The Last Dispatch

Corporal Arjun Mehta lay in his bunk, the canvas of his tent fluttering under the warm desert wind. The base at Ratnapur was quiet that evening, the usual hum of activity replaced by an unsettling stillness. Arjun had just finished his patrol and was looking forward to a few hours of rest before his next shift. He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come easily. There was a weight in the air, a sense of something about to happen.

Suddenly, the tent flap rustled, and a young soldier, barely out of his teens, stepped inside. His uniform was dusty, and his face was pale, almost grey. He saluted smartly, but his eyes seemed hollow. ‘Corporal Mehta, sir,’ he said, his voice thin like a dry leaf. ‘I need to report something important.’ Arjun sat up, squinting in the dim light. ‘Report, soldier.’ The young man stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘The enemy is planning an attack on our position at the northern ridge. They’ve been moving under cover of darkness. I’ve seen it myself. Within two days, they’ll be within striking distance of our ammo depot.’ Arjun felt a chill run down his spine. This was serious. He looked at the soldier’s name tag: ‘Naik, Ravi.’ But something was off. The soldier’s uniform was torn at the shoulder, and there was a faint smell of decay about him.

Before Arjun could ask more, the young man stepped back, saluted, and left without waiting for dismissal. Arjun sat there for a moment, then shook off the unease. He had to act. He quickly summoned his senior officers to a meeting, sharing the intelligence. They planned a counter-assault, moving troops and artillery to reinforce the ridge. Two days later, the enemy attacked exactly as predicted, and the garrison was ready. The attack was repelled with minimal casualties, and the enemy retreated in disarray. Arjun and his comrades were hailed as heroes.

In the aftermath, there was talk of finding the young soldier who had warned them, to thank him and perhaps recommend him for a commendation. Arjun himself wanted to see Ravi again, to ask how he had obtained such precise information. But when he asked around, no one knew any soldier by that name. He checked the duty rosters, the unit lists, but there was no Ravi Naik. Then, two days later, a list of casualties from a skirmish three weeks prior arrived from headquarters. As Arjun scanned the names, his eyes froze on one: Naik Ravi Kumar, KIA, incident at the border patrol.

Arjun’s heart pounded. He stared at the name, then at the dates. Ravi had been listed as killed in action about ten days before the warning. But Arjun had seen him, spoken to him. He went to the military records office, his hands shaking, and verified the details. The young man had died during a wild encounter in the hills, his body never recovered. He had been dead for over a week when he appeared in Arjun’s tent.

That night, Arjun couldn’t sleep. He paced his tent, trying to rationalize. Perhaps a case of mistaken identity. Perhaps the soldier had a twin. But deep down, he knew the truth. He had seen a ghost, or something worse. He decided to go to the ridge where Ravi had last been seen, to find answers. He took a jeep and drove out alone, ignoring the protests of his colleagues. The moon was high, casting long shadows across the barren landscape.

When he arrived at the ridge, the wind howled. In the distance, he saw a figure standing near a cluster of rocks, motionless. As he approached, the figure turned. It was the young soldier, Ravi, his face pale and ethereal in the moonlight. Arjun’s breath caught. ‘What are you?’ he heard himself ask. The soldier’s lips did not move, but Arjun heard a voice in his mind, low and resonant: ‘I was lost. My mission wasn’t complete. I had to warn you. Now that you know the enemy’s plan, you can protect the post. Let me rest.’ The figure began to fade, and Arjun felt a profound sadness. He understood that Ravi had been caught behind enemy lines, had overheard their plans, and had sacrificed himself to bring the message back. His spirit had wandered until it could deliver the warning.

Arjun returned to base, a changed man. He never spoke of the encounter, but he filed a report with the details, recommending that Ravi be posthumously decorated. The base honored the young soldier, and a small memorial was erected at the ridge. Every year on the anniversary, Arjun would leave a single marigold at the spot. But sometimes, on quiet nights when the wind blew through the tents, he would swear he saw the faint outline of a young soldier, nodding in gratitude, before disappearing into the darkness.