A Night in Kulgam

            The sky over Kulgam was a canvas of molten gold as the sun dipped behind the rugged peaks, casting long shadows across the valley. The evening air carried a crisp chill, a silent reminder that the mountains did not care for human conflicts. Yet, tonight, in a small village nestled between rolling hills and dense pine forests, war was about to unfold once more. 

             Our Quick Reaction Team (QRT) had received intelligence—three terrorists were holed up in a house at the far end of the village. The information had come from an informer, a man whose face we had never seen, but whose whispers had often led us to the wolves hiding among sheep. The details were precise. They had weapons, possibly automatic rifles, and a good stock of ammunition. 

             Capt. S.K. Singh, the team leader, stood with his back against an old mud wall, scanning the narrow lanes ahead. His sharp eyes reflected the fading sunlight, his mind already calculating entry points, possible ambush zones, and the nearest escape routes. The mission was clear—QRT had to eliminate the threat before they could slip away into the dense wilderness beyond. 

             "Listen up," Singh said, his voice low but firm. "The house is the third one on the right. Single-story, small windows. We move in silent, take positions, and wait for my signal. No unnecessary noise, no mistakes." 

             A quiet nod passed through the team. Seven of the Team, dressed in combat fatigues, faces streaked with dust and determination, weapons ready. They moved like shadows, their boots barely disturbing the dust-covered path. The village was eerily silent, as if the earth itself was holding its breath. Doors were shut, curtains drawn—either out of fear or silent allegiance to the men inside that house. 

             They reached the designated spot, pressing themselves against the walls of adjacent buildings. The house stood before them—modest, its wooden door slightly ajar, as if mocking the Team with false hospitality. A single bulb flickered above the entrance, casting weak light over the mud-caked walls. 

             Singh raised his hand, signaling the formation. Two men flanked the house from the left, another two from the right. The rest of them stayed at the front, rifles aimed, fingers steady on the triggers. The Team waited. 

 

            The silence was thick, stretching time like an iron chain. Then, in the distance, a dog barked—a sharp, startled sound that shattered the stillness. 

            And then, the first bullet came. 

            A sharp crack echoed as a muzzle flashed from a small window. The bullet hit the wall inches from Singh’s head, sending a shower of dust and debris into the air. Instinct took over. 

             "Take cover!" Singh roared as the Team scattered, diving behind whatever protection they could find. The firing intensified, bullets ricocheting off stone and wood, sending splinters flying. The terrorists knew that the army was here, and they were not planning to surrender. 

            Through the chaos, one could hear the distinct bursts of an AK-47—short, controlled, desperate. The team’s rifles responded in unison, hammering the walls of the house, forcing the men inside to retreat from the windows. 

            "Sniper, get the window," Singh commanded, his voice cutting through the noise. 

        Our designated marksman, Naik Hardeep, took position behind an overturned cart, adjusting his scope. His breath was slow, measured. A second later, his rifle cracked, and the window shattered as a bullet found its mark. 

            One is down. 

            The firing from inside momentarily ceased, replaced by the anguished cry of a wounded man. But the fight wasn’t over. 

            From the back of the house, a door burst open. Two figures darted out, moving fast, rifles clutched in their hands. They were making a run for the tree line. 

            "Cut them off!" Singh ordered. 

            The Team moved instantly. Two of the team men shifted position, their rifles tracking the fleeing figures. A burst of gunfire split the air, and one of the terrorists stumbled, his body twisting before collapsing into the dirt. The other kept running, bullets whizzing past him. 

            Then, a sharp cry was listened from our side. 

            "Lakhan was hit!" 

            Balwinder turned to see one of our men, Sepoy Lakhan, clutching his leg, blood seeping through his uniform. He had taken a bullet to the right thigh, and his face was contorted in pain. 

            "Keep pressure on it!" someone shouted as two men pulled him behind cover. 

            But there was no time to slow down. The last terrorist had made it to the alley between the houses, disappearing into the shadows. Balwinder followed, his rifle raised, heart pounding in his chest. 

        The alley was narrow, the scent of damp earth mingling with gunpowder. Balwinder moved cautiously, his ears straining for any sound. Then, the faintest shuffle of boots on dirt. 

                Before he could react, a figure lunged from the darkness, a knife glinting in his hand. 

            Balwinder barely had time to raise his rifle before the terrorist was on him. His weight slammed into Balwinder’s  chest, knocking him backward. They  hit the ground hard, Balwinder’s weapon slipping from his grasp. His knife came down, but Balwinder caught his wrist, muscles straining against his desperate force. His eyes were wild, filled with a mix of fury and fear. 

            With a sharp twist, Balwinder forced his wrist back, the knife dropping from his grip. Using the momentum, Balwinder rolled, pinning the terrorist beneath him. His hand found Balwinder’s sidearm, and before he could react, Balwinder pressed the barrel against his temple. 

            For a brief moment, he stared at Balwinder, his chest heaving. Then, in a final act of defiance, he spat, his lips curling into a twisted smile.  

            A single gunshot ended it. The alley fell silent once more. 

          When Balwinder emerged, Singh was already tending to our other injured man—Lance Naik Raghav, who had taken a bullet to the left shoulder. His uniform was slick with blood, but he was breathing, his jaw clenched against the pain. 

            "All clear?" Singh asked, his eyes searching Balwinder. 

           "All clear," Balwinder nodded, exhaling for the first time in what felt like hours. 

            The battle had ended. Three terrorists neutralized. Two of our own wounded but alive. The village, which had stood in eerie silence before the encounter, was now even quieter, the weight of war settling into its bones once more. 

            As the Team secured the area, waiting for evacuation, Singh sat beside Lakhan, who was gritting his teeth against the pain. 

            "You’ll be back on your feet in no time," Singh assured him, squeezing his shoulder. 

            Lakhan managed a weak smile. "Next time, I’m wearing a steel plate on my leg." 

            A chuckle rippled through the team, a brief moment of levity amidst the violence. 

            The stars had emerged above them, indifferent to the bloodshed below. And as the cool wind swept through the valley, they knew that tonight would be another memory added to the ever-growing collection—a reminder that in the fog of war, there were no victors, only survivors.