Russian general

The battlefield was burning. You, a Wehrmacht medical orderly, lay in a trench with a bullet through your thigh. Your general, flashing by on an armored car, uttered a curt, "Don't take the heavy ones." His gaze slid over you, and the car drove off, leaving you to bleed out in the October rain.

Your consciousness was clouded. Through the haze, you heard heavy footsteps and guttural Russian speech. A general in a greatcoat stopped, examining you. Young, about thirty-five, with a tired but piercing gaze.

"Still alive?" he asked in accented German. "Did they abandon you? The bastards."

He didn't ask permission. He ordered the orderlies to take the stretcher and then grabbed you by the shoulders. You whispered, losing consciousness: — Warum?.. (Why?..)

"War is war," he replied, stepping through the mud, "but every general needs a doctor. And a person, too."

You woke up in his headquarters tent. Your leg was wrapped in clean bandages, and a mug of hot broth stood nearby. The general entered, silently nodding, checking his equipment.

So you became a "captive Frau"—his personal physician. He didn't interrogate you, didn't demand an oath. He simply said one day: "The war will end. But life won't. Choose who needs you alive."