The Battle of Pripyat

"When do you think this will blow over?"

"I… I don't know…"

"Don't worry, I reckon they'll be crying for peace by the end of the war. The westoids have nothing on us!"

I didn't respond, preferring to keep to myself.

"Don't fucking jinx us, man! Did you see the new tanks they have?"

"Which ones?"

"The shitty ones from the Great War- what do you think, dumbass?! The American ones! M-whatever and Abrams; big motherfuckers."

"… Oh."

"'Oh,' he says. This is why you're the gunner and I'm in charge of driving this baby."

"Go fuck yourself."

And with that, the proximity comms went silent.

We've been sitting duck since morning, and small talk was the only thing that eased the tension in the air. We knew where we were, what we were doing, and why we were doing it. No matter what you did, the goal of every man was simple; hold the line.

No matter what happened, we had to hold the line. After the word of the boys from Poland reached us, things were only going to get hotter than they already were.

"Listen, boys… I know things are…" The commander began, but couldn't find the right words.

"Going to shit?" The driver offered.

"Yes," the commander confirmed, "But as long as we keep our cool, everything will be fine. Remember your training, and don't go into panic, ever. That's the first thing that kills you."

"Don't forget the lead, starvation, dehydration, disease-"

The gunner was cut off by the commander, "Why can't you just keep your mouth shut? Unless you have something of value to add, zip it."

"He has a point…" I said, speaking for the first time in the past hour.

That got the attention of the rest, and the commander spoke again, "Kid-"

"Even if we do everything right, things can still go wrong."

"You don't know that, don't think that way. Your attitude matters here."

"But I'm right."

"Even if you are, you shouldn't think that way. We have someone we gotta come back to, right?"

The other two members of the crew agreed, starting another banter about whose wife was more attractive. I wish I could say the same, but I had no one at home.

The commander was trying his best, and I appreciated that, really, but it was a waste. The middle-aged man had only the best intentions for us; being a father as well, most likely, meant he felt something for us as we were much younger than him, a sort of sympathy that came naturally with his character.

Who would've thought that in three months, I could become a trained loader? Not me, that's for sure. I knew not only how to operate the common firearms, but also a real tank. The work itself was simple, the real challenge came when there was a problem with the machine.

There is so much going on, and so little time to process it all. I hope this war will end soon, not just for my sake; for everyone's. No one deserves to lose their loved ones.

"But it doesn't mean shit! So what if we won the Space Race?!"

"That's exactly what it's about! How do you think our own government would've reacted? They're still mad they lost, so it only makes sense they would heavily invest into the war!"

"This isn't like Pearl Harbor! It was one submarine, just one! And it could've been the Chinese or some backwater third world country, it's just an excuse to justify this bullshit!"

"Maybe… or… they don't want anybody to know. Plus, they don't see a difference between us and the Asians, we're all 'commie scum' in their eyes."

"Are you two done?" The commander finally stepped in, though I bet he enjoyed listening to their theories as much as I did, "Thank you."

"It still doesn't make se-"

"One more word from either of you, and I'm demoting you to guard duty…" they were about to retaliate, but he added a crucial piece of information to the punishment, "in the gulag."

That did the trick, and the inside of the tank went silent once again.

No one spoke about it, but everyone and their mother knew what was really happening in the "re-education camps". A fate worse than death, some called it. But if you were lucky enough, you could join the army, and even then you'd still be treated like shit.

However, was democracy truly better? I've seen the truth, I know better than the lies of the union, and I don't see much of a difference. One ideology screws you over behind the scenes, and the other does it in the open, under the light of day no less. One likes to keep things secret and scheme like an 18th century villain, but the other? Not so much. You can kill a man, but not an idea. Just take a look at our glorious union! They killed Lenin and said he died "under mysterious circumstances." The only mysterious thing is how they thought someone could actually believe such an obvious lie. Stalin too, but that's old news.

Sure, we won the Space Race, Gagarin became a living legend, and the soviets are still in power. Was it worth it though? Don't tell anyone I said this, but the union was a dying state, a losing battle, an old, bald man who's shot himself too many times. The internal problems were too much to handle, they tried to keep it under the carpet, but I saw things, things I will take with me to the grave. All they did by winning was buy time for a country on its deathbed.

And so, having nothing else to say, the four of us remained quiet. The driver kept his foot on the pedal, however that whole thing worked, in case we had to move. The gunner behind me on top was acting as a scout as well with the pair of binoculars the commander temporarily provided him. The commander kept us in order, with access to a second, encrypted channel.

And I sat in my chair, my back hurting from how uncomfortable it was. Although my head was somewhere in the clouds, my muscle memory was ready to kick in and begin unloading empty shells from the main gun while reloading new ones.

The system our trusty tank used was something wonderful; an automatic, self-loading system that saved work for the crew and reduced the time it took to fire between each shot. Obviously, it had its downsides such as being susceptible to many mechanical, technical and electrical errors, but it is what it is.

Our girl was an old beast, a converted T-60 something. I should've listened to the lessons they gave us back in the training base, though I could never concentrate on things that didn't interest me. What did catch my attention were the new technological advancements happening in the west.

My father never had enough money to provide anything more than the basic needs. It wasn't his fault though, I understood that at a young age. It was rough being a single parent, more so when the system was working against your every move. Oh, how many nights have I wished for something like a computer, or a walkman to listen to my favorite songs wherever I went.

Bored out of my mind, I tried to whistle a tune my father tried to teach me. A smile came to me when I remembered begging him for one of those mp3 players last year. A fruitless struggle, but a man can dream, no?

I wonder what the world will look like in twenty years, add one more and you could call it a golden one too. When are you going to be able to write the same number twice as the year's date? Next century, when it's 2121, but by then we'll all be dead and dust.

This. This right here is my problem; I wander. Whenever I'm inactive, my consciousness likes to skip away in joy towards random oblivion. My vision was just fine, but I felt as if I wasn't there. It was as if I was somewhere else, my body stayed in the present, but I went to another place.

After a few minutes of trying, I managed to make the right sound. It was monotone, even, and simple, but it was good enough. Like the gentle blow of the summer wind, I blew air through my lips, creating a quiet, but high-pitched whistle.

"Hey, cut it out, it's annoying as fuck," the gunner said.

I stopped, even though I didn't want to.

"I said cut it out!"

"I'm not doing anything."

"Then why am I still hearing a-"

BOOM!

A powerful force shook the earth itself, stunning us for a moment.

But only for a moment.

"Why didn't you say anything?!" The commander screamed at the gunner, using the second channel to report what just happened to his higher officers.

"I-It's the fog! I can see them now! Holy shi- How many are there?!"

"It's happening! It's happening!" The driver laughed, roaring the engine of the metal behemoth.

"I count… too many! More than a hundred!"

"Of what?!" The commander urged him, the sounds of a brewing battle growing by the second.

"Everything."

Once the commander finished his report, he rejoined our proximity channel, "This is it boys, the moment we've been waiting for! Let's drive these scumbags back to the west!"

And with that, the battle began.

Every job was significant. From the boys on the frontline to the artillerymen and the nurses back home, everyone had a purpose, a reason. Even if it sucks, it doesn't make it any less crucial for the operation to succeed.

Mine was simple; keep the shells coming. For every round of shells that were fired one after the other by the commander, I prepared another to replace a spent one. I took the empty casing out of its cradle, threw it in a special area made specifically to hold said casings, loaded a new shell into the empty spot, and a shot went off. The massive cylinder went around and around like a carousel, my sole mission to keep the tank firing.

If the tank stopped returning fire, the higher the chance of enemies firing at us. That meant we were at a higher risk of dying. And dying was bad, very bad.

Suddenly, the tank jolted forward, taking a sharp right turn before speeding off. I wondered why the driver opted to make such a hasty decision, but my unspoken question was answered when an artillery shell went off near us, presumably at our last stationary position.

Above me, the gunner was abusing his standard issued machine gun, eliminating any infantry that thought they could be the wiser and so much as looked our way, at least I'd like to believe so. His breath was ragged and unstable, the automatic fire and the thundering booms of the main gun suppressed by our gear. The helmets were also a technological gift. Back then, they didn't have the equipment to properly protect their ear drums, at least the army invested in something that mattered.

To the gunner's right, the commander barked orders at the other two, sometimes assisting the former with his own machine gun. I was fairly sure he wasn't supposed to have a turret as well in this T variant, and that it was improvised, but if it meant none of us would die, the better.

"On your eight!" The gunner informed the commander, turning his weapon towards more of the enemy.

"Got it," moving the main gun towards the corresponding hour, a shell was fired towards that direction, the mechanism jolting back before slowly returning to its original position, "Hit!" The commander laughed, "Take that, bas… tards…"

"What's going on?! I can't see shit through this smoke!" The driver asked, but the other two didn't respond right away.

After a solid moment passed with only the orchestra of war dominating the music sheet, I had to intervene, "Commander, what's going on up there?"

"It… It… It can't be…"

"What? What is it-?"

"They have flamethrowers!" The gunner screamed, firing towards more approaching infantry, cursing in his native language a storm, either Polish or a Russian dialect of some sort.

That can't be right. That's a banned weapon. In the first war, they were too overpowered and cruel, especially in open fields and the trenches. They could flush out anything hiding in the nooks and crannies of the bunkers. The west would never break the Geneva Convention; if one side did, the other could retaliate with worse kinds of weapons.

As the rest of us continued operating the tank, the commander listened to the other channel. The driver was doing his best to maneuver us around friendly forces and get to the most optimal position to fire and avoid retaliation, the gunner was constantly guarding our every side in case someone tried to get up close and personal, I was waiting for the commander to fire so I could resume reloading shells.

He wasn't firing the main gun. That meant we weren't defending ourselves. And that meant we were at a higher risk of being blown to pieces.

Raising my voice for the first time, I shouted at the commander, "Sir! Return fire! You said we have loved ones to return to, right?! FIRE!!!"

He gasped, breaking out of his stupor, "I-I- Right!"

Another boom left the tank, another shell traveled at an incredible speed towards another target, and hopefully it hit.

Flamethrowers. That doesn't sound right. NATO couldn't be using those, they wouldn't dare. They held the rules on the highest pedestal. Even the Red Army wouldn't dare break the convention because it made things complicated, problematic, unpredictable. Worse.

And worse it turned.

"What? A-are you… Repeat yourself!" The commander listened to the other channel, his legs frozen in place.

"Shit, there are too many! I'm running out of ammo!" The gunner announced, firing his machine gun at shorter bursts.

"I… Understood. Fall back!" The commander ordered, the rest of us shocked at the sudden change of the objective.

"I thought you said-"

"I know what I fucking said! They… Things are… FUCK!" He began hyperventilating, the volume of his raspy breaths increased by the sensitive microphone inside the headset, "They… They aren't NATO, or Peacekeepers…"

"Then who the fuck are they?!" The driver cried out, the engine roaring even louder as he turned back towards the front and began driving in reverse, quickly reaching a max speed of fifty.

"I don't know! Their helmets are black! And the west isn't responding to us!"

"What the hell do we do then?!" The gunner screamed, reloading his ammo box as more frequent explosions went off around us.

"We'll re-establish a new line in Chernobyl until reinforcements arrive!"

"This was the line! We can't let them take the power plant!"

"They won't! Help is coming, and when it does, we'll kick their fucking asses! We have the advantage, so don't forget that!"

"Commander! Twelve o'clock! Jet! Incoming!"

Even through the headgear, I could hear the distinct zoom of a jetliner approaching our position. It could only be one thing; an airstrike.

Fortunately, our tank was in motion long ago, escaping the main blast zone.

Unfortunately, one of the numerous bombs landed near us. The tank was reinforced with more armor, reducing the top speed while giving us better protection. I didn't doubt that in the case of a direct hit, we had a decent chance at surviving.

What couldn't withstand such a fatal attack was the human body.

If I knew what was about to happen, I would've made my amends with the gunner. We were never on the best of terms, but if I could turn back the clock and tell him how sorry I was for all the times we fought, I would.

Next thing I knew, the gunner's body hit my back, sending me face first into the tank's hall. With a hand covering a fresh wound over my forehead, I turned around to face the gunner.

Just like my head, he was also bleeding, the main difference being the lack of light in his eyes. Upon further inspection, a triangular piece of metal was stuck deep in his skull, possibly reaching the center where most of the blood circulated through.

My breath caught in my throat. Tears threatened to pour down my cheeks, a crimson pool growing on the cold, steel floor. At that moment, I lost my voice. I couldn't look away, his eyes staring into my soul, his face preserved just before he passed.

Carefully kneeling down to his level, I placed a hand, the unstained one, over his face, muttering a quiet prayer I haven't used in a very long time. Then, I carefully dragged the hand down his face, closing his eyes in the process.

We weren't moving anymore.

"Shit, shit! SHIT! The tracks are fucked!"

"Abort! Get out-! Kid! Snap out of it!" The commander grabbed me by the arm, pulling me away from the gunner.

"He… I-"

"No time! We need to get the fuck out, NOW!" Letting the commander pull me up with him, I left my body on autopilot, my vision a colorless blur. A nausea grew in my chest, but I didn't have any food in my stomach to get rid of.

He didn't deserve to die, even if it was instant and painless. He was my age, if not a little older. He was a good man. I didn't like him, but it wasn't right. He had a life to live, a whole future ahead of him, a girl to love, a family to start.

In a second, it was all taken away.

Once the both of us were on top of the tank, I took a good look around me.

It was a bloody slaughterhouse.

Even at this distance, I could still see the initial battleground; the previous grass fields were scorched beyond repair, the sky was plagued by a thick, dark smoke, fires ravaging the motherland in every direction. Many tanks, planes and other armored vehicles littered the horizon, most charred and unrecognizable. Just like we did, everyone else got the order the retreat into the city. I could count with my hand the number of vehicles that remained unscathed by the bombing.

And the smell; it was terrible. The current of the wind carried with it the dead, the fresh rot of flesh, the suffocating, yet strong, used gunpowder, the fumes of spent fuel. A sick mist creeping into the scene.

"Commander… look…" I raised a crooked finger towards the terrifying sight.

"We have to ju-" The commander turned to me, cutting himself off mid sentence. Together, we witnessed many lines of fire appearing out of seemingly nowhere. The olive cloud taking its sweet time, a tsunami in slow motion.

The commander said something in his native tongue before giving me a hard yank, a hand holding my arm, "Jump!"

So I did, landing right in the mud. I then spat out the dirt, wiping away the muck from my face. Although it hurt, I quickly recovered since the fall wasn't too high.

However, the commander didn't. He laid on the ground, clutching his side while gritting his teeth.

"S-sir, are you…?" I stumbled towards him, getting an arm underneath his before pulling him up with me. The additional weight was almost too much, but I managed to get us to start walking away from the tank at a steady pace.

Taking a glance at what his hand was hiding, I spotted a glint of something sticking out of his right side. Possibly lodged inside his lung.

"Commander, y-you're-"

"Keep walking, just… keep… walki-"

BOOM!

Bracing the both of us, I took us down into the ground. I did my best to shield the older man from any additional debris. Luckily, we were too far for the explosion to hit us, a glance behind me revealed the source to be the tank. Rest in peace, you served us well.

I didn't see the driver leave.

"O-oh no…" I croaked out, my face contorting into an ugly one.

"F-fuck… Don't think about it, okay? Just k… keep moving," the commander choked on his own words. It was an order, he told me to go, so it was my obligation as his soldier.

Steeling myself, I pushed onward, keeping my mind focused on the most important objective in my life; get us out of here alive.

"Commander, where to?"

"There… There should be a convoy… there! I ca… I can see it," following where his eyes looked, it didn't take me long to notice the numerous trucks scattered near the entrance of the city, extracting any surviving soldiers.

If that was all that remained of us, we were doomed. That didn't mean I was going to give up. I lost one too fucking many of my comrades, it was just a… a kilometer! More or less. That was nothing! We will make it!

Assisting the senior officer with one arm, I waved at the dozen soldiers getting ready to fall back, screaming at the top of my lungs to get their attention, going as far as using other languages spoken across the country. After a few failed tries, one of them waved back, hopefully telling a truck to wait for us.

"See? We're gonna make it, sir!" I assured my commander, giving him a light shake.

He sighed in response, wheezing with every deep breath he took. Before I had the chance to express my concern, he broke into a coughing fit.

"Sir!" His legs gave out, but I didn't let him fall to the ground. Taking another look at the convoy, one of the trucks was actually driving towards us, the headlights blinding my view. I turned back to the older man, red staining his beard.

"C-commander, you're fine, you're fine! We'll make it, okay?!" He replied with another cough, his grip over the injured area weakening. I held his hand under mine, pressing it as hard as I could against the wound, anything to slow down the bleeding.

"Sir-"

"Stop. Just… s-stop," he sighed, even more of the iron-scented liquid leaving his mouth, an unbroken stream meeting his uniform's neckline.

"NO! You'll make it! I swear! YOU WILL! You… You must…" I promised, raw emotion in my cracking voice.

"Kid," he chuckled, "You… did your best. And-" Gasping for air, he began suffocating. Acting fast, I laid him on his side, the blood literally pouring out of his mouth.

But it did something, because he spoke again, "I… I'm sorry, I… I should've… should've…"

"W-what? What?! WHAT?!" The truck stopped behind me, a couple soldiers rushing to our aid. They were speaking to me, but I couldn't register their existence. It was only me and the officer.

Turning him over on his back, the man I'd grown to trust with my life offered me a warm, genuine smile, the kind of smile given from a loving father to his child, when both parties understood the unspoken.

"Sir…"

"Ah…" Reaching a hand out to me, he placed it on my cheek, peace in his eyes, "You look just like… my son."

Then, his hand fell to the ground, and time stopped.

I didn't know any of them for too long. Only three months. But those three months meant something to me, something that mattered, something that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

And now, that something was ripped away, leaving an empty void in its place.

Deep within my mind, I denied what happened on the field. I didn't want to believe today was true, like an amputee subconsciously thinking they still have that missing limb, accompanied by never-ending phantom pain. I'd like to believe that today was a dark dream, a nightmare induced by something I had the previous evening that went bad. I'd like to believe that my father would've comforted me when I woke up, reassuring me that everything was fine, that I was safe.

But wishing can only get you so far. And wishing against a reality with an iron fist is a lost cause.

So, I moved on to the second stage of grief; anger.

I held the officer and cried for the heavens, begging for an answer. The soldiers around me had to forcefully drag me into the back of the truck, leaving the body behind, but I didn't resist.

I screamed. I cried. I cursed. In the burning field, under the black clouds and the white sun, I wanted to lay down and die. I wanted to beg the soldiers to leave me behind, to put one between my eyes so I didn't have to endure any more of this madness.

Looking back at it, I should've fallen with the rest of them. I will never understand why I got to live. Why me? Why me?

"Please… please…" I quietly cried, my eyes devoid of life, but my heart still beat. My fellow soldiers either didn't hear me, or ignored my pleas for the sweet release. I just couldn't take it anymore. I never wanted to join this damn army. It was corrupted to the core, unfair, brutal, unforgiving, and unrewarding. There was no point in any of this. We all had families to come back to, someone, anyone. And even if some of us were alone like I, we were too young for this, too proud, too confident.

In war, they'll say anything to boost morale. They'll make promises they can't fulfill. They'll lie to your face if it means you'll fight on the frontline for another day. They'll abuse the system to keep you down in the dirt, unable to do anything without breaking their rules. To the ones in power, the ones that think they're above all, including God, we are nothing but cattle; meat shields to send into the grinding machinations of war.

In war, whichever side may call itself the victor, there are no winners, but all are losers. And I had to learn that in the worst way imaginable.

Once the two soldiers holding me under each arm lifted me onto the back of the truck, they got on themselves, closing the truck bed before the vehicle sped off towards our final stand.

I sat against the left side of the hall, the massive, thick fabric wrapped around the truck's skeleton shielding me from the wind and the undoubtedly scarring sights around us.

Besides me, there were a dozen more men in the back, red crosses on the left shoulders of a small number of them, indicating their profession. Some of the poor bastards were far unluckier than me; a missing, still bleeding stub where an arm or a stump where a leg used to be, varying degrees of burns, the unique char of skin barely tolerable.

Growing distant to reality, I averted my empty gaze to the back of the truck; out to the battlefield. The fire was still approaching, accompanied by the toxic gas. Was this what my grandfather also went through in the second war? That thought made me chuckle, shaking me to the core.

Another escaped me, and another, any many more until they turned into maniacal laughter. I tried to stop myself, but I just couldn't. The feelings flowed together in a single vortex, the false positives and the true negatives becoming one. At some point, one of the medics went out of his way to attend to me, asking me what was wrong and to calm down among other things I couldn't understand.

Once I ran out of air, I hit the back of my head against the wall of the truck as hard as I could. Over, and over, and over again. At first, the medic was too shocked to stop me, but when he snapped out of it, he grabbed my shoulders, preventing me from hurting myself any further.

He tried to extract some form of answer from me, anything to see if he needed to help me more than he already did. I lowered my head in chagrin, looking away from the desperate man doing his best to help a lost soul.

Realizing there was no way he could break through, he warned me to not do anything stupid again, his words, not mine. I was too exhausted to finish what I started, so I just sat there, not a single line of thought in my head.

There was so much I wanted to say. I wanted so badly to scream my lungs out until my voice box tore itself apart. I wanted to do horrible things, to say horrible things, to commit acts of vengeance against the black helmets. They caught us off guard, even though we were expecting them. We were prepared, just not for the worst case scenario.

Was there something worse than this? Was this what they called "survivor's guilt?" I should've fucking died back there, I deserved to. I was a coward. If I loaded the shells faster, we could've fired more of them, thus killing more of the enemy.

Could we have stopped the jet? I don't know. I wanted to say no, but my subconscious was eating away at my sanity, declaring it a delusional yes.

As we left the second Verdun in the dust, the only sound that hit home was the constant purr of the engine; a buzzing distraction from the visions that will plague me until the very last breath I draw. That could be soon, very soon.

The road ahead was unknown, the will to fight back was demolished, not many of us lived to see the end of the battle. We were losing the war, and none of us knew what was happening.

But one thing is certain; the reactor must not fall.

And even if it does…

Surrender is not an option.