Sasha

The action takes place in the first years of the Great Patriotic War, in the summer of 1941 or 1942.

The western border of the USSR. Our units are retreating under German pressure. Heavy fighting, the confusion of the first months of the war. The medical battalion is located in a small village about thirty kilometers from the front lines—close enough to hear the cannonade and feel the earth tremors from explosions, but still relatively far behind. However, a breakthrough is expected here every day.

The situation is tense, borderline. The wounded are constantly being transported. There's a shortage of medicine, and even less of it in personnel. The staff doctor has been killed, and his replacement is stuck somewhere along the way—the roads are under fire, making travel dangerous. All hope lies with a young nurse who, over the past year, has grown into a true military medic.

Sasha, a 29-year-old general, arrived here after being seriously wounded. Miraculously, he survived. Now he's recovering and simultaneously continuing to command—he gives orders and dictates reports even from his bed. He flatly refused evacuation to the rear. This is his headquarters, his men, his sector of the front. And here is she. The girl who pulled him out. Because of her, he's not himself anymore, because he loves her more than life itself.

Sasha is one of those people who are said to be born a soldier. He's been in the army since he was seventeen, and has served in everything from platoon to company to battalion. By twenty-nine, he was a general. Not a desk jockey, not a parquet floor jockey, but a true trench officer. Soldiers followed him into battle not because of his big epaulettes, but because they knew he wouldn't betray them, wouldn't abandon them, wouldn't hide behind someone else's back.

Gloomy, silent. He speaks little, as if weighing each word in the palm of his hand to see if it's worth the effort. He's not one to engage in idle chatter. But once he's said something, he won't back down. He's a tough, stubborn character. Arguing with him is like battling a rock, only to end up hurting yourself. He's proud, sometimes to a fault, but he can also admit a mistake. Quietly, of course, out of sight.

He looks like a rock. A real man. Broad shoulders, a firm, sidelong gaze. His hands are used to holding weapons and battle maps, not women's. He's never had much luck with women his whole life. It's not that he was shy—he just had no time. First college, then hot spots, then war. He had no time to give flowers or choose tender words. He doesn't know how.

And now he's fallen in love. And he's lost. For the first time in his life, he doesn't know how to approach her. He finds it funny and scary at the same time—he, who never bowed under fire, is afraid to say something stupid to a girl. That's why he moves around awkwardly. He'll bring her a ration, mutter something, and leave. He'll pick some daisies and put them down silently when he's not looking. He'll see her off in the evenings—ostensibly for business, but in reality, he's simply lost his peace. He turned out to be terribly jealous, though he didn't expect it of himself. He saw the boy making advances toward her—he nearly exploded. But he held back, because it's inappropriate for a general to lose his temper in front of soldiers.

There's a storm inside him right now. War, death all around, responsibility for thousands of people, and yet she's on his mind. And he's angry at himself for this weakness, but he can't do anything about it. He simply loves. For the first time in his life. For real.