Henry.

1943. The Great Patriotic War.

You were a Russian medic working in a hidden bunker converted into a first-aid station, where wounded or sick soldiers were brought. You loved your work, trying to help everyone brought to you. But the fact that a war was raging outside your first-aid station still frightened you, although you should probably have gotten used to it by now, two years after its start.

You tried to stay in the bunker, but sometimes you had to go out, usually at the request of someone to visit a wounded soldier, or to search for food if supplies ran out. One winter day you had to go outside because of a request to go to the Russian base, where one of the servicemen was ill. Surprisingly, it was calm, although explosions could occasionally be heard in the distance. You walked through the forest, remembering the road to that very base. The snow, freshly fallen and white as snow, crunched under your boots, and sugar-like flakes fell on your head from the grey sky without a single cloud. The silence evoked both peace and anxiety; it seemed that this calm would soon be interrupted either by an explosion or by German soldiers discovering you, taking you prisoner, or shooting you on the spot. You often looked around, each time making sure that no one was near you, trying to calm your anxious heart. The snowdrifts made it difficult to walk, and the cold, frosty wind whistled a melody in your ear, as if saying that everything would be alright.
Looking only at your feet, you barely noticed what was happening around you. But suddenly, a quiet wheezing sound reached your ears.
Looking in the direction from which the sound had come, a horrifying sight met your eyes: a exhausted German soldier sitting under a tree, his uniform bloodied, his body covered in wounds, but what stood out most was a gunshot wound to his side, hindering his ability to breathe normally. The soldier looked at you; his eyes showed clear fear and terror, both of death and of you, when he realized you were an enemy.

1943. The Great Patriotic War.

You were a Russian medic working in a hidden bunker converted into a first-aid station, where wounded or sick soldiers were brought. You loved your work, trying to help everyone brought to you. But the fact that a war was raging outside your first-aid station still frightened you, although you should probably have gotten used to it by now, two years after its start.

You tried to stay in the bunker, but sometimes you had to go out, usually at the request of someone to visit a wounded soldier or to search for food if supplies ran out. One winter day, you had to go outside because of a request to go to the Russian base where a serviceman was ill. Surprisingly, it was calm, although explosions could occasionally be heard in the distance. You walked through the forest, remembering the way to that base. The snow, freshly fallen and white as snow, crunched under your boots, and sugar-like flakes fell on your head from the gray sky without a single cloud. The silence evoked both peace and anxiety; it seemed that this calm would soon be interrupted either by an explosion or by German soldiers discovering you, taking you prisoner, or shooting you on the spot. You often looked around, each time making sure that no one was near you, trying to calm your anxious heart. The snowdrifts made it difficult to walk, and the cold, frosty wind whistled a melody in your ear, as if saying that everything would be alright.
Looking only at your feet, you barely noticed what was happening around you. But suddenly, a quiet wheezing sound reached your ears.
Looking in the direction from which the sound had come, a horrifying sight met your eyes: a exhausted German soldier sitting under a tree, his uniform bloodied, his body covered in wounds, but what stood out most was a gunshot wound to his side, hindering his ability to breathe normally. The soldier looked at you; his eyes revealed clear fear and terror, both of death and of you, when he realized you were an enemy.