the smartest move I’ve seen.”
They had no choice. The Sabres turned back toward Dhaka.
A Narrow Escape
Below the treetops, Azizul held his breath. His hands trembled as he carefully restarted the engine. The plane had taken heavy damage, but it was still flying.
Slowly, he climbed just high enough to clear the last stretch of jungle. Ahead, he saw the runway at Dimapur—Indian soil. Safety.
As his wheels touched down, Mukti Bahini and Indian officers ran toward him. They had just witnessed history—the first successful escape from a Pakistani aerial assault.
Azizul stumbled out of the cockpit, exhausted but victorious.
“For Motiur Bhai,” he whispered, looking up at the sky.
The War Escalates
Azizul’s escape was a turning point.
• The Pakistan military now knew Kilo Flight was real—and a serious threat.
• India took notice—Azizul’s daring escape convinced Indian military leaders that the Mukti Bahini’s air force had potential.
• The Mukti Bahini prepared its counterattack. If they could fly into danger, they could also fly into battle.
The skies over Bangladesh were no longer Pakistan’s alone.
Wings of Defiance: Mukti Bahini Strikes Back
November 10, 1971 – Dimapur Airbase, India
Inside a dimly lit briefing room, the Mukti Bahini air unit—Kilo Flight—gathered around a worn-out map spread across a wooden table. The room was silent except for the rhythmic tapping of Squadron Leader Sultan Mahmud’s fingers on the table. Azizul Haque’s daring escape had bought them time, but now it was their turn to strike.
Colonel Khandakar, the Bangladeshi liaison to the Indian military, stepped forward. “Gentlemen, we have a target—Pakistan’s fuel depots in Dhaka.”
The airmen exchanged glances. A direct attack on Dhaka? The heart of the occupation? It was a bold move.
“Their jets are running supply missions from Tejgaon Airbase,” Khandakar continued. “If we destroy their fuel reserves, they won’t be able to launch air patrols. The enemy will be grounded.”
Silence. Then, Sultan Mahmud spoke.
“We’ll do it.”
The Plan
The mission was dangerous. Three aircraft would take part:
1. A Twin Otter aircraft converted into a bomber, flown by Sultan Mahmud and Shamsul Alam.
2. An Alouette helicopter, flown by Flight Lieutenant Badrul Alam, providing air cover.
3. A second Twin Otter, piloted by Azizul Haque, carrying extra fuel for their return.
They would fly low and fast to evade radar, striking Tejgaon Airbase just before dawn. The bombs were makeshift, modified from artillery shells—primitive but deadly.
November 11, 1971 – The Attack Begins
At 3:00 AM, the three aircraft took off under a moonless sky. The pilots flew just 200 feet above the ground, hugging the treetops to avoid Pakistani radar. The journey was nerve-wracking—one wrong move, and they would be spotted.
By 4:30 AM, Dhaka’s skyline came into view. In the darkness, Tejgaon Airbase’s fuel depots shimmered under floodlights.
Sultan gritted his teeth. “Get ready.”
Shamsul opened the bomb bay doors. A final deep breath.
“Dropping now!”
The first makeshift bomb whistled through the air. Then another.
A second later—BOOM.
The ground erupted in flames. The fuel depot exploded, sending a fireball into the sky.
Pakistani soldiers scrambled in confusion. Air raid sirens blared across Dhaka.
Pakistani Retaliation
The Mukti Bahini aircraft banked hard, turning toward the border—but Pakistani anti-aircraft guns were already in action. Tracer rounds ripped through the sky.
“We’re taking fire!” Badrul shouted over the radio.
The Alouette helicopter took a hit, its tail rotor damaged. Badrul fought the controls, trying to stay airborne.
Sultan glanced at the fuel gauge—they had to escape, now.
“Azizul, take Badrul back! We’ll cover you!”
Azizul turned his aircraft, staying close to the damaged chopper. Pakistani F-86 Sabres roared to life on the runway, preparing to intercept them.
But before the Sabres could take off—a secondary explosion ripped through Tejgaon.
The remaining fuel reserves detonated. The Mukti Bahini had crippled Pakistan’s air operations in Dhaka.
Mission Accomplished
By 5:15 AM, Kilo Flight crossed into Indian airspace. The mission had been a success—Pakistan’s airpower in East Pakistan was severely weakened.
As the exhausted pilots landed back at Dimapur, Colonel Khandakar shook Sultan’s hand.
“You’ve done what no one thought possible,” he said. “Bangladesh is taking back the skies.”
The Aftermath
• The Pakistan Air Force was grounded for days, giving the Mukti Bahini and Indian Air Force an advantage.
• Pakistan intensified security at Tejgaon, but the damage was already done.
• India, now convinced of the Mukti Bahini’s potential, began preparing for full-scale intervention.
The war was far from over. But for the first time, the skies over Bangladesh belonged to the freedom fighters.
Wings of Defiance: India Enters the War
November 21, 1971 – Delhi, India
Inside the Indian Prime Minister’s office, Indira Gandhi listened intently as her top military advisors detailed the latest developments. The Mukti Bahini’s daring air raid on Tejgaon had crippled Pakistan’s air operations in Dhaka, and reports from the ground suggested the Pakistani military was growing desperate.
General Sam Manekshaw, India’s Chief of Army Staff, leaned forward. “Prime Minister, the time has come. We must intervene—openly.”
Indira Gandhi exhaled slowly. She had spent months securing international support, warning the world about the genocide in East Pakistan. Now, with over 10 million Bangladeshi refugees flooding into India, her patience had run out.
She nodded. “Prepare for war.”
November 30, 1971 – Eastern Front Mobilization
Across the Eastern Command, Indian forces moved toward the border.
• Lieutenant General Jagjit Singh Aurora oversaw the mobilization of the IV Corps, preparing to strike from the east.
• II Corps moved in from the west, cutting off key Pakistani supply lines.
• The Indian Air Force (IAF) coordinated with the Mukti Bahini’s Kilo Flight, planning joint airstrikes.
Meanwhile, Mukti Bahini guerrilla fighters intensified their sabotage operations—blowing up bridges, cutting communication lines, and ambushing Pakistani patrols.
December 3, 1971 – Pakistan’s Fatal Mistake
Fearing an imminent Indian invasion, Pakistan’s military leader, General Yahya Khan, made a desperate move—he ordered an airstrike on Indian airbases in the west, targeting Amritsar, Pathankot, and Srinagar.
The attack was meant to cripple India’s air capabilities. Instead, it gave India the perfect justification for all-out war.
That night, Indira Gandhi addressed the nation.
“Pakistan has attacked our territory. We are at war.”
December 4, 1971 – India Strikes Back
As dawn broke, the Indian Army, Navy, and Air Force launched a full-scale invasion of East Pakistan.
• The Indian Air Force dominated the skies. Pakistani airbases in East Pakistan were systematically bombed, ensuring air superiority.
• The Indian Navy blockaded Chittagong and Mongla ports, cutting off supplies.
• On the ground, Mukti Bahini fighters guided Indian troops through enemy territory. Town after town fell within days.
Kilo Flight’s Biggest Mission
Amidst the chaos, Kilo Flight prepared for their most crucial mission—a joint airstrike with the Indian Air Force.
Target: The Governor’s House in Dhaka.
The objective was simple: terrorize the Pakistani administration and force them into submission.
On December 14, 1971, IAF and Mukti Bahini aircraft roared into Dhaka’s airspace. Bombs rained down on key military installations and the Governor’s House, where Pakistani officials scrambled for cover.
The message was clear—the war was lost.
December 16, 1971 – Victory
On the afternoon of December 16, surrounded by Indian and Mukti Bahini forces, Lieutenant General A.A.K. Niazi of Pakistan surrendered in the historic Racecourse Ground, Dhaka.
The war was over. Bangladesh was free.
Epilogue: A New Dawn
As the Mukti Bahini pilots landed their aircraft in a liberated Dhaka, Azizul Haque and Sultan Mahmud stood together, staring at the city below.
They had fought against impossible odds, but their wings had brought victory.
“The sky belongs to us now,” Sultan said softly.
Azizul smiled. “The sky, and the land. Bangladesh is ours.”
The struggle had ended, but the story of a new nation had just begun.