There’s somebody else down here

“Come on!” Sokolov urges us. “We need to get him out of here, fast!”

“We’re trying, tovarisch. We’re growing weak and tired.”

“Alright, we can switch.” Sokolov offers. “You, girl, what was your name again?”

“Tatyana.”

“Come help me carry him.”

Sokolov switches with one of the soldiers, and I approach from the other side. The wounded man keeps his weight on his good leg. He cries softly in pain as he adjusts himself to my shoulder. I try to support him as best as I can but he’s a lot taller than me and he’s so, so heavy. He looks as pale as a ghost, hobbling along with us, his bad leg dragging limp across the ground. His whimpering is constant.

“Tell him to shut the fuck up before somebody hears us.” One of the soldiers complains from ahead.

“No, YOU shut the fuck up.” Sokolov grills him. “If YOU were wounded, it would be no different.”

“Comrades.” The wounded soldier cries out. “I can’t go on, I need to rest.”

“Just a little further? Can you do that for us?” Sokolov asks.

A little further is all we get before his good leg grows too tired to support his weight. It’s grueling, carrying him across our backs, his feet dragging behind us. His moaning and crying is endless. I struggle under his weight, already carrying two long guns, one on my back and the other in my left hand.

His weight is too much to bear, and he collapses over top of me. Sokolov tries to pull him off, but he screams when his leg twists.

“Comrades, help me!” He cries from his back. “Bozhe moy, I’m dying!”

“On your feet, soldier!” Sokolov encourages him. “You’re not going to die!”

“I’m going to die, Blyat!” He whimpers. “I’m going to die in the sewer!”

“Please devushka, please help me!” He grabs my shirt. “Please don’t leave me down here, please!”

“We’re not going to leave you.” I assure him. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

I’ve seen plenty of **** in this god-forsaken city. This man is on the doorstep. He has only a few minutes left. His skin is as white as snow, his pant leg is completely drenched with blood. Sokolov gives me a grim look.

“The bandages must have torn open when we were moving him.” I whisper in his ear. “They weren’t enough to stop the bleeding in the first place.”

“What are you saying?” He asks in terror.

“We’re trying to help you.” Sokolov says, his fingers slowly opening the place in his pant leg that we sliced open to have access to the wound. “Chyort.” He freezes when he sees how bad it looks.

“Chyort? I thought you said I was going to be okay!”

“You will be if you get up.” Sokolov tells him.

“I can’t!”

“Up!”

“It hurts!”

He clings to my arm.

“Devushka, please.” He begs. “Stay with me!”

I take pity on him and hold his hand.

“You…. You remind me of my wife.” He cries.

“Tell me about her.”

He chokes, his strength beginning to fade.

“She’s beautiful…. Before I left…. She told me…..”

“What did she tell you?”

“She’s….. pregnant.”

“No…..”

“Please, girl, pray for her.” He begs me. “Can you do this for me?”

“I will.” I tell him holding his hand. “I promise.”

“I just sent her a letter. I was waiting to hear back.” He sobs. “I feel weak. I have one more thing to ask.”

“What is it, friend?” I ask him.

“Please don’t leave me down here! I don’t want the rats to eat me!”

“Don’t worry, we can get you out.”

Sokolov gives me a look which says we’re abandoning his body. I meet his eyes with a solemn nod.

“Thank you.” He says to me. He whimpers again in pain.

“It’s okay, comrade.” I whisper to him, holding his hand. “What is your wife’s name?”

“Her name is Natasha.”

I grip his hand tighter and close my eyes. “Father,” I whisper. I’m not the best Christian in the world, but this man has asked something of me. “Please look after Natasha, and her baby. Father I pray, take care of and provide for them. Father please I pray, comfort them in this time. Please take this man’s soul and give him rest, for he deserves it. Father I pray in Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Amen.” A few of the others whisper, gathered around.

“Thank you.” The dying soldier cries weakly. He moans in pain one more time, writhes about, then lays his head down as his suffering ends. His grip weakens in my hand. I let go and stand up.

“That’s all we can do for him.” Somebody says. “Let’s move on so we don’t join him.”

“Good idea.” I mutter, picking up the PPSh.

We carry on for a time.

“Snuff that light.” Somebody whispers harshly.

The one carrying the lantern shuts it off, leaving us in total darkness.

“Slow, easy.” The whisper comes softly. “There’s somebody down here.”

I gulp. The Germans. There’s only four of us! We’ll never survive another firefight down here. Bound by duty, and with nowhere else to go, I fearfully move along, staying close to the wall.

I hear a footstep, and jerk my weapon up.

“NEMPTSIY!” An unfamiliar voice screams from in front of us. Before I have time to react, a PPSh rips a burst of fire towards us, the whole tunnel lighting up with the muzzle flashes. I see our point man whipping around with the impacts to his torso on his way to the ground.

“CEASE FIRE YOU IDIOT!” Somebody screams. “FRIENDLY!” A light turns on. We stand face to face with another group of Russians.

The one up front with the PPSh stands there, jaw agape. “Bozhe moy…. Tovarisch!” He drops his weapon and rushes to the man on the ground. “No….. no!”

He tries to help him with shaking hands, but it’s no use, he’s already dead. “No!” He cries out. “I killed my own comrade!” He sobs over his chest. “Brother forgive me! God have mercy!”

Everybody else stands awkwardly watching, pissed off looks on their faces.

“He was my best friend.” The third man in our group says. The one who shot him looks up, tears in his eyes. He’s so young.

“Thanks, asshole.”

“It was an accident! I couldn’t see!”

“He can’t see anymore either.”

“It’s not my fault!”

“You pulled the trigger.”

“I didn’t expect anybody but the enemy to come from that way!”

“Does he look like your enemy?”

“That’s enough.” Sokolov interjects, holding him back. “He already feels bad enough.”

“No, he doesn’t. Let me beat his ass.”

“Enough! It’s too late now, it can’t be undone.”

The kid sits over the body, lip quivering, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’ll never forgive myself.” He mutters.

“You don’t deserve to.”

“Enough!” Sokolov pulls him away.

“Who’s in charge here?” I ask one of the other soldiers. Somebody steps forwards, looks like a sergeant.

“Where are we?” I ask him. “What are you doing here?”

“We are the front-most guard in this area of the sewer. We were put down here to stop the Germans from using the sewers to flank us. What about you?”

“We were all stuck behind enemy lines. We wanted to get back so we could regroup and rejoin the defense. Are we in Soviet territory?”

“Yes.” He tells me. “At least underground.”

“What do you mean?”

“We hold the sewers up to here.”

“What about above ground?”

“There’s no way for us to know. I think it’s safe above us though, but I’m not sure.”

“Do you know a way out of here?”

“A few hundred meters behind us, there’s a ladder.”

“Thank you, tovarisch.”

“Hey, good luck.” He tells me. “And sorry about the friendly fire incident.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen something like that happen.” I tell him. “I understand it was an accident.”

“Well, if you’re ready to get out of this sewer, we’ll watch your back.”