The Haider Ali Building of Milestone School and College was never meant to be a battleground but it became the epicentre of a nightmare on July 21.

A modest two-and-a-half-story structure, its lower level had partially sunk into the ground over time, leaving classrooms scattered across uneven floors.

A heavy iron grill gate stood at the entrance as a security measure that, on July 21, turned into a fatal barrier when a fighter jet ploughed into the building, igniting an inferno.

For Lieutenant Colonel Tahsin Haque Chowdhury, the scene was apocalyptic. "The fire was everywhere. The grill gate was red-hot, no one could pass through. Our only thought: Find another way, or the children burn."

The Haider Ali building’s unusual design complicated the crisis from the start. Described as two and a half stories, its ground floor was partially sunken due to earth filling, meaning classes were held primarily on the first and second floors.

The inferno trapped dozens of children inside, their screams piercing the thick, toxic smoke. For Tahsin and his team, the race against time to save them would test the limits of courage, ingenuity, and human endurance.

The grill door, a formidable barrier under normal circumstances, became a deadly bottleneck as flames licked its iron frame.

“There was no way out except that door,” Tahsin told Jago News on July 27, standing amid the charred remains of the school. “We had to create an exit. That was our biggest challenge.”

The scene was evoking comparisons to the aftermath of the Napalm bomb explosion in Vietnam. Iron railings melted under the fire’s ferocious heat, and dense smoke choked the air, making every breath a struggle.

Children trapped inside faced unimaginable horror, their silhouettes barely visible through the haze. The soldiers, arriving within minutes of the explosion, came empty-handed, driven by urgency rather than preparation.

The soldiers arrived within three minutes – unarmed, unprepared, but unwilling to wait. "We heard the explosion and ran," Tahsin recalled. "No gear, no masks – just our hands."

Inside, the heat was unbearable. Metal fixtures dripped like wax. Thick, toxic smoke filled the corridors, forcing rescuers to rip off their uniforms, soak them in water, and press them to their faces. Some worked shirtless, gasping between breaths.

Improvisation became their lifeline. Soldiers tore off their uniforms, soaking them with water to shield their faces from the smoke or dousing themselves to endure the heat. “You couldn’t breathe otherwise,” Tahsin said. “The smoke was relentless.”

Within 15 minutes, the fire service arrived, followed by police, Rapid Action Battalion (RAB), and Air Force personnel.

Teachers, students, and guardians joined the effort, forming a desperate coalition to pull children from the flames. Yet, even as some emerged, their clothes ablaze, a new fear loomed: the jet’s wreckage posed the risk of a second explosion.

The chaos was compounded by a swelling crowd. Parents, frantic with grief, searched for their children, some ready to plunge into the fire themselves.

“We had to beg them to stay back,” Tahsin said. “If they got hurt, the toll would’ve been worse.” Meanwhile, onlookers clogged the school’s only access road, filming the tragedy on their phones. Ambulances and fire trucks struggled to reach the site, forcing rescuers to carry burned victims hundreds of yards to waiting vehicles.

“The crowd blocked everything,” Tahsin said. “It was a nightmare within a nightmare.”

Across the field in front of the Haider Ali building, another multi-storey school structure stood unscathed.

Tahsin believes the jet skimmed that building before slamming into the ground floor of Haider Ali.

The field, meant to be a safe evacuation zone, became a logistical hurdle as hundreds gathered, refusing to move.

A second army team was deployed to clear space for a rescue helicopter, which landed within 15 minutes. “That helicopter was critical,” Tahsin said. “Every second mattered.”

Inside, the rescue team worked feverishly. They shattered grills surrounding the building and repurposed an iron gate from the garage behind it, positioning it as a makeshift slide from the second floor. Children, terrified and disoriented, were guided down to safety.

Of the 200 army personnel involved, 25 were injured, many sickened by inhaling carbon monoxide and dioxide. “Our people kept going, even as they fell ill,” Tahsin said. “They had no choice.”

The operation’s first 30 minutes were a crucible. “We were fighting three battles at once,” Tahsin explained. “The fire, the trapped children, and the crowd.”

Questions later arose about the school’s safety measures. The building had two additional doors, but both remain locked for “security reasons.” This precaution, meant to protect students, had instead trapped them.

Amid the chaos, the fate of the jet’s pilot remained unclear until rescuers found him 50 yards away, unconscious in a corrugated-sheet roofed shed. Having ejected before the crash, he had broken through the shed’s roof, his parachute dangling behind him. A medical team, hastily assembled at the school, confirmed he was alive but gravely injured. A helicopter airlifted him to the Combined Military Hospital. “He was lucky to survive,” Tahsin noted.

Even after the flames were doused, the tragedy’s echoes lingered. Rumours swirled about missing children and inadequate response efforts.

Tahsin dismissed these claims, saying, “The school has the records of the dead and injured. We’ve heard no official complaints.”

When asked if the criticism stung, he was resolute: “We’ve faced worse. Our professionalism doesn’t waver.”

He credited the army’s rapid response, arriving within three minutes, for keeping the death toll lower than it could have been.

The screams of the burned, the cries of survivors, and the weight of loss tested the rescuers’ resolve. Yet, as Tahsin repeatedly emphasised, professionalism was their anchor.

“Without it, we’d have been overwhelmed,” he said. “Emotions can’t override duty in a crisis like this.” The Bangladesh Army’s commitment, he vowed, would remain steadfast: “In any disaster, we’ll always stand by the people.”