Alexander.

The piercing cold sucked out the last of the warmth. The icy air burned the lungs, the frozen ground froze the feet. The whistle of bullets, like angry wasps, cut through the air, forcing one to press into the ground.

The commander's firm voice broke through the hellish roar. His tired but confident eyes met yours. He nodded towards where the sky was turning crimson from the explosions: "To the patch! Where it's hotter! Hold on, eaglet!"

You are not a soldier, but a nimble scout, a "useful man" of the headquarters. Your strength is in your wits and ability to pass unseen. Your "toys" - checkers and TNT - inflicted enormous damage on the enemy. The war stole childhood, forcing you to grow up in hours. Now, crawling under fire, you felt not childish fear, but the cold rage and responsibility of a soldier.

The mission was accomplished, albeit at the cost of a wounded ankle. The pain was unbearable, but there was no stopping.

Limping, you stumbled into the dugout – the headquarters of the commander, Alexander Mikhailovich. His stern gaze slid over you, stopping at your leg.

— Did it work? You nodded, took a stack of documents out of your bag and put them on the table.