Jacob's Story

 It was a crisp, golden Sunday morning at Bona Devsar, the kind of morning when the sun felt just warm enough to ease the chill in the air. The barracks buzzed with the usual weekend activities. Soldiers, relieved of their regular duties, lounged around, some catching up on much-needed rest, others, like me, attending to the tedious but essential task of maintaining our uniforms, boots, and belts.

I sat cross-legged on a mat outside our barracks, methodically working black polish into my boots until they gleamed like obsidian. The rhythmic motion of the brush and the faint smell of the polish filled the air. Beside me sat Jacob, a stocky South Indian soldier with an ever-serious demeanor. His dark skin glistened in the sunlight as he diligently polished his boots and belt, completely absorbed in the task.

Jacob, with his deep baritone and no-nonsense attitude, was the sort of person you didn’t mess with—unless, of course, you were me, with a mischievous streak that could rival any prankster in the camp.

As I worked on my belt, my eyes wandered to Jacob’s arm, which rested on his knee. The sunlight caught the sheen of his skin, and a cheeky thought popped into my mind. The black polish on my brush matched the hue of Jacob’s arm so perfectly that, before I could stop myself, I reached out and lightly dabbed the brush on his arm.

At first, Jacob didn’t react. He gave me a sideways glance but went back to his work, likely assuming it was an accident. I stifled a grin and returned to polishing my belt. But the temptation was too great. A minute later, I repeated the action, brushing his arm again. This time, Jacob frowned but didn’t say a word, his focus unwavering.

By the third time, however, Jacob caught on. He paused, his brush hovering mid-air, and looked down at his arm. Slowly, he turned his gaze to me, his dark eyes narrowing. I, of course, was failing miserably at keeping a straight face. My lips twitched, and before I could contain it, a chuckle escaped.

“Are you polishing my arm, you rascal?” he asked, his deep voice tinged with disbelief and a growing sense of amusement.

“No, no,” I said, feigning innocence but unable to hide my grin. “I’m just testing if your arm can shine like my boots!”

Jacob’s expression shifted from confusion to realization. Without a word, he picked up one of his freshly polished boots—an enormous, sturdy thing that could easily double as a weapon—and lunged at me. I let out a startled yelp and scrambled to my feet, narrowly dodging the first swing.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” Jacob bellowed, chasing me around the barracks, his boot raised like a club. I darted between mats and soldiers, my laughter ringing through the air as Jacob thundered after me, his heavy boots thudding against the ground.

“Come here, you little monkey!” he roared, his voice a mix of mock anger and genuine amusement. “Let me polish your head with this boot!”

The commotion drew the attention of the other soldiers, who quickly caught on to what had happened. Laughter erupted as they watched our cat-and-mouse game unfold. Some cheered Jacob on, while others shouted for me to run faster.

“Jacob, don’t kill him! We need him for the next drill!” someone called out, sending another wave of laughter through the crowd.

Finally, I ducked behind a stack of supplies, catching my breath as Jacob slowed down, panting but grinning from ear to ear. “Next time,” he said, pointing the boot at me like a warning, “I’ll polish you head to toe.”

“I’d probably shine better than your boots,” I quipped, earning another round of laughter from the onlookers.

The incident became the talk of the camp. Every time Jacob and I crossed paths, someone would joke about the “polish incident,” and Jacob, to his credit, took it in stride, his mock glare always accompanied by a faint smile.

A few days later, during a morning inspection, our 2IC (Second-in-Command) called me over. He was a stern man but had a sharp sense of humor that often caught us off guard.

“So,” he began, eyeing me with a look of mock seriousness, “I hear you’ve been polishing more than just boots lately?”

I hesitated, unsure if I was about to be reprimanded, but the glint in his eye gave him away. “Yes, sir,” I admitted, trying to keep a straight face.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Tell me, naughty boy, how did this brilliant idea come to you?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sir, it was just... a moment of inspiration.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, keep it up. This kind of fun is necessary, especially in a war-field-like area. We need laughter to stay human.”

His words stayed with me. In the harsh, disciplined life of a soldier, moments of levity were rare but invaluable. The laughter we shared that day didn’t just lighten the mood; it strengthened our bonds, reminding us that even in the toughest of times, humor could be a powerful balm.

Jacob and I remained good friends, our camaraderie solidified by that ridiculous but unforgettable episode. And though he never let me live it down, I knew he secretly appreciated the laughter we brought to the camp that sunny Sunday. After all, it’s not every day you get to be part of a story that makes everyone laugh—even the 2IC.