Forest 3

The battle's fury gradually quieted in the biting cold of the second half of the night. The land in front of the Soviet base—once pure and white—was now soaked in a deep, disturbing red. The bodies of friend and foe were indistinguishable beneath the snow, strewn in tangled clusters of silence.

Inside the shattered defenses, the surviving soldiers huddled against bunker walls, rifles clutched to their chests, woolen coats pulled tight. No one dared sleep. The enemy always struck when exhaustion weighed heaviest.

Comrade Valentin had predicted the next attack would come at four in the morning. No one doubted him. He had never been wrong.

Of the original garrison—over one hundred—barely half remained. Ten soldiers lay motionless in the medical bunker, swathed in makeshift bandages, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. They were dying—slowly, inevitably.

There were no more doctors to help them. The last medic had been killed half an hour earlier.

Valentin walked among the wounded, each gaze upon him heavier than the last. One soldier, soaked in blood from chest to waist, reached out and seized the commissar's sleeve with trembling fingers.

"Political Commissar… will no one come for us? Has the Motherland forgotten we're here?"

Valentin knelt beside him and took his hand, voice soft with grief. "No, son. The Motherland has not forgotten. We just need to hold on until dawn. Reinforcements will come. We'll go home—together."

The boy exhaled shakily. "Good… I want to go home. I'm so tired… just want to sleep."

He coughed blood again. His eyes fluttered to a folded letter by his side. "Please… if I don't make it… give this to my mother…"

Valentin nodded and took the note, just as the soldier's final breath slipped from his lungs. His hand remained tightly clasped around a letter from his mother.

A cold gust lifted the corner of the suicide note. It contained only a single line:

"I hope you can live well, Mom. It is an honor for your son to die for the country."

Valentin covered the boy's face with a white cloth, then stepped out of the bunker. The winter air pierced his lungs like knives, the scent of blood and gunpowder fading into frozen wind.

"The Motherland will not forget us," he whispered. "The tanks will come. They must."

But in truth, all communications had been severed. The base was cut off. Headquarters didn't even know they were still alive. They were a forgotten outpost, an ember flickering alone in the storm, hoping—praying—for rescue.

"Political Commissar," a young soldier said as he entered the room, his arm bandaged and blood seeping through. "We need you at the front."

Valentin nodded, rose without a word, and picked up his rifle. The soldiers at the front line were waiting for him. To them, he was the last thread holding their spirits together.

He found Ivanov seated against the concrete wall, his face smeared with blood and soot, eyes empty. The harmonica still sat in his coat pocket.

"Sing for us again," Valentin said. "One more song. Their hearts are heavy. They need something to hold on to."

The soldiers looked up—silent, pleading. They knew this might be the last song they'd ever hear.

Ivanov nodded. He took out the harmonica and said, almost in a whisper, "This one is called Birch Forest. I learned it from a man who sang by the Moscow River... I only found out later it was Vice President Yanaev himself."

He put the instrument to his lips and played.

"White snow was falling on the quiet village,Pigeons flying beneath the gray sky,Two names carved on the birch tree,Vowing to love for life, never to part."

Around him, rifles were wiped clean. Letters were re-read. Photographs of families were pressed to hearts. Some soldiers fought tears. Others stared at the sky, unmoving.

Valentin lit a cigarette—his last one. He didn't want to waste it. He didn't want to believe this was the end.

"One day war came to our village,The young man picked up a rifle,Don't worry, my dear, wait for meIn the birch forest—we'll meet again."

Footsteps broke the silence. The snow crunched beneath hurried boots. A scout ran into the trench, breath ragged.

"Political Commissar—enemy movement. They're coming."

Valentin stood and pulled the bolt on his rifle. His voice was even.

"Boys—on your feet. This is the last wave. After this, we go home."

They didn't cheer. They didn't cry. But the silence between them grew stronger, heavier. They all understood.

"Home."

Such a simple word. Now it felt more distant than ever.

The snowfall thickened, as if nature sought to bury the horrors of the night. It drifted gently down, covering the torn bodies frozen in their final moments. Snowflakes settled on cold cheeks, in open eyes, over shattered helmets.

And then—silence broke.

The Chechens came again.

Valentin raised his rifle, turned to the men beside him, and shouted:

"Comrades! The Soviet Army never surrenders. Not while one of us still breathes!"

The young soldiers—bloodied, broken, but unbent—raised their guns once more.

The last battle had begun.