The morning sun had barely begun its ascent, casting a dim golden glow over the regimental camp, when the convoy carrying the bodies of our fallen comrades began its journey home. Wrapped in the tricolor, their silent forms lay in the rear of the vehicles, bound for the villages where families awaited news they never wished to receive. There was a heaviness in the air, a sorrow so thick that even the usually unshakable soldiers wore expressions of grief as they stood in formation, offering their final salutes.
Among them was the young soldier from Bihar, who had barely served four months with us. A recruit from the Bihar Regiment, he had carried an infectious energy, his eyes always gleaming with dreams. His village, nestled in the heart of the state, was home to his aging parents who had pinned all their hopes on him. The team that accompanied his body to his village returned with a story that weighed upon us all.
His father, a frail man with sunken eyes and a posture that spoke of years of toil, had greeted them with a vacant look, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch his son's lifeless frame. "He promised to build our home," he murmured, his voice breaking. "A house with cemented walls... He told me this when he left last time. He said on his next long leave, he would make sure we would not have to sleep under a leaking roof anymore."
The old man’s words lingered, slicing through the silence that followed. The entire village had gathered, their heads bowed, their eyes damp. His mother had stood at the threshold of their mud-walled hut, too grief-stricken to move, her wails piercing the air as she called out her son’s name over and over again. For them, he had been the sole provider, their pillar of hope. And now, that hope lay still beneath the folds of the flag he had so proudly served. The future of his family had been swallowed by the dark void of loss.
The second fallen hero, PT Lian, was from the Gorkha Regiment. He had returned just the previous evening after a twenty-day leave, carrying with him the scent of home, the warmth of his loved ones still fresh in his heart. He had been advised by his senior to rest that day, to recover from the lingering daze of his holidays, but he had refused. "Sir, I will feel lonely in the barracks," he had said with a small smile. "Let me go with the team."
Those words now echoed painfully in our memories, a testament to his spirit, his dedication. When the convoy carrying his body reached Bona Devsar, his elder brother, a soldier serving in the Border Security Force at Anantnag, was waiting. He stood motionless as his younger brother was laid to rest on a high, flattened land, his final resting place chosen with the honor and dignity befitting a warrior.
The burial was attended by all ranks, each soldier standing in solemn respect. The crisp snap of the flag being folded, the muffled sound of boots shifting on the soft earth, and the final salute—each moment was heavy with unspoken words. His brother stepped forward, his face a mask of grief and pride, and placed a handful of soil over his sibling’s grave. No tears fell from his eyes, but his hands trembled as he whispered a final goodbye.
As I watched, my mind drifted to the words of Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, words I had once read but never felt so deeply before: “In war, whichever side may call itself the victor, there are no winners, but all are losers.”
That truth had never rung louder than it did in that moment. The battlefield had taken three of our own, three men who had walked among us, shared our laughter, our fears, our dreams. Their families had lost sons, brothers, protectors. We had lost friends, comrades. And though the mission had been successful, the price we had paid could never be measured in victories.
That night, as we sat in silence, staring at the flickering lanterns in our barracks, we knew that the war was not just fought with bullets and strategy—it was fought with lives, with the sacrifices of men whose stories would live on in the hearts of those they left behind. And as we prepared for the battles yet to come, we carried their memories with us, as a reminder of the true cost of war.
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