They all fear me—both the strangers and our own people. Mostly, of course, the strangers. But our own too. From the moment they see how I fight. Until then, though, they remain calm. Everything is arranged simply enough. Most often, I am assigned to a unit as part of a replenishment or rotation. When you're lying in a hastily constructed barracks, eating with everyone else in the mess hall, or shivering in the back of a Ural truck, it's not hard to quietly pass for mute or shell-shocked. Those eager to chat easily find companions without my help. Rows of identical figures hunched over in uniform green helmets. From the outside, one might think there are no differences. But I'm made of different stuff… The main thing is to wait until arrival at the front. Soon. Very soon…
A strike follows the rapidly approaching roar. The heavy vehicle jerks, tipping onto its side. The explosion twists the cab around. About a third of the men in the back are killed instantly. Those who survive try to pull out the wounded. I too am cut by shrapnel; someone grabs me. I wave my hand, pushing them away—"I'll manage myself"—and wrench out a piece of metal lodged in my leg. Division has already begun. Cells start patching up the tear in my body. I climb out of the tilting truck bed. I notice a green-eyed guy on the roadside, who sixteen hours ago was wolfing down pearl barley with stewed meat and asked me to pass along some salt. Now he lies on the ground with his intestines spilling out. Someone pulled him out along with the wounded, but there's nothing more that can be done now… I look at him with regret. My rhizome feels regret too, but in its own way—it will waste so much unclaimed protein. But I stop it—"We don't eat our own,"—though I understand this is a completely foolish convention. One of many conventions I cling to in an attempt to remain human.
A shell lands twenty meters away. My comrades retreat behind cover of trees and begin digging foxholes. The first impact was a practice shot. Now the show will continue. I look westward, where the sounds of detonations are already audible, and head straight toward it across the field. Alone. They shout after me from behind, but they don't stop me. Probably deciding I've gone mad. Good, I think. They won't get in my way. In about an hour and a half, I'll reach the enemy lines, and everything will be over with the battery of "three axes." By that time, God willing, evacuation transport will arrive for our side as well. Which god? I smile involuntarily. After all, I'm alone here.