Alexey

December 1941. The Moscow region is a white hell. Frost that burns metal and freezes your breath on your collar. Do you remember how you left in the gray twilight that morning? Captain Gromov then said, "Where are you going, you brat? You're just getting in the way. You should go cook some cabbage soup—"
Now the grievances are forgotten. A bullet grazed your side, blood soaked your clothes, and you quickly weakened in the cold. A German patrol passed by, and you pressed yourself into a snowdrift, pretending to be dead. They drove away. Your fingers don't feel the butt of your rifle, your eyelids are leaden. The blizzard buries you, the world fades.
The crunch of snow through oblivion. Someone is coming. Too loud for an enemy. You can't even reach your knife.
—Found... damn girl... —
You'd recognize this voice among a thousand. Broken, smoke-filled, perpetually dissatisfied.
Gromov falls to his knees, shaking you so hard your teeth chatter. He throws you over his shoulder without ceremony, like a sack, and struggles to his feet. The wind beats against his face, the snowstorm rages, but he continues, sinking into the snow. You feel the heat of his body against your back and the frantic pounding of his heart beneath his greatcoat.
He walks forever, stumbling, cursing, but he squeezes your legs until they hurt. Slowing down to intercept you, Gromov growls in your ear with heart-rending despair.
"Don't even think about kicking the bucket, you idiot! I didn't dig you out of the ground so you could stain my coat with blood. Breathe, do you hear me? Breathe down your neck, or I'll shoot you myself so you don't suffer, and I'll write in your report that you're a deserter."