Chapter Eight
Sobak looked around, bewildered and frustrated. He called for Boris, and I joined him. We saluted, and after taking in our miserable appearance, he asked,
"Boris, tell me what happened."
"Sir, it was an ambush... They blocked the road with livestock to slow us down, then attacked."
Sobak glanced at him, with Sergeant Major Makar Medon by his side, and asked,
"Are the two of you the only survivors?"
"Yes, sir. Just Adam, me, and an injured soldier over there."
Makar then asked,
"Did you kill any of them?"
Boris, still dazed, replied,
"Yes, sir... Six of them, the rest fled."
Sobak turned to me and asked,
"Did you kill anyone?"
Startled, I straightened up and said,
"Yes, sir."
He then looked at the sniper rifle in my hands and asked,
"Is this your rifle?"
"No, sir. I used it after its owner was killed."
"Hmm, seems like Mirdenk is dead too. So, where's your rifle?"
"It's... over there, sir." I pointed toward the car I had taken cover behind.
He followed my gesture with a look of disdain and said,
"You dropped your rifle?"
I lowered my gaze, nodding slightly in shame.
Sobak took a deep breath, lifted his head, and said,
"Alright, you can rest. You'll accompany Bogdan with the military medics and head back to camp."
We saluted again with what little focus we had left. I retrieved my weapon, and we climbed into a white jeep designated for transporting the injured, heading back to camp with the two wounded soldiers. I sat beside Boris in the seat next to the driver. Despite the cramped space, we didn't complain.
The bumps on the road jolted our heads, and we remained silent, staring at the road ahead or lowering our heads from time to time. The driver, who seemed to be hugging the steering wheel, glanced at us and said,
"May God help you... But this is war; it's not a fixed algorithm."
Boris looked at him indifferently and replied,
"Just drive and shut up."
The skinny driver turned away, stifling his frustration.
That day, we lost 16 volunteers in an ambush by the rebels. Later, we found one more injured volunteer under one of the vehicles. On the other hand, we killed six attackers, while the rest fled. The total number of attackers remained unknown.
What happened today proved to us, the Vengeance Battalion, that these attacks, along with the previous ones, were only the beginning. When we arrived at the camp, there were about 30 soldiers waiting anxiously. Boris and I got out while the medics took care of the wounded. Some of the men looked at us, asking what had happened and whether there were any more survivors. For a brief moment, we felt like celebrities at some gathering as they crowded around us. But Boris and I remained silent, not answering anyone. I'm not sure why, but it felt shameful to be among the few survivors.
I took off the primitive vest that resembled a jacket in how it was worn, then my uniform. I threw myself onto my bed, covering my eyes with my hand, ignoring the pain in my hand. Maybe Boris did the same; I don't know. My eyes were burning from the dust, and my entire body ached, my muscles sore and my joints stinging, but the eyes of the group were still fixed on us, curious. Among them was Nikolai. The crowd eventually dispersed when Makar and the 20 men with him returned.
The total number of the Second Vengeance Battalion was about 70 men, but now they were down to around 50. Rumors began circulating that our battalion might meet the same fate as the First Vengeance Battalion, which was said to have perished in the southern desert of Gygana under mysterious circumstances. In fact, such rumors were spreading for no apparent reason, as if the ongoing war and ambushes weren't troubling enough for them.
Evening fell, and I still couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, those events played before me, alongside a flood of regret for everything I had done in my life, mixed with anxiety about what might happen next.
Later, I recounted what had happened to Nikolai, who listened silently while sitting on the bed opposite mine. He told me that Makar wanted to meet with the leader of Kraden village, where we had been headed. He said he had heard rumors about the village before the ambush. The village leader was known to be opposed to outside forces, so it was said that Makar wanted to discuss those movements with him and find out whether he had any knowledge about them. Makar had informants in that village responsible for monitoring the rebels' movements, including the village leader.
I threw up from the nausea and overthinking later in the bathroom. I was sitting under the shower in a room divided by wooden partitions to create a bathing area for the soldiers. My hair had grown longer than appropriate, though I usually cut it to keep it at a practical length.
Still, I didn't care about my hair. When I later left the bathroom, I found myself absentmindedly watching the drops of water falling from my hair and nose onto the dry dirt between my feet. It reminded me of the images of bombs being dropped on cities that I used to see in the news when I was a child.
Dinner was bland goat cheese, except for its acidity, and hard bread. I stared at my wounded hand, which had been bandaged by one of the medics after our return. I was still dazed, waiting for night to fall so I could escape the harsh reality through sleep, but my thoughts quickly seeped into my aching eyes, robbing me of any solace sleep could offer.
That night, I sat on the steps of the barracks, gazing at the stars visible in the clear sky of this barren land. The watchtowers surrounding the camp had their bright lights on, scanning the outside of the small camp. Shadows moved across the camp, and one of them approached me—it was a guard. The soldiers weren't allowed to go outside at night unless for emergencies or guard duty. The guard stood nearby, shining his flashlight at me, and asked,
"Why aren't you in your barracks?"
I responded, shielding my eyes from the blinding light with my hand. My head was already throbbing with too many thoughts.
"I can't sleep... Don't worry, I'll go back soon."
He lowered his flashlight and said,
"Alright... But wait, aren't you the guy who survived the ambush with Boris?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Well, to be honest, it's a bit hard to believe... Even fighters like Razil and the sniper Mirdenk didn't survive ambushes like that. You're a lucky guy."
It seemed that Razil and Mirdenk were well-known in the battalion, as even Makar had known them and had been angry at their loss. I didn't respond, but the guard added,
"Anyway... we never know when we might die, so there's no need to rush."
He laughed and walked away, reminding me to head back.
Lucky, huh? How could I call this luck? When you survive among a group of fools only to become the surviving fool yourself, what's the point? Is it because you avoid becoming a dead fool? We live by miracle, only to die another day? Isn't that like dying over and over again? And the dumbest part is that some people see this luck and survival as heroism... Really?
If we don't know when we might die, then when will we live?