And then there was complete silence. The gunshots had died down; but the battle was not yet over. It had never been over since the last 68 years. The blazing rifles were put to rest, the grenades were given a break; the smoke in sky lost its source and the fragrance of ammunition got vanished in the wild.
He went back to his tent, broken yet strong; sad yet calm; shattered yet rock solid.
The fierce shelling for past three days costed him heavily, with three of his men in the arms of death. Commander Sierra– this had been his identity since the day he dawned the olive greens. While his original name was lost; somewhere between his rank and his commendations. Sitting on the camp chair, he gave orders to his 2nd-In-Command and retarded to his bed. This was the time he was most vulnerable, not to the enemy but his inner self. Sleep was something he had not been familiar with, at least since the last 17 months. His dreams were haunted by his past, the memories kept bouncing back at him. Knowing that the efforts were futile, he got up and started flipping pages-of his diary, his albums, his letters that never got posted. His past was buried in these manuscripts. He felt moisture on his left hand.
There was a storm outside, there was a fire inside.
Commander Sierra knew what to do. With rifle in hand and ammunition in pouches, he started running to the jungle. After about 22 odd minutes, he lay on a stone, exhausted. Gulping the last two pegs of rum, he reached to his bed.
The clock struck 3 a.m. He had hardly closed his eyes when he was woken up by a loud bang.