Silent Villages and Loud Gunfire

"Sometimes silence screams louder than bullets."

-  Anonymous Frontline Soldier

             Thapa’s dust-caked leap had barely settled in our memories when another message crackled through the static - a different village, same menace. This wasn’t pursuit anymore. It was persistence. Each trail we chased down seemed to birth another, like fire jumping from tree to tree. From the thud of fists to the roar of rifles, the battlefield was morphing - faster, bolder, deadlier. And this time, they weren’t hiding behind women or children. They were armed to the teeth and waiting. Kulgam wasn’t far. But that night, it felt like we were walking into the heart of silence that would soon explode.       

             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 men, 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 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 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 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.

             "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.

             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. They slammed into the ground, Balwinder’s weapon slipping from his grasp. The knife came down, but Balwinder caught his wrist, muscles straining.

             With a sharp twist, Balwinder forced his wrist back, the blade clattering to the dirt. Using the momentum, he rolled, pinning the terrorist beneath him. His hand found his sidearm, and without pause, he pressed the barrel against his temple.

             For a moment, they locked eyes.

             The terrorist spat in defiance.

             A single shot ended it.

             When Balwinder emerged, Singh was already tending to another injured man - Lance Naik Raghav, shot in the shoulder.

             "All clear?" Singh asked.

             "All clear," Balwinder nodded.

             Three terrorists neutralized. Two of our own wounded but alive. The village, which had stood in eerie silence before the encounter, was now quieter still. War had passed through again.

             As the team secured the area, waiting for evacuation, Singh sat beside Lakhan.

             "You’ll be back on your feet in no time," he said, squeezing his shoulder.

             Lakhan grinned weakly. "Next time, I’m wearing a steel plate on my leg."

             A brief chuckle. A sliver of humanity amid brutality.

             The stars shone cold above, watching with distant indifference. And in that breath of night, we added another tale to the ledger of memory.

 

“In the shadows where silence screams, it’s not medals that matter - it’s the men who walk back into the dark, again and again.”

             We returned from Kulgam bruised but breathing, our boots heavy with silence. The following days dissolved into the mechanical rhythm of paperwork, debriefs, and bandages - some wrapped in gauze, others buried beneath silence. War, I had come to realize, doesn’t end with the last bullet; it lingers - in the eyes of frightened villagers, in the soil that refuses to forget, and in the hearts of those who must carry on. That night, as I slid into my sleeping bag, the cold creeping in like memory itself, my mind slipped - not forward, but back. Back to a time before the fog of fear and fatigue, to the polished corridors of Army Headquarters. There, among quieter evenings and kinder hours, life had a different flavor - one of unhurried laughter, old friendships, and cups filled not just with rum, but with warmth.

 Some nights, when the war outside rages loudest, it’s the gentler memories that rise - stronger, steadier, reminding us of who we were before we learned to sleep beside our own ghosts.