Прохор Озорнин - On the Wings of Hope - Prose

Since this madness of war has begun.

And once again a whistle of a machine gun and a desperate shriek somewhere far in these entrenchments. His comrade has died – a brother by motherland, by faith, by customs. Yet another stopped life way. Yet again a grief for his parents – if, of course, they are still alive… One more life put on the altar… what for? For the sake of what all this war was started? Territories? Resources? Money? World influence? But how insignificant all these temporal goals in comparison with one – yes, with a single stopped human life! And there are hundreds and hundreds of them by each day.

Enemies couldn't feel regret. They had no desire to understand. They had to kill – kill their enemies. Same people as they are.

And this was the most awful, the most horrific that a blinded by the power and riches human mind could invent. A mistake, terrible mistake… unforgivable mistake. An error, which price is – the split blood – the blood of wounded and dying people, the blood of those, who once were them. An error, which price is – ruined cities and destroyed families, corrupted human fates. An error, which price is – unleashed a war of two nations.

The war… and for how long will this war ever last? Until the last soldier is killed? Until all major cities of the enemy are wiped out from the face of Earth? Until the flame of grief inflames all far horizons of this country – a country, whose destiny is to be subdued. To become a raw appendage of a more powerful state and – more aggressive – those which begun the war, made a monstrous mistake for which both will have to pay.

They will not withstand – he knew it. Technics, weapons, resources – the enemy has all it in plenty. Much more than they can dream of. They had only one thing left which has played such a malicious joke – natural resources, riches of Earth interior – the motherland, where he has to die. He has to die, seeing coming victorious forces of the enemy, seeing their proud and blind delight of a victory, seeing their hatred to those survived – civilian population… to survived civilians – if, of course, there will be many survivors. He hoped there will be many. It must be many – for sometimes after decades and decades his country could reborn.

And still he has to fight – along with other your men, quickly mobilized and driven on the front lines soon after the beginning of the war. Hastily trained. Slightly armed. Not murderers – living people.

The burst of machine gun has abated and he has slightly raised his head. As he has suspected – enemy's infantry was advancing in full order. Damn, it would be so great to have some heavy technics here and now – some tank. Or tanks. But all large forces have already been mobilized in other directions. And they have been abandoned here, against superior forces of the enemy, with almost no means of protection. They have been left to die here on the battlefield. Well, he thought – to die means to die. There are no other options possible, apparently. A pity, his death will be in vain.

He has suddenly caught himself on a thought of how he can die to grasp as many as possible enemies together with him, for enemies aren't talked with, they have to be – killed. But whether they would begin to kill him if they have happened to meet in different circumstances? Possibly, they would even become friends. Yes, friends with that very young soldier that has so ineptly got out forward…

A recharge of submachine gun… a sound of taken and inserted charger. A shot. Enemy's soldier silently falls down with a punched head… One more enemy has fallen. Ruthlessly killed.

Madness… This is total madness. Humans, transformed into animals and brought for murders.

Non-humans? Are there are humans in the war at all, humans – soldiers? Soldiers, who have still remained humans? He met and saw those returned from wars time and again – almost nobody from them could get accustomed to peaceful life. Only singles did. For this is war. For this is madness.

Enemies were approaching – without concealing, methodically and openly. They saw and felt their victory – feasted on the victory, feasted each moment with relish. Then they will feast over the conquered territory, too… They didn't know yet what a monstrous error they have already committed. Mistake, for which they should pay off once…

The columns of the enemy are absolutely nearby – there is no more reason to cover in the entrenchments. The order of their commander, shouted in the air – “Forward!” And here he is – their commander, leaving an entrenchment – and moving towards the enemy. And falling. Falling without a single shout. But the impulse is picked up – and soldiers rise. Rise on their last fight. The shortest fight possible.

Sounds of discharged weapons. People, dying from both sides. Dying for nothing.

He has risen the time he has heard the order. Has run forward – first, second, third – enemies fell before him.

But a shot finally comes – and pain burns his shoulder. He shots once more – and yet another soldier of the enemy falls down. One more shot – and blow in a breast throw him aside.

Ground. Native ground. You are so close to me now. So close…

A bent face of the enemy. A gunpoint, looking at his forehead. A shot. Last one in his life.

The war…

The madness of war…

03.04.2003

Kirill was pursued by some ill fate. Or maybe a healthy and kind one. It was quite difficult to find out, because when you have already sailed away from old coasts and haven’t moored to new ones, and only a boundless blue sea of life is lying ahead of you with no signs of tempting far-away coast, – it’s really hard to tell when, actually, something out of an ordinary will surface itself on your course of sailing, and extremely harder to find out whether it was for good or for bad. City just like a city, sea as a sea. The sea was a cold one, however, and the city was rainy – but even the great Peter wasn’t powerful enough to change that… except, perhaps, for Saint Peter – yet even that is not a fact by all means.

And what really disturbed Kirill, who like any other true IT specialist was devoting almost all of his life to own metal computer friend, were the cases of so-called “déjà vu”, which became frequent recently. A strange word, and no less strange phenomenon, which has been annoying Kirill for several last month already, precisely like a sea iceberg standing on the path of his ship, the most significant and invisible part of which was, as it usually goes, inaccessible for common human sight, being hidden either in the depths of memory or in the waters of destiny.

This wonder of nature manifested itself variously. It could be a dream in which he, being dressed in the exotic black cylinder and dress coat, was traveling along familiar streets of St. Petersburg with some excessively unusual titles in an old Slavic language, as if they were given names only recently by willful Peter the Great himself. Or he could be rushing through some sort of cellars in these dreams, vainly trying to locate his companions, who have been recently seized and taken away from there. Or he could come to some Anichkov Bridge and stand idle like captivated for ten or so minutes, so that people, hurrying for their works, start looking askance at him as if he was some kind of a madman.

“And what if I am truly going crazy?” he was thinking from time to time when current streams of objective and subjective realities mixed up to such an extent that it was no longer possible to distinguish them from one another. “No way, just don’t get enough sleep,” he calmed himself down over and over again.

And it could happen that he starts discussing the architecture of some new software module with his colleagues and analysts, begins to argue, turns angry and blurts out something in the spirit of: “Fuck off to Admiralteyskaya Embankment in a post-chaise!” And then he stands with his mouth wide opened and cannot answer even to himself – why is that a post-chaise and Admiralteyskaya, anyway?