[To the ever-kind Lieutenant McCord,
This letter may be the last I send to you before the year turns its page.
It is only a few days until January arrives.
How do you spend your days at the end of the year?]
'How do you spend it?
I spend it between the shower of bullets and the sound of shells, asking about the conditions of the enemies!'
Damian inserted his frostbitten hand into lukewarm water, and a hoarse groan escaped from it.
The pain was beyond what he could bear, and had it not been for a painkiller administered by the military doctor, he would not have endured it.
His hand was in no condition to hold the pen, and yet he was in distress, as he must send Lintree a message of congratulations on the New Year.
[How was your last year?
…]
Then stop.
'Should I ask a man in the heat of war such a question?'
He later wrote: [I suffered a lot throughout the year.
How do you plan to spend the next year?
If you are still on the battlefield, that makes me sad.
I heard that if a Starica soldier completes two years at the front, he may request discharge whenever he wants.
Isn't it, Lieutenant?
As you are about to complete your second year, do you not have the right to leave?]
'Is this how time went?
Yes, when the new year came, I would have reached the third year of my participation.
In between, you've attained the rank of lieutenant...
Damian Stern, you've become a master.'
After a while, he took his hand out of the water and wiped it quickly, the drops falling from his fingertips.
The pain is still severe, and his skin is a dark blue color, but it has become softer than before.
The military doctor handed him a goat wool glove and said firmly: “Don’t use your hand today.”
Damian smiled and said sarcastically: “If I had the choice between cutting off the head and cutting off the fingers, I would of course choose the second.”
The doctor said, shaking his head: “If you say that, what can I say?
It’s up to you, whether you want to use your hand or stop using it.
But I don’t know: with the intensity of the pain, are you able to pull the trigger at all?”
"Hmm…"
A taste of bitterness filled his mouth.
This second winter he spent in Rivero, north of Estarica, was even harsher than the previous.
Last year, supplies were more plentiful, but as the war lasted, both men and food became scarce, until a person was no longer able to care for his body.
“Do you see the pain getting a lot worse?”
“Do you not feel it now, even though you took the painkiller?
If its effect wears off, it will be more severe and painful.”
"With this pain I can't fight.
Prescribe morphine for me."
So the doctor hit him lightly on the head with the record book, saying: “Did you not find anything other than morphine?
There is no other medicine on your tongues?
That is a medicine that is only given to those seriously injured!
As for your icy fingers, a regular painkiller is sufficient.”
"But shouldn't I pull the trigger?" He said it pleadingly while moaning.
The doctor answered him firmly: “Strengthen your resolve and push it with your will.
Morphine, if you take too much of it, you will become a body in which there is no benefit, so make it the last medicine.”
Moroha.
Morphine is a strong analgesic and is considered an addictive substance
Damian came out of the ambulance tent unwillingly.
The pain was crippling his fingers, but he could not refrain from returning to the trench.
There is no room for complacency in war, even at the end of the year.
'Perhaps both groups are anticipating the other's inattention under the pretext of the new year.'
The silence was overwhelming, perhaps like entering the heart of a hurricane.
Snow was falling, accumulating white on his military hat.
As soon as his cold hands touched the warm air outside, the chills returned to him.
He took out Lintry's letter and began reading the rest of it:
“Aren’t you going to be discharged from service?”
His eyelid twitched.
'I entered the army before I learned how to live on my own.
If I leave the army, how can I live?
This has been my life for three years, and I have never known anything else.
Should I go out into a world to which I do not know an approach?
Or should I prove here after I have reached the rank of lieutenant?'
The leadership was promising that the war would end after a few months, or after a year at the latest.
But the problem is victory and disappointment.
If the two teams were exchanging dominance, there was no way out of the matter.
'As for me, I am not from Lev.
If we are defeated and I return to my homeland, I will not lose much.
But... if you draw your sword, you are bound to hit something.
Whoever starts a fight must complete it with victory.
Why should I not witness the end of this war?
Perhaps I will raise the banner of victory in my hand, and taste for the first time the taste of an achievement I have achieved.
But… I have to survive first.'
'Am I confident of survival? both.
My survival so far has been nothing but luck.
In battle, bullets do not know where they come from, and survival is only fate.'
However, Damien could not leave the front, as if the spirit of war was chaining him to it.
[And I did not call you to cowardly flee from the battlefield.
I just wanted you to know that my heart is writhing in worry for you.]
Damian's eyes fell into deep stillness.
He was aware that Lintry was worrying about him, always waiting for a response from him.
Five months have passed since the last answer she received...or say: 'Just five months.'
She said she didn't mean to flee...but he couldn't help but hear it as a call to retreat.
'I have come this far, so how can I not see the end?
I wish I knew what I would see if I faced death and remained alive.
Should I stop now? both.
I don't run away from fighting.
Even if the fate is inevitable death...'
'Maybe he's dead here.'
This is what he thought as he rubbed his hands, which were cold again after the warmth of the water.
[I hope you are safe.]
Her words were short, but her round, polite hand exuded frank concern.
As long as Damian was at the front, she could only live with this anxiety.
However, she would never understand him.
On the one hand, he hates to make her suffer because of him, and on the other hand, he will not stop remaining in the war.
He had no wish or purpose, and then he found a new desire: to witness the end of this war.
Even by death.
'I don't want to die per se, but dying here might be the most honorable death of my life.'
If he is not destined to possess anything, nor to ask for anything, then nothing remains for him except this.
By this alone he is certain that he chose the arena of battle as his scene, as he died a death that is said to be for the sake of truth.
He had no excuse to justify his departure, but rather excuses to keep him.
He only wanted to know: What awaits him at the end?
Will it be his death, or the end of the war?
If he does not know the answer here, he will never know how to live after that.
'Stop worrying about me...'
He put his hand on his left breast pocket, where he kept her handkerchief, and wiped it.
'Anxiety…'
The pain in his fingers intensified.
[I have not forgotten your promise to come to me.]
The moment he read it, the blood froze in his veins, his fingers burned, and his mind froze.
A feeling that had no name overwhelmed him.
'Now I realize.
This should be the last message I send to her.
Now I understand... but it's too late.'
If it had occurred to him, even for a moment, that this front would be his grave, he should not have allowed such a promise to be made.
'Perhaps it would be better... for you not to think about me at all.'
He no longer knew whether the pain was in his fingers or in his chest.
He wished that Lintry would erase from her mind all his memories: the letters, the affection, the connection that had quickly developed between them even though they had never met face to face.
He wished that all of that would be erased, so that she would no longer carry his worries, nor wait for him, but would return as an innocent village girl who only knew serenity and beauty.
'It was very wrong for me to start this correspondence.
It was better for me to let her think that I had perished before she received a reply, and not write anything to her.'
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We want to be miserable 😉