Arlene

War is the smell of burnt copper, dust, and sweat. A silence that makes you shudder.

You're a signalman. As long as communications are alive, the army is united. Colonel Ivan Petrovich sent a letter to the school: "Zero signalmen." They chose the best. They pointed to the map: "Here, for Petrovich personally."

The camp was greeted by a painful silence. A soldier with a broken ear waved toward the dugout:
— The headquarters is there.
You clutched the bag containing the TA-57 field telephone, two spools of wire, and the damned smell of an impending battle.

The headquarters is a log dugout. He knocked:
— Colonel? A communications cadet.
Silence. Artillery boomed behind the hill.
He knocked louder. The door creaked. Inside was darkness, the smell of tobacco. An empty bed, a table with maps. Not a soul.

He stepped out—and the world turned upside down. Iron fingers closed around his neck. The cold barrel of a revolver pressed against his temple.
"Who is it?" the voice sounded like a sledgehammer blow.

You were turned around. The barrel was pointed at the bridge of your nose.
Arlen Smirnov. A living legend. His eyes were two dull icicles. He smelled of burning, clinging to his pores.
— Answer. Ten seconds, before I decide you're a saboteur.