2IC Death

The day started like any other, with the crisp chill of the morning air biting at my face as I fastened the buttons of my uniform. The camp was alive with its usual routine—soldiers preparing for their duties, the clang of utensils in the mess, and the occasional hum of conversation. Yet, that day carried a peculiar weight, a foreboding silence beneath the noise.

Just as I was about to head for breakfast, a soldier came running to inform me that 2IC wanted to see me. I straightened my uniform and made my way to his office, the sense of duty overriding my hunger. When I entered, he greeted me with his usual authoritative nod.

"Good morning, sir," I said, standing at attention.

He gestured for me to relax and spoke in his usual measured tone. "I have a task for you," he began, leaning back in his chair. "I need a comprehensive register of all active terrorists in our area of responsibility. Include every piece of intelligence we have—names, aliases, hideouts, weapons, movements, everything. And ensure it’s detailed and well-organized."

I nodded, already visualizing how I would structure the document. "Yes, sir. I’ll get it done."

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze softening. "I know this isn’t your usual duty, and I apologize for adding to your workload. But I trust you’ll do it right."

Those words struck a chord. There was pride in being entrusted with such a crucial task, but his tone carried an unexpected warmth, almost as if he foresaw something. "Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint you," I said, saluting before turning to leave.

As I reached the door, an officer from our regiment arrived with a local informer in tow. The informer, a wiry man with sunken eyes, looked nervous, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of what he was about to reveal. He whispered something to the officer, who immediately relayed the information to 2IC.

Two terrorists were hiding in a nearby village, just beyond Bona Devsar. The gravity of the situation hung in the air like a thick cloud. Without hesitation, 2IC sprang into action. He summoned the Quick Reaction Team (QRT) and began briefing them on the mission. His voice was firm, calm, and resolute, as it always was during moments of crisis.

Before leaving, he turned to me. "The register, by evening," he said, almost as an afterthought, and then added with a faint smile, "And remember, a little fun like last week’s incident with Jacob is good for morale. Don’t lose that spirit."

I saluted as he walked away, the QRT following closely behind. The sight of them gearing up and moving out was both awe-inspiring and sobering. They were heading straight into danger, yet there was no hesitation, no fear visible on their faces.

I made my way to the mess for a quick breakfast, but my mind was preoccupied. As I sat down to eat, the distant sound of gunfire echoed across the camp. The operation had begun. My appetite vanished, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease.

Returning to my desk, I immersed myself in the task at hand. The register was taking shape, each entry meticulously detailed, but the sporadic bursts of gunfire from the village were a constant reminder of the stakes. My thoughts drifted back to 2IC’s parting words and the camaraderie we had shared just a week ago. His laughter, his encouragement—it all felt so vivid, so present.

Then, at 10:30 a.m., the news came like a thunderbolt. 2IC had been killed in action. The words hit me harder than I could have ever imagined. My hands froze over the register, the pen trembling between my fingers. For a moment, the entire camp seemed to hold its breath, the usual buzz of activity replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.

I stared at the partially completed register, his voice echoing in my mind: "The register, by evening." My chest tightened, and my eyes burned, but I forced myself to hold back the tears. Soldiers don’t cry, I reminded myself. It’s our unspoken code. But the weight of the loss was unbearable.

The details of the operation trickled in later. Two terrorists had been neutralized, but at a great cost. Three of our soldiers were injured, and 2IC had fallen. He had led the QRT into the village and directly entered the house where the terrorists were hiding. A burst of AK-56 fire had struck him down.

What made it even more shocking was the irony. Only a week ago, he had reprimanded us during a briefing: "Don’t try to be a hero. Never stand in front of the bullets. Find cover, assess the situation, then act." Yet, in the heat of the moment, he had done exactly what he had warned us against. It was as though something—or someone—had compelled him to act differently that day.

Rumors began to circulate among the soldiers. Some speculated that the local informer might have misled the team, while others whispered about internal pressures from higher-ups. But in the end, the battlefield doesn’t care for reasons. It takes who it takes, leaving behind only questions and grief.

I completed the register by evening, just as he had asked. Every entry felt like a tribute to him, a way to honor the trust he had placed in me. But the act of writing, of compiling names and details, felt hollow. The man who had given me the task was no longer there to review it.

That night, as the camp gathered to pay their respects, I stood silently among my comrades, the register clutched tightly in my hands. The flickering flames of the ceremonial pyre cast long shadows, dancing like ghosts against the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and the unspoken sorrow of men who had lost one of their own.

Later, as I sat alone in my barracks, Jacob joined me. For once, his usual stern demeanor was softened by a rare vulnerability. "He was a good man," he said simply, his voice low.

I nodded, unable to find the words.

"Remember when he asked you about polishing my arm?" Jacob added, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Even in a place like this, he knew how to make us laugh."

That memory brought a bittersweet smile to my face. "He told me fun is necessary, even in a war-field. I didn’t realize how true that was until now."

The days that followed were a blur of routine and reflection. The register became a vital resource, its entries guiding future operations, but for me, it was more than that. It was a reminder of a man who had believed in me, who had led with courage and heart, and whose absence left a void that could never truly be filled.

Even now, years later, I can still hear his voice, see his smile, and feel the weight of that day. It’s a part of me, a chapter of my life that shaped who I am. And every time I polish my boots or laugh at a silly memory, I think of him and the lesson he left behind: to find light even in the darkest of times.