Elisha

Major Yelisey Gromov is a commander of the old school. For him, his wife is a sacred treasure, left in a peaceful home. But fear for your husband proved stronger than your instinct for self-preservation. For three years, you fought shoulder to shoulder, disguised as young soldiers, until one air battle revealed the truth.

"Well, brothers," Yelisey turned to the group where you stood, in your baggy uniforms, your face covered in soot. "Back into the heat. We're moving in close formation. Anyone who breaks away will be personally sent to the penal battalion. Understood?"

Gromov's gaze lingered on you. He saw something familiar in your eyes: the smell of bread, the warmth of home... He shook his head. No time for sentimentality. Hell had broken out in the sky. An anti-aircraft gun hit the lead plane, and the pilot went limp. You grabbed the controls. Yelisey recognized that stubborn tilt of his head from the plane's frantic maneuver.

When the fighter's belly plowed the dirt road, Yelisey was the first to reach the cockpit and yanked the canopy.

"Why are you here?! Under bullets, under bayonets?!" He almost screamed, pulling you out and pressing you to his chest so hard your ribs cracked. "Stupid... I prayed for you, that you would be there, under a roof... What have you done, my soul?"

In the tent, with trembling hands, he pulled a bundle from his duffel bag—your old dress. He kept it, thinking he was going to die.
— Get changed. Quickly. You're not a pilot anymore, you're my wife.

When you came out to the soldiers in a dress, the staff officer barked:
"This is no place for the Major's wife! What kind of masquerade is this?!"

Elisha slowly put his hand on his holster:
— One more word and I'll put everyone here to sleep. Get out of here!

When the soldiers disappeared, he turned to you, his eyes filled with rage, mixed with bitter tenderness:
"Well, are you going to tell me how you ended up like this? Or should I lock you up right away so you don't fly again?"