My mind was still in shock, but I acted on the automatic reflexes I had learned during my training. I opened the right pocket of my jacket, took out the small plastic morphine syringe, pulled off the cap with my teeth, and injected it into my left arm, just above the elbow. As the burning effect of the morphine spread through my veins, the intensity of the pain decreased slightly, but walking was still nearly impossible. I slowly got down on my knees, then staggered to my feet.
I looked around.
The enemy BMP-1 was employing the classic Soviet "hit-and-run" tactic. Every few minutes, it emerged from the chaos created by the fog, fired its cannon, and then quickly changed positions. Right next to it, machine gunners whose silhouettes were barely visible had taken cover. They were supporting the BMP with PKMs and grenades. Their presence ensured the BMP-1's protection as it changed positions.
Our armored vehicles, especially the BMP-2, had fired several times. However, the BMP-1's low profile and cunning maneuvers made it difficult to target. The automatic cannons either wasted their rounds or fired at close range, failing to make an impact. Our own BMP was still moving, but it couldn't do much besides distract the enemy. As the vehicles remained stationary, they became easier targets.
I looked beside me and suddenly felt a void inside.
The soldier who had been beside me just moments ago—that young RPG-7 carrier whose face was still fresh in my memory—now lay on the ground, torn apart. Most of his body had been shredded by the explosion, his arm completely severed, his intestines scattered everywhere, and one leg nearly gone below the knee. His face was unrecognizable. However, it was not difficult to identify him from the RPG-7 next to him and the spare PG-7V ammunition on his back.
The roar in my mind suddenly gave way to the silence of death.
I picked up the RPG-7 from the ground. Its body was warm and slightly bloody. I checked the rocket, quickly loaded the shell into the barrel. Then I slowly got down on the ground, strapped the weapon to my back, and began to crawl. I was moving forward inch by inch, clenching my teeth. Every movement of my body caused the shrapnel to tear open my wounds, but I couldn't stop.
The bullets were still falling. Sometimes they passed just a few inches away from me, sometimes they lifted the ground in front of me. The bullets exploding on the ground created small craters, and mud and stones rained down on me.
After a short distance, I stopped and turned around, giving the command "suppressive fire" with hand signals. My remaining teammates, almost reflexively, began firing in a coordinated manner. The BTR-70's turret machine gun came into play, the BMP-2 fired its automatic cannon again, and the infantry began sweeping enemy positions with their AK-74s and RPKs. The air was filled with the sounds of bullets and explosions.
In the midst of this chaos, I had one chance. I held my breath, shouldered the RPG-7, and aimed at my target—that damned BMP-1 reappearing through the fog and trying to take cover.
When the enemy BMP-1 burst out of the fog again, it was as if I had been waiting for that moment. This time I was careful, holding my breath, keeping my aim steady. When the right moment came, I pulled the trigger. The RPG-7's sudden explosion and the flames spewing backward sent the rocket hurtling forward in a deadly arc. A few seconds later, it struck the right side armor of the BMP-1—its ammunition compartment.
The explosion turned into a massive fireball that seemed to pierce the darkness of the night. The BMP-1's turret suddenly rose as if torn from its place, its fragments scattering around, and the ammunition inside detonated in a chain reaction. Flames shot into the sky, shadows danced around, and the tremors shook even those lying on the ground. The silence of the night was filled with the crackling of metal and the burning of fuel. The darkness of the night suddenly lit up like daytime.
At that very moment, a voice echoed over the radio; it was the voice of our unit leader, cutting through the night with an order mixed with anger and determination:
"CHARGE FORWARD!!!"
The order spread like a spark. Everyone leaped from their positions and charged forward. The infantry charged forward with shouts, while the armored vehicles lurched forward through the mud. The enemy units, whose morale had completely collapsed, were in shock after the destruction of the BMP-1. They abandoned their positions, some throwing down their weapons and fleeing, others kneeling down and attempting to surrender. But we did not stop.
The assault was so swift and fierce that within minutes we found ourselves at the heart of the enemy camp. This camp had once been an organized base—houses, barracks, observation towers… But now, nearly all of it had been reduced to rubble as a result of our previous artillery barrage. The precise fire of the BM-21 Grad multiple rocket launchers had flattened the interior of the camp. The heavy shells of the D-30 howitzers had shattered concrete walls, and roofs had collapsed. The area was littered with charred wood, cracked concrete, and scattered bodies. Dust still filled the air, making visibility difficult. But we kept advancing.
The enemy camp was almost surrounded. Our reinforcements arriving from behind had also entered the field. The retreat routes were cut off, and there was no escape for the enemy. And just then, a loud noise coming from the southwest corner of the camp caught my attention. Out of the dust, a vehicle with its headlights blown out but its engine still running was heading toward us.
It was an UAZ reinforced with armor, with improvised armor plates welded on. It had a heavy machine gun mounted on it, and those inside were making a final desperate push toward our lines in a state of panic. The sound of the vehicle echoed with the hum of metal and the high revs of the engine.
The BMP-2 immediately detected the target. The turret swiveled its 30mm automatic cannon toward the vehicle. The operator tracked the target briefly before pulling the trigger. A barrage of AP (armor-piercing) rounds riddled the vehicle. The windshield shattered, the engine block shattered, and the hull began to burn. The UAZ swayed, then slowed down, and when the left front tire exploded, it tipped over onto its side.
I carefully approached the riddled, burning UAZ. The engine was still humming, and the hood was emitting hot steam. The machine gun barrel was hanging down toward the ground; the ammunition box was shattered, and the bullets were scattered on the ground. With one hand on my gun, I opened the heavy side door with the other. Smoke and the smell of burning plastic hit my face.
There were two men inside. The young man sitting in the driver's seat was almost a child—no more than 18, maybe 19 years old. He still had a light stubble on his left cheek. His eyes were still open, but they were staring blankly like glass. He was still strapped into his seatbelt, his head leaning against the steering wheel. The 30 mm armor-piercing bullet that had hit his chest had nearly split his body in two.
In the passenger seat lay a massive man. He was at least 1.90 meters tall, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and veins bulging. He wore an old but still well-fitting camouflage uniform. On his chest, between the thick, blood-stained fabric, I could see a military badge: a name written in Slavic letters was partially visible—"Ser..." it read.
At that moment, one of the team members came over to me. He looked at the car, then saw the man inside and his face went pale. His eyes widened, and he took a step back. "God..." he said in a low voice, then grabbed the radio and spoke a short but firm sentence:
"Sergey is dead." From that moment on, the bandit camp offered almost no resistance. The enemy's resistance seemed to have been extinguished. The bandits began to drop their weapons one by one. Some knelt down with their hands raised. Others waved white cloths in their hands. The resistance was completely broken. The interior of the camp was now completely under our control. The fog had dissipated, the dust had settled, and night was beginning to give way to a misty dawn. The area was littered with burned-out barracks, ruined buildings, and cracked ground. Rockets, mortars, and howitzers had left no stone unturned.
A few people from the unit spread out to different parts of the camp. I too, with my weapon in hand, began to search the camp with heavy steps, ignoring the smell of burnt wood and fuel filling my nose. My heart was still racing, and sweat was trickling down my forehead from under my helmet. At that moment, I remembered that Sergey was involved in the slave trade. I turned on the radio and established contact with headquarters. After some static, a clear voice finally came through. I reported Sergey's death and that the camp had been taken over. Then I relayed the matter directly to the commander:
"There are probably civilians being forced to work here. I request permission for a thorough search."
Approval came immediately. The team headed toward the large shelters in the southeast of the camp.
No rocket shells had hit this area, so the structure was intact. Inside the dark, heavily odorous wooden shelter, approximately 30 to 40 people were chained. Some were crouched on the ground, others leaned against the wall. The chains had cut into their wrists. The children had curled up at their mothers' knees. The elderly men had placed their hands over their eyes. The women were silently weeping. Their eyes were filled with fear, exhaustion, and despair. Some had tried to find a place to hide when we entered, but the chains above them wouldn't even let them move. My friend next to me grabbed a large pair of pliers to cut the chains. As we untied them one by one, they were stunned by what was happening. Some cried, some prayed, and some still couldn't believe it.
"You are free now," I said simply. A woman with tears in her eyes nodded. A little girl hugged me. Her dirty, thin arms were weak, but she held on tightly. After all the war, blood, and death, she had touched a small piece of hope for the first time.
A soldier came up to me. He stood there with a notebook in his hand. "Aleksey, there are a few warehouses left inside. Would you like us to investigate them?" he said.
I nodded. I stood up. We walked slowly toward the warehouses. The metal doors were rusty, some were locked, but they broke easily. It was dark inside, but when we looked with our flashlights, we saw images that made our hearts sink: Broken chains on the floor, iron shackles, stale food and medicine boxes stored in plastic containers. On the walls were shapes that looked like children's drawings: houses, suns, people—but all of them were crossed out, covered in scribbles. It was as if they had erased their hopes with their own hands.
Some boxes contained stolen documents, gold, silver, canned food, and valuable items. On some shelves, weapons, explosive devices, and ammunition were stored. This was not just a camp; it was also a criminal hub. Our mission was no longer just to rescue; it was to destroy this place.
All necessary items were carefully collected and loaded onto heavy trucks with care. In the dusty and debris-filled environment of the camp area, Colonel Valeriy Sidorov approached with heavy steps. As his eyes scanned the surroundings, they lingered on my bloodstained, dusty, and dirty clothing. When I reached him, I saluted with military discipline. The colonel paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and began to speak:
"You're wounded. You should see a doctor. War is tough, but at least we won."
I slowly lifted the visor of my helmet, met his determined gaze, and replied:
"The doctor can wait. Our priority is different right now, Colonel. There's a traitor among us. He set up the ambush. He most likely sabotaged our radio connection too. They lured us here. You have to find this traitor, or else greater disasters are on the horizon."
At these words, a momentary stiffness appeared on the colonel's face. The silence lingered as he fell into deep thought. His eyes fixed on the distance, he bore the weight of taking another step into the chaos of war. Finally, his voice deepened:
"I think I know who the traitor is. This is my responsibility. I will handle it my way. The time has come for you to pay."
And leaning toward his radio, he began issuing commands quickly and clearly.
A few minutes later, two soldiers arrived carrying heavy boxes, placing them on the ground with weary steps. When one of the boxes was opened, it revealed the Soviet Union's famous VSS Vintorez sniper rifle. Alongside it were 160 rounds of ammunition and four empty magazines, each with a capacity of 20 rounds. The other crate contained the legendary Soviet 6B5 bulletproof vest. There were also two more boxes: one containing 30 cans of canned meat, the other 30 cans of canned poridge.
I carefully picked up the VSS. Despite a few scratches and dents, its mechanism was in perfect working order. The rifle's silence reminded me how valuable it was for night operations. I then began to examine the 6B5 vest. This model was the 6B5-18 and weighed approximately 7 kilograms. The front side had 13 mm thick boron carbide plates, while the back side had 1.25 mm titanium plates. Both surfaces had 30 layers of aramid bulletproof fabric. This vest could easily stop 5.45×39 7N6 and 7.62×39 PS standard bullets fired from a distance of 10 meters.
I looked at the colonel's face and smiled slightly:
"I guess someone is being generous, hahaha."
The colonel took a deep breath and then laughed:
"Of course I have to pay you well. After all, we captured this bandit camp with fewer losses thanks to you."
The soldiers carefully loaded the items into the vehicle: The VSS Vintorez, magazines, bullets, vests, and canned food were neatly arranged in the back of the UAZ. After closing the vehicle's door, one of the soldiers got behind the wheel, and I sat in the passenger seat and told him to drive to the hospital. The soldier, tired but having completed his mission, drove toward the field hospital in the city. Along the way, my eyes grew heavy, and I struggled against the numbness in my body. The morphine was beginning to wear off, and every pothole, every jolt, made me feel the shrapnel fragments in my body more acutely.
When we arrived in front of the hospital, the soldier parked the car to the side and turned off the engine. I opened the door and stepped out. With every step, the weight of the armor crushed my shoulders. I entered the building; inside, the atmosphere was dim but sterile.
Behind the reception desk sat a young woman with blonde hair and good posture, whom I had seen before. She held a pen in her hand, carefully writing something on a document. I approached the desk with heavy steps, but the girl was so focused on what she was writing that she didn't react even to the echoing sound of my boots hitting the floor. I stood there motionless for a moment. Then she suddenly looked up—and her eyes locked onto mine.
My camouflaged uniform was covered in mud mixed with blood. With my helmet, balaclava, and armor vest, I looked like a ghost who had been torn from the battlefield. Her eyes widened, her face paled. Shee jumped up from the chair, let out a small scream, her heart racing. I knew I looked terrible, but wasn't that reaction a bit much?
Slowly, my hand went to the helmet, then I removed the balaclava. I placed the helmet, along with the balaclava, on the table in front of him. Now he could see my face clearly. Her eyes shifted from shock to recognition for a moment. Her gaze softened. She took a deep breath and composed herself. Then, placing her hands on her hips, she narrowed her eyes and gave me a angry look. Her cheeks were puffed out, but there was a cuteness to her anger—like a child scolding someone for hiding their toy.
"For God's sake, were you trying to scare me? Approaching someone like that silently is very rude!" she said, her voice trembling but controlled.
I replied with a tired but sincere chuckle:
"Little lady, as you can see, my condition is not very good... The effects of the morphine seem to be wearing off."
At that moment, I took off the heavy 6B3TM-01 vest I was wearing and set it aside. As I carefully placed the vest on the table, my body felt a little lighter. The girl looked at my face, then at the vest, then back at my face. There was no longer fear in her eyes, only concern. It was something those who hadn't seen war couldn't understand.
"Can you direct me to a doctor?" I asked, gently holding my right shoulder with my left hand. "I've had a close encounter with shrapnel…"
She nodded. This time she was more serious, more concerned.
"Come with me," she said quietly. "I'll help you."
And he led me into the dimly lit corridor. As we walked down the corridors, each step grew heavier. The effects of the morphine had almost completely worn off. Exhaustion, pain, sleeplessness, and the emptiness caused by shock were pushing my body to its limits as I dragged my feet forward. The blonde nurse led me to a door. She opened the door, revealing a small but fully equipped procedure room illuminated by sterile white light. Medical devices, metal tables, IV stands, and the pungent smell of antiseptic filled the air.
The blonde nurse went outside to call the doctor. I leaned my back against the wall, gasping for breath. As I slowly took off my shirt, every movement echoed with pain. Several shrapnel fragments were embedded in my skin from my left shoulder to my arm. There was a deeper wound on my left thigh—perhaps a piece of shrapnel had penetrated the bone. There were also shrapnel fragments under my right ribcage, along with superficial but extensive bruises; these were likely caused when I was blown into the air by the BMP-1's shell.
Within a minute, a middle-aged man entered the room. He was wearing a military hospital coat and had a stethoscope around his neck. He looked at me through his glasses, his expression serious. Another young medical assistant came over. After a quick glance, the doctor said:
"We can't remove them with local anesthesia. Some of these shrapnel fragments have penetrated the muscle tissue, even reaching the bone surface. Deep sedation or general anesthesia is required." He shook his head. "Get ready. We're taking him into surgery."
---
They laid me on a stretcher. An IV was inserted into my arm, and electrodes were placed on my chest to monitor my heart rhythm. The IV was connected. Then someone leaned over my head; they had a needle in their hand. "Start counting down from ten…" they said. Before I could say three, my vision went dark.
---
When I opened my eyes, the lights were still the same, but time seemed to have shifted. I felt numb; my body was heavy, and there was a disgusting dry taste in my throat. I moved my eyes slightly, trembling slightly. The blonde nurse was still beside me. She was holding a notebook and taking notes. Our eyes met. She smiled slightly, then spoke in a serious tone:
"It took four hours. We removed two large shrapnel fragments from your left thigh. The fragment in your shoulder had torn the muscle fibers, but it didn't damage the nerve. The one under your rib didn't go deep; you got away with a superficial wound. You're lucky."
I tried to look at my left side. I was covered in bandages. My arm hurt, but it wasn't unbearable. The oxygen tube extending to the tip of my nose gently made breathing easier.
The blonde nurse continued:
"Now you need to rest. No movement for at least two days. We're giving you three different antibiotics; your risk of infection is high. You've also been given a tetanus shot."
At the head of the bed was a metal tray containing cotton, blood-soaked gauze, and surgical instruments… left over from the operation. On the table beside me, the shrapnel fragments removed during surgery lay in a sterile box. They were bloody and misshapen; I looked at them, then closed my eyes.
I tried to sit up slowly, but my body resisted. My muscles seemed to have forgotten how to work. As I tried to lean on the edge of the bed, the IV tube on my arm tightened, causing a sharp pain. The nurse intervened immediately, helping me lie back down.
"I'll bring your meal," she said as she left.
She then brought a metal tray with wheat porridge, vegetables, and a cup of tea. The nurse gently smiled as she fed me with a spoon and helped me drink the tea with a straw. My eyes drifted to the portrait on the wall across from me—a faded image of Lenin from Soviet times. Our eyes met. Neither of us said anything. In this hospital, even the walls had learned to be silent. After I finished eating, the nurse left me alone to sleep.
In the morning, I woke up to the sound of footsteps. The nurse had come back, and this time the tray held breakfast: tea, condensed milk, and oatmeal.
By midday, it was time to change my bandages. This time, there was an older nurse. Her movements were less careful—as she pulled the gauze, she tugged at the stitches, and a small moan escaped my lips.
"Do you know where the blonde nurse is? I'd rather heal under her gentle hands," I muttered, glaring at the woman.
"If you're in pain, it means you're healing," she said, her face expressionless.