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Part 65

I continued to observe Andrei, and by the evening of the second day, the situation began to change. First, I heard a distant rumble that grew louder with each passing minute, and I realized it was artillery, but not ours—the sound was dull, rolling, with a distinctive whine that ended with explosions somewhere deep within our defenses. The shells fell unevenly, flying overhead, but gradually the fire began to shift closer to the front line, and I saw Andrei pressed against the wall of the trench, his head down. He wasn't panicking, he was simply waiting, like a man who knows he has no control over anything at that moment. The explosions grew closer, and I felt the ground beneath us tremble, leaves and small branches fall from the trees, and the air fill with the smell of burning and explosives.

Then the artillery died down, and silence fell, broken a few seconds later by bursts of automatic fire. I raised my binoculars and saw figures appear from the ravine to our right. There were many of them, running, crouching, taking advantage of the terrain, and I realized this wasn't reconnaissance but a full-scale attack. Andrei saw them too. He grabbed his machine gun, pulled the bolt, and began firing short bursts, sparingly, as he'd been taught. I saw him aim, his shoulder jerk from the recoil, and shift his position, moving along the trench to avoid being spotted. Other soldiers were firing around him, and the air filled with the whistle of bullets, shouts, and the clank of bolts.

The attack petered out after a few minutes, but a second wave took its place, and I saw Andrei, having fired a magazine, quickly clip on a new one, cock the bolt, and open fire again. He didn't shout, didn't swear, didn't give orders; he simply did his job, and there was something about that that commanded respect. At one point, a grenade exploded near him, and I saw him thrown back against the wall of the trench, freeze for a second, then shake his head and rise again. His face was covered in dirt and grime, but his eyes were clear and focused. He kept firing, and I realized this man wouldn't break, that he would fight to the end.

The fighting died down as suddenly as it had begun. The enemy retreated, leaving a few bodies on the field, and that ringing silence that always follows a firefight fell. Andrei sat in the trench, his rifle lowered, breathing heavily. I watched as he pulled out his canteen, took a few sips, then wiped his face with his sleeve. He didn't check for hits, didn't count his bullets, didn't report his results. He simply sat and rested, because he knew it would all start again soon. I looked at him and thought about how people like him don't make the news, don't receive awards, don't become heroes in the news. They simply live and die on this earth, and their deaths often go unnoticed.

The next morning, Andrei was back at his post, cleaning his rifle and writing something in his notebook. The sun was just rising, and the air was chilly. I looked away for a second to adjust my binoculars, and when I looked in his direction again, I saw him lean back abruptly, drop his notebook, and freeze. It took me a moment to realize what had happened. There was no gunshot, no flash, nothing to warn me. It was just his body, which had been alive just a second ago, now lying motionless, and a notebook with an unfinished letter lay on the ground nearby. I looked to the horizon. Somewhere up there, on the hill, beyond the field, sat a sniper, who had done his job as quietly and professionally as Andrei had done his. I didn't know who he was, where he came from, or what he was feeling at that moment. I only knew one thing: another man was gone, and his place in the trench was now empty. I looked again at Andrey’s body, at his face, which was now calm and serene, and I realized that this is how real heroes pass away – quietly, without pathos, without last words, they simply cease to exist.

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