Soviet Union 1991

(Second update)

The fierce battle slowly cooled down in the biting cold wind in the middle of the night. Every inch of the land in front was filled with corpses, both of our own people and those of the enemy. The blood stained the originally pure white world. Shocking dark red.

The soldiers leaned their backs against the wall and huddled their heads tightly in their woolen coats. They held their guns and were a little tired but never dared to fall asleep. The enemy would always attack when they were most tired, and Comrade Valentin predicted the attack. The time is four o'clock in the morning. No one will doubt Comrade Valentin's judgment, because that was the moment when they were most tired.

After counting the number of people, only half of the more than 100 people in the base were left, including ten seriously injured soldiers. They were lying in the bunker after being simply bandaged and waited for death with a sigh of relief. There will be no more military doctors to treat them, because half an hour ago, the last military doctor died on the battlefield.

Political Commissar Valentin inspected the patients, and everyone looked at him with complicated eyes, which made Valentin feel like he was behind them. He walked up to a soldier who had lost a lot of blood, squatted down and held his hand, trying to give the dying wounded some comfort. When the soldier whose chest was stained red saw Valentin, he regained his energy. He grabbed Valentin's sleeve tightly and said, "Political Commissar, won't someone come to save us? The motherland has forgotten us." ”

"No, child, the motherland has not forgotten us. As long as we persist until dawn, reinforcements will arrive." Valentin said sadly, "You must persist, and we can all go home."

"That's good. I want to... go home. I'm too tired. I want to sleep for a while. It'll be fine in a while." The soldier's muttering became intermittent, and he glanced at the political commissar with his last breath. Valentin turned his head and saw a letter lying next to the soldier. He coughed up a mouthful of blood and said feebly, "If I... really can't go back, please... the political commissar take it and give it to me. Yes, ahem, my mother.”

The corner of the suicide note that was blown open by the wind contained only one extremely brief sentence.

"I hope you can live a good life, mother. Your son is honored to sacrifice his life for the country."

His eyelids became heavier and heavier, he slowly closed his eyes and stopped breathing. Before he died, his other hand was still holding a letter written by his mother.

"I will, kid." Valentin put away the suicide note, covered his face with a white cloth, stood up and walked out of the bunker silently. The coldness of winter diluted the smell of blood in his nose, and the sight of the soldier sleeping peacefully shocked his nerves.

"The motherland will not forget us, and the armored troops will definitely arrive." Valentin gritted his teeth and repeated what he had said many times.

In fact, the base's communications are currently unable to contact the outside world. They have no way to report the situation here to the headquarters, and it is impossible for the headquarters to know the horror of the war. This military base is like a small stronghold surrounded by Chechen militants, waiting hard for the arrival of troops. They just hope that the armored forces will appear behind them soon, and someone will pat their tired shoulders and say, rest, and leave the rest to us.

"Political Commissar." The soldier with gauze wrapped around his arm walked into the bunker, glanced at the patients around him, and said to the Political Commissar regardless of the burning pain of the wound, "Political Commissar, let's go, we still need you on the front line."

"Okay." After a simple reply, Valentin didn't say a word. He picked up his gun and walked to the front line, where a group of soldiers were waiting for him. For the remaining Soviet troops, Valentin is their spiritual pillar. As long as the political commissar is still there, this group of immature young people will not fall.

Ivanov's face was a little dirty with blood and mud, and blended in with the soldiers around him who had been under fire for a long time. His delicate and childish face and sad look could no longer be seen.

Valentin walked up to him and sat down against the wall of the bunker. He turned his head and said to Ivanov, "Young man, sing us another song. The morale is very low now and they need encouragement. "

After hearing the words of political commissar Valentin, these young people who were facing mental breakdown looked at Valentin with pleading eyes, begging him to sing a song for everyone, the last song.

Ivanov nodded, took out his most cherished harmonica from his pocket, and said to them, "Then I will play the last song for everyone. This song was played by me when I traveled to Moscow. A middle-aged man I met by the river in Moscow sang the song in Chinese. At my repeated request, he translated the lyrics into Russian and taught me to sing the song "White Birch Forest."

Later, when Ivanov saw the man who taught him singing on TV, it was the serious-looking Vice President Yanayev on Moscow TV during the August 19th Incident. The shock to Ivanov at that time could not be greater.

Ivanov put the harmonica to his lips and slowly played the sad melody "Birch Forest". Everyone became very quiet, because they knew very well that this might be the last time they would hear such singing in the midst of war.

"The quiet village is covered with white snow, and doves are flying under the hazy sky. The two names are engraved on the birch trees, and they vowed to love each other for the rest of their lives."

Some people were holding back tears in their eyes, some were silently wiping the mud on their rifles, and some were holding onto the photos and family letters in their hands, knowing that there were many things that they couldn't go back in time. The cigarette in Political Commissar Valentin's hand was almost burned out, but he still didn't want to throw it away because it was the last cigarette in his pocket.

"One day the war reached my hometown, and the young man picked up his gun and rushed to the border. My sweetheart, don't worry about me, wait for me to come back to the birch forest."

Not far away, there was a series of clacking sounds of thick boots stepping on the snow. Ivanov's song was interrupted by this sound before it was finished. He put down his harmonica and turned his head. He saw the soldier in charge of reconnaissance running over, and said to Comrade Valentin breathlessly, "Political Commissar, Political Commissar, it's not good, the Chechens are preparing to attack again."

Comrade Valentin stood up suddenly, he pulled the bolt of the Kalashnikov, and said to the soldiers around him, "Boys, cheer up. After this battle, we can all go home."

Everyone silently raised their guns, without the previous excitement, but everyone's eyes gradually became calm and resolute.

Going home, such a simple idea, at this moment, became a luxury and unattainable in the eyes of the soldiers.

The snow fell quietly, as if clearing the battlefield, laying down a soft white curtain for the next round of fighting. Snowflakes fell on the ground, covering the young faces that had turned into ice sculptures, as well as those equally vibrant lives.