A beautiful view unfolded before them, one they had long since grown unaccustomed to. To the right of the road they were traveling, a considerable distance away, grew a dense, green forest. Polish farmland surrounded them, dominated by tall corn. The wind gently stirred their stalks, giving the impression that the plants swayed to the rhythm of a mysterious music.
Like ships on a calm sea, clusters of light, feathery clouds floated across the sky. Every so often, they blocked out the sun, offering everyone respite from its scorching rays.
The vehicles' engines had been rumbling unbearably for hours, tirelessly powering their cars. Whenever they hit a hole in the ground, everyone inside jumped in their seats, often banging their heads against the ceiling. Excited groans, which usually turned into curses, could be heard. Their convoy, consisting of two trucks loaded with weapons and ammunition and four armored Hummers armed with 20mm cannons, moved relatively smoothly despite the irritatingly uneven terrain.
Their goal was to deliver weapons to Lublin, still defending itself against the Belarusian army. The entire war between Poland and Belarus was shocking and unexpected. This was all the more strange because the aggressor was a country that, after Soviet captivity and a prolonged economic collapse, was trying to present itself on the international stage as a country with something to say. Some, so confident in Poland's military might, ridiculed their neighbor or criticized the prevailing situation, while others, citing various obligations and treaties signed by both countries, demanded an immediate end to the war. However, neither side had any intention of surrendering.
It began with the Union of Poles in Belarus. After Lukashenko dissolved it and militarily suppressed the protests, the world reacted with outrage at this treatment of national minorities. The only country that did not rule on the matter was the Russian Federation. After rejecting a peaceful resolution to the dispute, on the fateful day of May 21, 2006, Belarus, without a prior declaration of war, breached Poland's borders, invading almost 100 kilometers into the country, thus launching a massive invasion. No motive was found in the Belarusian president's actions. It was obvious that the Belarusian army was neither efficient nor numerous enough to effectively oppose Poland's strength. General Staniszewski, appointed commander of Army Warsaw, recommended extreme caution during engagements with the enemy. The enemy occupied swathes of territory spanning thousands of hectares, from most of the Masurian Lake District, along the Narew River in the north, to the vicinity of Lublin in the south. The Belarusian army's victorious advance was halted by the hastily mobilized Warsaw Army, which pushed enemy forces back several dozen kilometers from the capital. In the north, a well-coordinated sabotage operation deprived the enemy of supplies and the possibility of retreat, giving retreating Polish forces a chance to regroup and counterattack near the town of Olsztyn. The situation was worst in the south, where self-propelled artillery was devastating Polish military posts and destroying roads and railways, partially cutting off supplies to the Poles. The key to victory in these regions was holding the city of Lublin and its surrounding areas. In the event of defeat, Polish forces would not be able to stop the Belarusian advance all the way to Krakow.
Just a few weeks ago, transport planes could be seen in the sky dropping supplies for the defending troops. However, after the Belarusians introduced anti-aircraft artillery onto the streets, dropping ammunition became impossible. The southern part of the city was still defending. This was their goal.
The man at the gunner's station on the vehicle's roof pulled off his sunglasses. He felt a pang of shortness of breath, which subsided on its own after a moment. He'd been experiencing increasing abdominal pain for several dozen minutes, making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. He climbed down into the Hummer, where, after another jump, one of the soldiers was clutching his head and groaning with a headache.
"Hey. Young one!" the pilot said to the man leaving his post. He had a dull expression and an irritating gaze that only fueled his interlocutor's resentment and frustration. His favorite pastime was bossing others around, boasting about his recent promotion to corporal, while everyone around him was still a private. Many of them thought Walek, as they called him, was just an egotistical toadiest whom no one had ever seen in real action. "Get back on your rifle!"
"Leave him alone, Walek!" growled the short, mustachioed man sitting in the back. He held an improved model Kalashnikov rifle in his hand. "You see, he's not doing well. Our superiors aren't here, so relax.
" "How about you talk to me..." He stopped. He didn't want to start another discussion where everyone would laugh at him again. He simply turned away and returned to his fascinating pastime, staring at the license plate of the car in front of them.
"Thanks," the young man replied, smiling despite the twinge in his stomach. "I need to catch my breath for a moment. It's just my stomach.
" "You'll get something when we get there, because the first aid kit doesn't have anything for the threat of a 'stomach ache.'" The man smiled back, and everyone in the vehicle chuckled softly.
After a moment of silence, punctuated by the sounds of
car engines, the young man resumed the conversation.
"I've had enough of this. All we do is drive around delivering supplies, or sit in these hopeless barracks listening to television reports from the battlefield. They could give us a proper job."
Everyone, except the driver, who couldn't, looked at him with
pitying expressions. The first to speak was the soldier sitting on the right side by the window. Unlike his comrades, he held an M-16 grenade launcher resting on his shoulder.
"War isn't a game." You could die here! Have you thought about that, Young One? Don't you want to go back to your home? To your girlfriend? He said in a convincing voice.
"I do, but...
" "If you want to, pray to God that this war ends quickly and that you're never assigned to any more serious missions." His last words were meant to warn the young soldier against misbehaving.
Everyone waited intently for Young One's response. However, he sat down
on a dirty slab that served as a sort of platform, allowing him to see more by leaning out through a hole in the roof. He didn't say another word.
He felt embarrassed for being so reckless. He knew well that there was no room for sentiment in war, but somehow his personality and lifestyle, accustomed to the rules of the city, couldn't adjust to the suffering and evil they encountered at every turn during armed conflict.
The stomach ache eased slightly, so after a while he decided to return to his post, which, by leaving, had risked a reprimand from his superiors. He leaned outside and felt a breath of refreshing air on his face. He put on his dark glasses, as the glare of the sun made it difficult for him to concentrate on observing the surroundings.
He longed for this operation to be over, as it wasn't in his nature to expose himself to danger simply to deliver a few crates of weapons to Polish troops. Admittedly, he was now secretly glad that he hadn't been sent directly to the front, but had been assigned to support services. Until then, participating in such operations, he had never considered what might happen if something bad happened to him. He didn't think about Patrycja, or about his life, but only about experiencing the adrenaline rush that accompanies soldiers in combat.
This whole war had begun to overwhelm him. A few weeks ago, his military ambitions had faded somewhat. This was due to a story he had heard. He had heard a witness's account of the bloody Battle of Węgrów. It was a difficult test for the Poles, who, pinned to the ground, managed to rise and respond to their oppressors with equal force. In this battle, several thousand Poles lost their lives in the first hours of the attack. The Belarusians, using mortars and artillery, launched a massive attack on the Polish troop concentrations on the Liwiec River, killing most of them. However, after quickly regrouping thanks to the arrival of reinforcements, the Poles launched a powerful counteroffensive. The battle lasted several hours and ended with the Belarusians surrendering after being surrounded by the Warsaw Army.
The river that had previously flowed through that area had been forced to change its course slightly due to numerous craters left by artillery shells. Its waters turned red as the blood of fallen soldiers flowed into it along with the rain. The man who told the story to Młody lost a hand during that battle, but that wasn't the worst of it. What he saw and experienced was indescribable. He heard the screams of his comrades as grenades and mortar shells struck their positions on the riverbank. A single sight he would never forget. His unitmate, wounded by a grenade, lay on the wet ground, moaning horribly. When the man approached him, he noticed the wounded man holding his left hand, severed by the explosion, from which streams of blood were flowing, creating a black stain in the ground. He tried to speak, but his screams were drowned out by the Polish artillery fire, which had launched a counterattack. His companion died shortly after, suffering greatly and deeply regretful that it had all ended this way. Shortly afterward, he himself also suffered a grenade wound, losing his left hand, but he still considered himself lucky. Things could always be worse.
From then on, his dreams of real combat faded, but he still hoped that one day he would experience battle. Although he didn't want anything like that to happen to him, he felt patriotic, and during the oath of office, he solemnly vowed that if danger arose, he would give his life for his country.
He leaned back in his seat and surveyed the surroundings. The road their convoy had traveled had risen slightly, probably because farmers were hauling earth onto it to raise the level. Why? Why bother with such nonsense, thought the Young One. He tilted his head back and took a deep breath, allowing a large amount of air to fill his lungs. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried not to think about anything. He remained like that for a few seconds. He later said that these were his most peaceful moments.
A faint, mysterious sound, as if coming from behind, woke him from his sweet slumber. He opened his eyes and slowly looked around. However, he didn't notice anything unusual. The sound steadily grew in volume, becoming increasingly distinct from the sounds of the surrounding nature, finally forming a clear message.
The young man didn't immediately grasp the meaning of the information being conveyed to him, but now he did. He rushed into the car's cabin and only managed to yell,
"Helicopter!"
Then it all began. In an instant, the Hummer at the front of
the convoy exploded with incredible force. All the cars stopped in their tracks. Two helicopters flew overhead, performing an impressive acrobatic maneuver, soaring to a height of several dozen meters.
At that very moment, soldiers of the Belarusian army, dressed in camouflage, emerged from the cornfields. A red-and-green flag with a strange pattern on the left side was painted on their helmets. Together, they opened fire on the stranded Polish convoy. Circular depressions formed in the windows, each containing a hot bullet. Oval cracks formed around them, and despite the bulletproof glass, they looked as if they were about to shatter. Bullets slammed into the armored doors, behind which stood the terrified soldiers.
All those armed with rifles opened fire on the enemy. In an instant, the noise became incredibly loud. The sounds of bullets mixed with the sound of the helicopter's rotating blades, creating an unbearable cacophony.
The young man decided not to waste any time. He quickly pulled himself together and tried to stop his shaking hands. He aimed at the helicopters circling around them, which he assumed were preparing another attack. He fired a few bursts, but suddenly stopped as he saw movement to his left out of the corner of his eye. He turned with his rifle as far as his tripod would allow. He aimed at the shifting cornfield, then without hesitation, pulled the trigger. Bullets ripped through the plants like butter, tearing through stalks and ripping through leaves. Finally, he saw Belarusian soldiers falling, wounded by bullets, who had probably intended to sneak up on the convoy.
The situation looked hopeless. The helicopters launched another attack, this time flying in single file, strafing the cars from above with a small cannon mounted under the cockpit. Everyone bowed their heads in reflex. Bullets bounced off the rooftops, emitting loud screeches. The soldiers at the rifles were riddled with a large number of bullets, instantly taking their lives. Młody's quick reflexes and keen observation skills saved him from death this time, as he dove into the vehicle at the last moment.
"Hold on!" the Hummer driver shouted in an instant.
The vehicle, guided by him, separated from the rest and, approaching the burning
vehicle at a slight angle from the right, slammed into it with its bumper. Immediately after the maneuver, the driver jumped out of the vehicle, taking his M16 Walka rifle with him, and without aiming, opened fire on the cornfield where the enemy were hiding. The Hummer crew, unable to bring themselves to take any action, watched their companion's actions in disbelief.
After the fire stopped, he crouched by the wheel of the armored vehicle and looked at the ammunition trucks a dozen or so meters away. Nervously, he tried to convey his plan to the others with hand gestures and a shout, drowned out by the sound of the helicopter. The confused truck driver couldn't understand what he was supposed to do. He stared blankly at the flailing soldier.
Bullets fired by a Belarusian ricocheted with a sharp screech off the side of the parked Hummer, a few centimeters from the driver's head. Slightly irritated and shaken, he was eager to get back in. At that same moment, he saw the truck slowly pull away and, following the instructions, park on the left side next to the burning Hummer. He managed a smile at this dramatic moment. Maybe not all was lost, he thought.
The rest of the convoy did the same. Ignoring the bullets ricocheting off the vehicles and the helicopters suspended above them, they drove up to the other vehicles and tightly joined their vehicles to the others, forming a sort of closed ellipse.
"Move! Get out on the left!" Walek shouted.
Following his order, pushing their way through the cramped Hummer, they got out.
Immediately, hearing the whistles of bullets flying by, they hid behind the shields that were now the armored vehicles. The young man, crouching, ran to the ammunition truck and crouched by the wheel, observing the surroundings. One by one, soldiers emerged from the vehicles, occasionally breaking their silence to fire a few volleys at the enemy.
He saw a man from another vehicle running toward him, holding his Kalashnikov rifle, with a special slot under the muzzle intended for grenades, in one hand, and an ammunition magazine in the other.
From the moment they established this makeshift fortress, their barricade of cars, a relative calm descended, only to be interrupted by the sound of approaching helicopters. The young man saw the window of a car to his left shatter and heard a tire burst. The enemy helicopters were showing no mercy. The cannon fire simply swept through the entire Polish defense line, destroying everything in its path.
Bullets slammed into the ground, kicking up clouds of dust. The running soldier tried to turn back, to hide from the charging enemy, but he wasn't fast enough. Some bullets merely grazed his flesh, while others went straight through. First struck in the arm and legs, he turned toward the helicopters, only to receive wounds to the chest and abdomen. Without a word, he fell to the ground and, after a few moments of agony, froze.
The young man opened his mouth. He didn't hear Walk's shout, drowned out by the helicopters, telling everyone to take a defensive position. He stayed like that for a few moments, and only a soldier approaching from the side roused him from his lethargy. He sat down next to him, leaning against the wheel of the car. He held a Kalashnikov in his hand.
"Young man! Can you hear me? Hey!" he shouted at him, trying to be heard over the sounds of the fighting as he cocked his weapon. "Damn those Russians! What's wrong with you?
" "They killed him! See?" he shouted in a trembling voice, only now recognizing the person speaking to him. It was the mustachioed man he'd been talking to in the vehicle.
"You're the one with the fucking problems!" The other man became angry. "Listen! Where is he?" He stopped as he heard someone shout. He was frightened, though he didn't try to figure out who it belonged to. "Where's the radio?! In which vehicle?! Do you remember?!
"In the vehicle?! In... I think the first one!" "Young replied, taking his Glock from the pocket in his pants leg. He had heard a quiet curse from the mustachioed man.
"What are you... What do you need that for?!" He shouted, staring at the pistol he was holding. "Come to your senses!" He snatched the gun from his hand and shoved it back into its holster. "You won't get anywhere with this! Find yourself a real weapon!" After a moment of silence, he added, "I'm going to check on Walek! Stay here, this is probably the safest place! Watch out for the Russians!"
With those words, he ran toward the group that was a dozen or so meters
away. Watch out for the Russians. Good for him, he thought. Fear prevented him from thinking clearly. He heard the sounds of fighting, the sounds of bullets flying, the screams of his comrades. They were dying out there, and he was being told to stay here? It wasn't going to happen.
He looked ahead. A dead soldier lay facedown on the ground. He was still clutching the Kalashnikov, as if he didn't want to part with it even in death. The young man crawled up to him on all fours and tried to take the rifle. Surprisingly, the dead man's fingers gripped it so tightly that it took the young man a few moments to release his hand. He drew his weapon and checked the magazine. It was about half empty. He pulled out the magazine the other man held in his other hand and put it in his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he rolled the dead man onto his back and searched his overalls. He didn't like what he was doing, but he told himself that anyone would have done the same in his position.
The search resulted in another magazine, different from the last one. He took that one with him as well, in case any unexpected situation arose. What absurdity? This whole fight is an emergency; everyone is forced to improvise; there's no room for hesitation, but wasn't that what they taught them at the training ground?
He crawled to his old position, then slowly stood up and confidently gripped his new weapon. Now he could fight. He leaned out from behind the car and froze. The entire cornfield swayed ominously, as if buffeted by a hurricane. He spotted several Belarusians. Quickly aiming, he fired a few rounds, then ducked behind the car. He repeated this action several times.
As he tried to reload the magazine, his heart began to beat faster. Behind the Hummer lurked one of those who wanted to sneak in and slaughter them one by one. Worse still, most of the soldiers had taken up positions on the other side of the barricade, and the two men guarding this sector had strangely failed to notice the enemy in the camp. Seeing the attacker trying to sneak through the hood of the car, Młody aimed and pulled the trigger. Only a soft click answered him, which was drowned out by the sound of gunfire.
The enemy noticed him and smiled sarcastically. Seeing the Pole's panic, he calmly pulled a knife from his special pocket and walked steadily toward the soldier. The young man struggled with the magazine he had just pulled from his pocket and tried to force into its place in the Kalashnikov. To no avail. Only now did the young man notice that the magazine didn't fit the rifle. But it was too late. The Russian was already too close. The young man decided on a desperate move. He threw the rifle and magazine toward his opponent. The surprised Russian caught it with both hands, thus protecting his head from the blow. This bought the Pole a few seconds of time. He nervously tried to pull out the Glock he had just wanted to fight with. Unfortunately for him, the pistol wouldn't come out of his pocket, and the Belarusian dropped the weapon and lunged at him with the knife drawn.
They fell to the dry ground and began to struggle. The young man grabbed the hand that held the knife and tried to fight him with the other. They rolled as they went, kicking up dust. Dust got in their eyes and blinded them for a few moments, but they continued to pummel each other. Despite the filth, they continued to fight, even causing the Young One to straddle his opponent and land a few blind, effective blows to his face. However, this was only a temporary success. They switched places. Now his opponent was pushing the blade toward him with all his might, also using his other hand to help. The Young One fought with all his might, but the Russian was pushing harder than he could overcome.
Suddenly, the Belarusian's face contorted in pain. He tried to draw in a breath, but only inhaled dust and dirt. As he choked, the knife slipped from his hand and embedded itself in the ground a few centimeters from the Pole's head. He then noticed a second kick flying towards the enemy. This time, the Russian let out a dull grunt, and under the impact of the third blow, he collapsed to the ground. Following an order from one of the soldiers, the young man moved away from the writhing Belarusian. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out. Pistols and rifles struck with all their might on the fallen enemy, who, convulsing, died from his wounds.
When the process was over, everyone scattered to their positions. Only the mustachioed man remained, who grabbed the young man by the clothes and dragged him to the truck.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"No, I don't think so." He said in a trembling voice. "What's the situation?"
"Bad," the mustachioed man commented. "A few Russians are lying dead, but our side also has losses, but incomparably worse. I'm afraid we won't emerge unscathed!" At that moment, the sound of the helicopter's rotors grew louder; the mustachioed man practically shouted his last words. Suddenly, the two helicopters flew overhead, charging the defending soldiers
once again . Several Poles fell dead, while others, seriously wounded, fell to the ground, making pathetic sounds. "Fuck!" the mustachioed man screamed, then slammed his boot into the steel side of the truck. "What are we even carrying? Coal?" he added after a moment, his eyes sparkling with a light the Younger had never seen in him before. With those words, he lifted the tarpaulin and jumped into the truck. Disoriented, the Younger clung to the vehicle, not daring to move in the face of the growing danger. At that moment, he had one great dream: for someone to save him from the hell that had broken loose. After a few dozen seconds, various objects flew out of the truck, identifiable only upon closer inspection. First, a gray, unusual weapon landed on the ground. Then, Młody noticed another similar one, along with several Kalashnikov grenade launchers, which made quiet clicking sounds as they landed one on top of the other. The last one jumped out of the truck, mustachioed, with fists full of walnut-sized bullets and several magazines under his arms. He carefully placed the ammunition on the ground, trying not to drop any. As he stood up, he said disapprovingly, "Did you shoot something like this in training?" He pointed to the weapon in his hand. When Młody shook his head, his suspicions confirmed. "So listen. This is a GM... GN... grenade launcher. To hell with the name!" The important thing is that with this weapon you can blow such a large hole in a helicopter that it will be worthless except for scrap. Got it? So let's get started! Good luck!
The young man didn't even have time to ask how to load a shell, let alone talk about
shooting technique, but he didn't want to interrupt. For the moment, he merely watched intently what the mustachioed man was doing. Contrary to appearances, loading a grenade launcher wasn't difficult; it had to be broken, much like a shotgun, which he often shot at the shooting range. After loading a shell, he heard the loud roar of an engine. The helicopters launched another attack. A rocket fired by one of them easily hit one of the trucks, causing a powerful explosion. The young man fell face down, shielding his head with his arms.
The air was filled with the stench of burning sulfur, mixed with the disgusting smell of burning tarp. When the young man got up, he was surprised to see the mustachioed man clinging to the truck, his eyes wildly searching for the attacker. A hopeless situation, the young man thought. They both heard the sound of spinning propellers again, sending a surge of adrenaline through them.
"Aim higher!" the mustachioed
man shouted. Two missiles, fired almost simultaneously, streaked toward
the helicopters. Only a gray-transparent trail of smoke trailed behind them, indicating their flight path. One of the rounds flew just above the pilot's cabin and, surprisingly, also through the field of spinning propellers. The second missile struck the stabilizer, causing a massive explosion, shredding the metal. The helicopter's tail fell off and crashed to the ground, and after a few seconds, the machine itself, looping in the air, crashed into a cornfield, exploding like an ammunition dump.
"There you have it, you sons of bitches! Yeah!" the mustachioed man shouted. The young man also didn't hide his joy, but he was far from euphoric. Fragments of the helicopter were scattered across the battlefield. Here and there, fragments of metal lay scattered, and still others, entire propellers or doors torn off in the explosion.
A moment of silence followed. They did nothing at that moment, except
stare in a strange lethargy at the flame-enveloped wreckage of the helicopter, smiling. Hope awoke within them. Hope for survival, for getting out alive. Even though few of them remained alive, it was necessary to fight, if only to show the enemy that Poles do not give up their lives without a fight. Quite the opposite. They sell their skins dearly!
They both reached for more rounds and loaded their weapons. When the second helicopter arrived, they opened fire again. This time, none of the missiles even hit their intended target. Could this be a fleeting moment of luck? The helicopter pilot, probably enraged by the enemy's unexpected move, fired aimlessly at the entire Polish convoy. All the soldiers defending the other side of the barricade fell dead. The sound of the rifles falling to the ground seemed truly eerie in the silence that had just fallen. No more gunfire or screams could be heard; the only sound that reached their ears was the loud whistling of the helicopter suspended in midair.
Terror and fear filled their souls. A thought flashed through their minds, making them realize that their hope was absurd and completely unnecessary. They would die in this desolate place. But it was always worth hoping...
"Last chance!" Either we or…" The mustachioed man practically screamed in his ear. From the tone of his voice, the young man guessed he had some kind of plan. But did it make sense? No one else heard those screams. There was only one more attempt left.
The young man crouched and, in one swift movement, grabbed a projectile from the ground, loading it into
the grenade launcher's chamber. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mustachioed man do the same. He aimed at the helicopter hovering just above them, seemingly waiting for their move, just like in a game of chess, when one player had only a king, and the opponent had pieces that, regardless of the other player's move, would end the game on the next move.
He squeezed the trigger, but it didn't budge. He pressed it with all his might, but the weapon, as if possessing free will, disobeyed his commands. To his right, he saw moving shapes. One second was enough to guess that these weren't his allies, who had arrived with a vast army just in time to rescue them. Two Belarusians jumped over the Hummer, weapons at the ready, intending to search the convoy of Poles. When their eyes met the Young One's, everything happened as if in slow motion. Holding the grenade launcher against his left forearm, paralyzed with fear, he couldn't bring himself to move. He saw the rifle aimed directly at him, saw the smile of the Russian aiming at him.
An explosion of light. A white, undefined shape, like snow, suddenly appeared before his eyes. It brought only pain and suffering, but it brought him something more. It gave him life. At least for the few moments he still had left.
The faintest sounds reached their ears: the shrieks of Belarusians being torn to shreds. The grenade launcher's fire at such close range threw the Poles to the ground, shifted the already devastated car, and even created a mini-crater in the ground beneath the blast site. The young man saw the mustachioed man's drawn weapon. He met his piercing gaze. He had one chance left. Now everything depended on him.
He couldn't miss, he couldn't. This was his salvation, his life. A shot. The bullet cut through the air, racing toward its intended target. A trail of translucent smoke trailed behind it, forming an effective arc that vanished a moment later. The bullet flew right past the pilot's cockpit, missing by mere centimeters. The pilot, noticing the failed attempt to shoot him down, prepared to attack. He opened fire with his cannon, never releasing the trigger. With trembling hands, the mustachioed man grabbed one of the last grenade launcher rounds lying on the ground.
The bullets slammed into the ground, emitting sharp squeals and sending small fragments flying. The embarrassed private threw himself to the ground and crawled under the truck. In a desperate cry, something like an order escaped him, unbridled and ruthless: Get down!
He saw the earth shatter, heard the sound of bullets ricocheting steel, a cry of pain. He saw something that shocked him. A bullet embedded in his skull, streams of blood spreading across his face, those eyes that expressed pain, suffering, and helplessness. The mustachioed man collapsed beside him, staring him straight in the face, but said nothing. He was dead.
The young man groaned. Paralyzed with fear, he couldn't even move. He was alone. Now it would be his turn. If he was lucky, they would take him to a prisoner of war camp. And if not... He couldn't look at him any longer. The man's mouth, slightly open, wanted to say something, but the Young One wouldn't listen. He wanted to go home, to his girlfriend. The thought of her darkened his face. He wouldn't even know what had happened to him. He'd wait a while, and then he'd think I'd failed and find someone else. A completely different one... A small tear rolled down his cheek and fell to the dry earth, creating a dark spot.
Suddenly, something struck him. He jerked his head up, lightly tapped the chassis, and cursed. A steady sound pounded in his ears, so faint and distant that he couldn't identify it among all the others that were reaching him at that moment. Yet something told him it didn't fit the surroundings.
The private struggled to get out from under the truck. He looked around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary except the burning Hummers and the tops of helmets heading his way. He found an M16 rifle nearby. He clung to the truck and waited for a miracle.
Suddenly, the last of the helicopters circling the area flew directly in front of the grounded convoy. The young man took aim. He no longer cared what happened to him. At that moment, everything lost meaning. But before I die, he thought. Before I die, I'll put all their bullets between their eyes!
The pilot noticed a man standing by the car. He stood out from the other Belarusians because of his clothing and the colors of the flag on his jacket. He also took aim, waited a moment, and then pulled the trigger.
The sound that had been haunting him for several seconds grew incredibly louder. The force that instantly struck his temples forced him to brace himself to avoid falling. The hovering helicopter exploded with incredible force. A cloud of gray smoke froze in place. Burning pieces of the helicopter were scattered over an area of several dozen meters. Two fighter jets flew through the cloud at high speed. They effectively changed their flight path, turning back in the direction they had come from. The young man watched the entire event in disbelief. He couldn't comprehend what was happening around him. Had the long-awaited help arrived? Poles?
He thought nothing could surprise him anymore. He didn't know how wrong he was. Three attack helicopters hovered a dozen or so meters above the convoy. They were indistinguishable from the one he had watched explode moments earlier. However, something else caught his attention. The blue and yellow flag on their tails wasn't the symbol of Belarus. In that case...
Two helicopters, facing away from each other, opened fire on the cornfields. The loud noise of their engines, combined with the sounds of gunfire, turned into an unbearable din. As they changed their trajectory, more and more terrain was devastated by the destructive force. The pilots were by no means firing blindly. Perfectly trained on simulators, they annihilated successive clusters of Belarusian troops. A rope was dropped from the third helicopter, and in the blink of an eye, soldiers in black jumpsuits, rifles strapped around their necks, descended.
As they all landed on the ground, they were greeted by the rustle of an M16 being loaded. Młody met their surprised glances but didn't pull the trigger. One of them stepped forward and said something incomprehensible. Młody detected no hostility in his speech, but the language the soldier spoke was too similar to Belarusian to simply put down his weapon. The soldier, as if reading his mind, raised his rifle in a gesture of surrender. His comrades did the same. After a moment's hesitation, Młody lowered his weapon. The entire company took defensive positions, except for the one who had begun speaking to him earlier. He ran up to the Pole and tried to explain the situation. He spoke a language similar to Belarusian, but he did not look like a deserter soldier who wanted to join his enemy.
"Wait a minute!" the young man shouted, not understanding a word he was saying. He pointed. "Belarus? Belarus?!
"Belarus? No, no!"—Russians, the young man thought. The soldier pointed to a flag the size of two joined fingers sewn onto the shoulder of his overalls. "Ukrayina! Kiev. Ukraine!"
The young man couldn't believe what he was hearing. He felt an incredible sense of relief. He couldn't
say a word in Ukrainian, couldn't even say the thank you that was escaping his lips. He felt happy. More happy than ever before. He had saved a life. He would return home! At that thought, he beamed, a smile spreading across his face. The Ukrainian soldier led him to the rope and began to speak. The young man didn't understand a word, but he knew what he was supposed to do now. They were training him to be able to handle this job. The Ukrainian attached a rope to Młody's clothing, then whistled and waved to the helicopter pilot. Młody activated the winch, thanks to which Młody was aboard a moment later, shaking the hand of one of the men seated there.
"Thank you," he said to the soldier he had been speaking with as he boarded. The soldier nodded in approval.
The fight was over. After the rest of the unit was hoisted into the helicopter, the vehicles slowly left the area surrounding the embers that had become the Polish barricade. The area became a memorial, a symbol of struggle, sacrifice, and devotion. As Młody was later told, the Belarusian helicopters had been monitored by Ukrainian services from the moment they left their territory. The fighters sent to secure the area were among the latest Ukrainian technological advancements. The mere fact that the distance to be covered was short prevented them from using their full power to break the sound barrier.
As for Młody, upon returning to the Ukrainian base, he was transported to the nearest Polish Army unit. Shortly thereafter, he received the Cross of Valor from General Staniszewski himself for his bravery, sacrifice, and exemplary soldierly conduct in the face of threats to the country. He has been a pacifist ever since...
