14th December 1941
Near Rudnya, 18th Tank Division
The 18th Tank Division had achieved a significant victory, encircling a large contingent of German forces in their ongoing counteroffensive. But as night fell, so did the temperature, plummeting to unbearable lows under the harshest winter of their generation. The men were exhausted from days of relentless maneuvering, their tanks battered but intact. Now, they paused, seeking a brief respite from the brutality of war as the blizzard howled across the frozen landscape.
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Inside the cramped and freezing turret of the T-34-76, the dim glow of a single flashlight illuminated the weary faces of the crew. Outside, the howling blizzard battered against the tank’s steel hull, the wind carrying the distant sounds of artillery fire and the faint cries of wolves. The engine had been turned off to save fuel, leaving only the silence of men waiting for the next day of war.
But they wouldn’t spend the night in the tank. The cramped steel coffin offered little warmth, and staying inside for hours risked frostbite or worse. The crew had found a partially collapsed barn nearby, its wooden walls and remaining thatch roof providing a modest shelter against the brutal winter. They had built a small fire near the entrance, careful to shield the light with scrap wood and blankets to avoid detection.
Mikhail sat close to the fire, rubbing his hands together as the flames cast flickering shadows across the barn’s interior. Fyodor, the loader, crouched beside him, clutching a steaming tin mug of weak tea they’d managed to heat. Yuri, the driver, leaned against a stack of hay, his greatcoat pulled tight around him, while Grisha, their youthful commander, stood near the barn’s entrance, peering into the blizzard as if keeping watch.
"Mikhail," said Fyodor, breaking the silence.
"Have you ever… killed a man?"
Mikhail glanced at him, the firelight reflecting in his tired eyes. He hesitated, his breath visible in the cold air.
"No," he said finally, his voice low and steady.
"Not yet."
Fyodor nodded, as though he expected the answer.
"Me neither," he admitted.
"But I’ve wondered."
"What’s there to wonder about?" Yuri asked, his voice tinged with unease.
"It’s war. It’s them or us. We’ll do what we’re told to do."
"Will it be that simple, though?" Fyodor’s voice carried a hint of doubt.
"What if… what if they’re just like us?"
"They’re not like us," Grisha interjected from the doorway, his breath a plume of white in the freezing air.
"We’ve seen the prisoners, haven’t we? Fit, disciplined, and well-trained. These aren’t boys or old men; they’re soldiers through and through."
The crew fell silent again, each lost in their own thoughts. The bitter cold seemed to seep deeper into their bones as the minutes passed. Mikhail finally broke the silence.
"In training," he began,
"our instructor said something. He said: ‘You aim, you shoot, and you forget. If you don’t, you won’t last a week on the front.’ I didn’t think much of it then. But now…" He trailed off, staring into the flames as if they held the answer.
"Do you think he was right?" Fyodor asked.
"Maybe," Mikhail replied.
"But forgetting isn’t so easy."
"You know what I think?" Yuri said, his tone harsher than before.
"I think we shouldn’t waste time worrying about it. The Germans didn’t worry when they bombed our towns, when they shot civilians. They don’t lose sleep over the bodies they leave behind."
"Is that who we are now?" Fyodor challenged, his voice rising slightly.
"Like them?"
Grisha turned away from the doorway, stepping closer to the fire.
"Enough. We’re not philosophers; we’re tankers. Save this talk for after the war—if any of us live to see it."
The harshness of his words silenced the crew again. Outside, the wind howled louder, and the temperature seemed to drop even further. Mikhail pulled a ragged blanket over his shoulders, his mind still lingering on Fyodor’s question.
"You know," Fyodor said hesitantly,
"it’s December 14th. Isn’t that… your birthday, Mikhail?"
Mikhail looked up, his eyes meeting Fyodor’s. A faint, sad smile crossed his lips.
"Yes. It is."
Yuri let out a low whistle.
"To think, you’re spending it out here, freezing your ass off. Some celebration."
Mikhail shook his head.
"It doesn’t matter. My mother… she always said, ‘Every birthday is a gift, Mikhail. A sign that you’ve lived another year.’ If she knew I was out here now… she’d probably say the same thing."
"She’d also want you to come back," Grisha added, his tone softening.
"Alive."
Mikhail’s gaze dropped to the floor of the barn. He thought of
his mother, who had cried as he boarded the train to the front, and his father, who had placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and said, "Do your duty, son."
"Red snow," he murmured to himself, barely audible over the wind.
"What?" Fyodor asked.
"The snow will turn red when we finally do it," Mikhail said, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
"When we kill."
No one responded. The fire crackled softly, casting fleeting shadows across their young faces. Outside, the blizzard raged on, indifferent to the lives of the men huddled together inside.
