You Lose More

"It was a cold winter in 1942," Comrade Vladimir murmured, his gaze fixed on the river where ice was slowly melting under the first warm rays of spring.

"Our company was ordered to cross this river and launch a surprise attack on the German supply troops on the other side. Their fuel depot — all the gasoline they had for the front lines. We took the order without question and approached under cover of artillery and darkness."

He paused, eyes distant but sharp, as if reliving the battle.

"But it was a trap. Just as half our men reached the shore, the enemy opened fire with machine guns. I watched comrades fall beside me. The political commissar's palm was shattered by a bullet, but he kept moving forward. We crawled closer, trying to reach their camp."

Vladimir's voice lowered, heavy with memory.

"Then those bastards set the fuel ablaze. Flames rolled down the slope like rivers of fire, swallowing our friends whole. There was a wall of fire between us and the enemy's guns. We were trapped. We had no way through."

He sighed deeply.

"In that moment, the commissar ran straight into the inferno, shouting, 'Forward, comrades!' His courage kept us moving, but… it cost him his life."

Natasha glanced at Vladimir, her eyes softening.

"Old man," she said gently, "I know how painful it is to remember. But you've told me this story a thousand times. The past won't change, but you're still here. That's what matters."

Vladimir nodded slowly, the quiet acceptance settling in.

"Yes, my dear. Being alive… is better than anything else."

Natasha pushed his wheelchair along the riverbank, the warm breeze carrying the scent of spring blossoms. Vladimir closed his eyes, letting the wind wash over his face.

He wasn't trapped in the past—not exactly. He was a living monument to those who had fallen, the last voice of a company that no longer existed. If he didn't speak, their sacrifices would fade into silence, forgotten beneath cold stones and fading names.

But as long as he could tell their story, they would live on.

"With the political commissar leading the way, followed by the second, third, and fourth squads, no one chose to retreat—even as they ran at the front and were engulfed in flames. The commissar, like a moving fireball, charged toward the enemy without hesitation. Some comrades were burned beyond recognition, but they still fired at the enemy. Haha, Natasha, have you seen such a sight? Countless comrades, engulfed in flames, shouting 'Ura!' as they pressed forward. That scene is forever etched in my mind, especially as I was running at the rear."

"At that time, the German army was already stretched thin due to the harsh winter, and there were very few troops guarding the supplies. After suffering heavy casualties—losing about a third of our company—we managed to capture their logistics camp. It was on that day our company earned a new title: the Red Army Hell Company. The prisoners said it felt like facing countless demons crawling out of hell, ready to tear them apart."

Natasha shuddered at the thought of soldiers ablaze, and she could only imagine the fear in the eyes of the German troops who witnessed that inferno.

"That night," Vladimir continued, his voice quieter now, "a mortar blast took off my legs. I was sent to a rear hospital. Later, the company was surrounded in battle, reinforcements arrived too late, and almost everyone was killed. Only a handful survived."

Tears welled in Vladimir's eyes. Natasha gently took out a handkerchief and wiped them away. For once, she stopped her usual nagging, softly wrapping her arm around his.

"Old man," she whispered, "don't dwell on the past anymore. You have me—and that's enough."

Vladimir said nothing, but silently recited names he still remembered.

"Private Kadyrov, died last March…"

"Corporal Rebalco, died last June…"

"Corporal Romanovsky, died this January…"

"Sergeant Vladimir—the last survivor of the entire company."

Later, a man named Dmitri arrived in the quiet town—a fellow Soviet veteran. Wearing an eye patch, Dmitri greeted Vladimir warmly.

"Private First Class Dmitri," he said with a smile, "I hear you fought in the Great Patriotic War. May I ask your name?"

"Sergeant Vladimir," came the reply. "She's my wife, Natasha."

"Hello, ma'am," Dmitri said, nodding respectfully.

"This town rarely sees outsiders, especially veterans like us," Vladimir said excitedly. "I can feel it—you have that unique spirit of those who crawled back from the dead."

"Is that a compliment, Comrade Vladimir?" Dmitri replied politely. Despite the stories, the man before him seemed gentle, far from the hardened soldier image.

"Of course, hahaha," Vladimir chuckled, grasping Dmitri's hand. "If you're free today, come to my home for a glass of vodka. I haven't shared war stories with anyone in a long time—my wife never wants to hear my nagging."

"Gladly," Dmitri said. "We've all lost the things we loved most in that war, haven't we?"

Dmitri removed his eye patch, revealing a blind left eye.

"This was lost to a stray bullet," he explained.

At Vladimir's modest home, the two veterans sat at the table. Natasha brought a bottle of wine and two small glasses, cautioning Vladimir to drink lightly.

"Comrade Dmitri," Vladimir began, "did you lose your eye at the Battle of Stalingrad? For true Red Army soldiers, scars are the badge of honor."

"No," Dmitri replied, "not at Stalingrad. Actually, our troops were defeated there. I was hiding in a fountain pool when German armored patrols fired upon the bodies in the water. Luckily, I survived."

He paused, downing a glass of vodka, still haunted by the memory.

"Then I met an old soldier in that pool—a real hero, calm and composed. We knocked out three enemy soldiers with a Mosin-Nagant rifle and escaped. He said he planned to assassinate an officer named Amsel. We parted ways there."

"Didn't the patrol notice?" Vladimir asked.

"The gunfire was masked by artillery noise. By the time they noticed, we had fled," Dmitri said. "Later, during a counterattack, I was hit by a stray bullet, lost my eye, and was reassigned to logistics. The old soldier kept fighting, marching all the way to Berlin. I heard he participated in the capture of the Reichstag and witnessed the soldiers planting the red flag on its roof."

Dmitri tapped his glass gently, voice lowering with reverence.

"He said his name was Reznov. I don't know if that was real. After the war, I never heard from him again. Today, I'd like to raise a glass for Reznov."

"This is a real man," Vladimir raised his glass with a sincere smile. "If I ever met him, I'd be proud to call him my friend. A toast—to Comrade Reznov."

Dmitri lifted his glass and drank deeply, a warm flush spreading across his cheeks. He propped his head on one hand, his voice slow and reflective. "Haha, it's a shame all these memories have long been thrown into the dustbin of history. The senior commanders who led us then are all resting in the New Saint Cemetery now. Except for us old timers, living only through memories, who else remembers how fiercely we fought to defend our motherland?"

His tone turned somber. "We're all old now. One day, we'll all pass on, leaving behind that long-past Patriotic War."

At that moment, a knock came at the door. Natasha called out, "Who is it?"

A voice answered from outside, "I'm from the army. Please open the door—Comrade Vladimir is here."

Natasha hurried to open the door. Dmitri and Vladimir watched curiously as a tall officer stood there, a black car parked behind him. The officer nodded politely to Natasha.

"Hello. I'm here to see Comrade Vladimir, sergeant of the 3rd Company of the Red Army."

"I am," Vladimir replied, wheeling himself forward.

"Comrade," the officer said, his gaze flickering to Vladimir's empty trouser legs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Vladimir. "Next month, Moscow will hold a military parade to celebrate the victory in the Great Patriotic War. Some World War II veterans have been invited to attend. Comrade Vladimir, this is your official invitation. We'll arrange transport to pick you up one week before the parade."

Vladimir's eyes lit up with excitement. "You mean I get to go to Moscow's Red Square and watch the military parade? Natasha, come quickly—make a cup for this comrade!"

"Yes, Comrade Vladimir, please be sure to attend," the officer said with a slight smile. "I have official duties to attend to and cannot accompany you."

He then glanced at Dmitri, seated at the table with his lost eye, and at Vladimir's joyous face. Standing upright, the officer gave them a crisp salute—a gesture of deep respect for these veterans.

"To my two seniors," he said earnestly, "though the war took your most precious things, please believe this: our strong motherland will never let you lose more."