After destroying the tank, Umar calmed down and checked his body. This body was physically fit, and through rebirth, he also felt some unfamiliar changes. He felt as though, in his previous life, he could fight 20 people single-handedly, but now he could fight against 100 easily. He got excited but immediately calmed himself and checked his memories. This young man was Muhammad Umar, now 18 years old and a second lieutenant. He had offended the son of a higher-ranking officer and was then transferred to Afghanistan.
Umar looked around and there were scattered lifeless bodies, some gruesomely mangled under the weight of the tank. The men, clad in robes with thick beards, could only be identified as Afghan guerrillas.
The destroyed tank before him unmistakably belonged to a specific era, The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in the 1980s.
"Instructor, I thought you were gone for good when that tank rolled over you! By some miracle, you're still here. Praise be to God! Finally, we managed to destroy that cursed Soviet tank." As Umar stood motionless, his mind reeling from the chaos around him, a man emerged cautiously from behind a crumbled section of the earthen wall and called out to him.
The man had tired, sunken eyes and a prominent nose. His dark skin was rough and weathered, and his scruffy beard almost hid his mouth. He wore a white robe, now dirty and torn, marking him as a native Afghan. Abdul Raziq knelt behind the shattered remains of a stone wall, his breathing uneven and shallow. Dust coated his face, and his hands shook as he clutched the broken edge of the wall to steady himself. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. Umar, their instructor, alone destroyed the tank and stood before him, battered but alive, like a man who had somehow cheated death.
Seeing Umar laying down under the tank, For a moment, Raziq was frozen. His legs felt heavy, his heart pounding violently in his chest. He had seen it—or thought he had. The Soviet tank had charged straight at Umar, its massive treads crushing everything in its path. The sound still haunted him, a sickening crunch of metal and bone. He was certain, absolutely certain, that Umar was gone.
"Instructor, are you hurt? Did you hit your head?" The words tumbled out of his mouth, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Raziq's mind raced as he stared at Umar. His clothes were torn, his arm bleeding, but he was alive. Alive. How? Raziq's thoughts flashed back to the chaos of just moments ago.
For two years, they had been fighting a war they seemed destined to lose. The Soviets had taken everything cities, villages, families. Afghanistan was being torn apart under their relentless grip, and the guerrillas were all that stood between the invaders and total domination. But the odds were impossible. The Soviets had tanks, planes, and endless resources. The guerrillas had little more than Kalashnikovs, a few rocket launchers, and the unyielding determination of men who refused to give up.
This instructor brought them hope. He had come from across the border in Pakistan, bringing weapons and training to the resistance. A man who carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew how to survive even in the face of death.
But not even Umar could have stopped what happened today.
Raziq's throat tightened as he recalled the ambush. They had been training in the mountains when the Soviets found them. The tank had appeared first, roaring through the narrow paths like a predator. Umar had ordered them to scatter and prepare for an ambush. The plan had made sense at the time, the tank had outpaced its infantry support, leaving it vulnerable.
The first rocket missed its mark, and everything spiraled out of control. The tank crew spotted them. Machine gun fire ripped through their position, and panic spread like wildfire. Raziq remembered the shouts, the screams, the way men ran blindly only to be gunned down.
He had wanted to run too, but he stayed, following Umar's orders, even as the tank charged forward. He had seen it, Umar standing his ground, shouting for them to hold their positions. And then… the tank had rushed straight at him.
Raziq had turned away at the last second, unable to watch. He had assumed the worst, his heart sinking like a stone. The rest was a blur, the tank firing its cannon, the guerrillas falling one by one, and then silence.
Now, against all odds, Umar stood before him.
"You" Raziq started, but his voice broke. He swallowed hard and tried again. "I thought you were gone. I thought that…" He couldn't finish, the memory of the tank rolling over their comrades too vivid, too painful.
Umar didn't respond right away. His face was grim, his eyes scanning the devastation around them. Raziq followed his gaze, his stomach churning at the sight of the lifeless bodies scattered across the ground. They had fought for their homeland, and this was the price they had paid.
"The Soviets have taken everything," Raziq muttered, more to himself than to Umar. "Our cities, our homes, our brothers…"
"But not our will," Umar cut in, his voice firm despite the weariness in his eyes. He turned to Raziq, his expression unyielding. "As long as we're alive, we fight. Do you understand?"
Raziq nodded slowly, the weight of Umar's words settling in his chest. He clenched his fists, the trembling replaced by a spark of determination. The Soviets might have tanks and planes, but they didn't have this, a fire that couldn't be quenched, a refusal to surrender.
Raziq straightened, his gaze hardening. The fight wasn't over. Not yet.
Umar is in the mountains north of Jalalabad, in northeastern Afghanistan near the Pakistan border, in 1981. In addition to embracing his identity as Umar, he had to endure countless trials of blood and war. Despite his overwhelming despair, he quickly came to terms with this reality. He is the Pakistani instructor, Umar, and he is determined to lead Afghanistan toward a brighter future.
"Clear the battlefield, gather the weapons, and follow me," Umar commanded firmly.
Raziq blinked, still in a daze. Follow you? Where? he thought. The world around him seemed to blur as his mind struggled to process the chaotic scene.
Umar, however, had already dropped to his knees, swiftly gathering the weapons of the fallen fighters. The bodies were mangled, twisted beyond recognition, and the once-pristine rifles were now twisted lumps of metal.
With practiced precision, Umar searched through the carnage. His hands, stained with the blood of his comrades, quickly pulled out four usable magazines, stuffing them into his bag without a second thought. Then, his eyes gleamed when he found four intact rockets amidst the destruction.
Raziq remained frozen, his heart heavy with grief and confusion. His body refused to move, but his mind was a storm of questions and disbelief.
"Let's go," Umar's voice cut through the haze, his tone calm, almost detached, as he turned to walk.
Raziq, still reeling from the aftermath, stumbled to follow, but the weight of the moment hung heavily on him. "Instructor, where are we going?" he asked, his voice uncertain.
Umar didn't look back, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. "We're going to cause some trouble for the Soviets," he said, a fierce determination in his voice.
Raziq's heart skipped a beat. The tank that had been chasing them mercilessly had been left behind, separated from the infantry.
But... two men against six tanks? It seemed like madness. They had already lost so many—how could they survive another encounter with that kind of force?
"Are you afraid?" Umar's voice broke through Raziq's spiraling thoughts. He turned, his sharp eyes locking onto Raziq's.
Raziq's breath caught in his throat. Afraid? He clenched his fists, the memory of his family's death at the hands of the Soviets flooding his mind. "I'm not afraid! If I was, I wouldn't have joined the fight in the first place," he snapped.
Umar studied him for a moment, then nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. Raziq had fire in him. And fire was what they needed now.
With a deep breath, Raziq adjusted his rifle, slung his rocket launcher over his back, and followed Umar, stepping out into the mountain's shadows.
Umar moved swiftly, his pace deliberate. The rugged landscape was his domain; he knew how to navigate it, how to fight in it. He had trained for this. The Soviets may have been an unstoppable force in open fields, but the mountains, In these mountains, were another matter entirely.
The tanks they faced were ill-equipped for this terrain. The T-62s were designed for the flat plains of Europe, not the narrow, jagged paths of Afghanistan. No infantry support, no solid ground. A tank, without protection, was just a hulking target.
Umar's mind sharpened, like a blade being honed. He knew the risks. Ambushing the Soviets could mean death, but it could also give them a chance to strike a blow. A small victory, but one that would send a message.
They pressed on, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound, until Umar finally heard it, a low, rumbling engine sound.
"Soviets!" Raziq hissed, spotting the silhouette of tanks in the distance.
The unmistakable sound of Soviet tanks echoed through the mountains. Umar and Raziq scrambled to hide behind a large boulder, watching the six tanks roll forward. The very same tanks that had relentlessly hunted them down.
Six tanks and two men. Raziq's stomach sank. The tanks were a steel wall, and he was not sure they had enough firepower to bring it down.
Umar, however, watched intently, his eyes calculating. It wasn't the right moment. Charging in now would be a death sentence. He could take down one tank, maybe two, but the others would retaliate. It was a gamble with no favorable odds.
They watched the tanks move past, the black smoke trailing from their engines as they disappeared into the horizon. The weight of their escape settled over them. They had survived, but the enemy was still out there.
As the rumble of the tanks faded, Umar's mind raced. A new thought, a new strategy.
"Raziq," he said suddenly, "there's a valley up ahead, isn't there? A place we could use?"
Raziq blinked, momentarily confused. "Yes... It's about 10 kilometers to the north."
Umar's eyes lit up with a new resolve. "Good. We'll take the back route, get ahead of them, and set up before the Soviets realize what's happening."
Raziq nodded, a spark of hope returning. It's not over yet.