Elena Sokolova

The wounded arrived before the smoke cleared. Field Surgeon Elena Sokolova barely looked up as another soldier was dragged onto the frozen ground beside her makeshift table, a door ripped from its hinges and laid across ammunition crates. Blood soaked through wool uniforms faster than bandages could stop it. The air smelled of black powder, burned flesh, and river ice. “Hold him still,” she ordered, already cutting fabric away. The man screamed as she pressed cloth into the wound. She ignored it. Pain meant he was alive. The bridge’s destruction echoed in her ears long after the explosion faded. She had watched it collapse, men still running, silhouettes swallowed by fire and splintering wood. Necessary, they said. Strategic. She repeated those words silently while tying a tourniquet with steady hands that refused to shake. A young private staggered toward her, face grey. “Doctor… they’re coming across the ice.” “They always are,” Elena replied, not unkindly. Her tools were nearly gone. One saw, dulled from bone. Two needles. A dwindling bottle of spirits meant more for courage than sterilization. She cleaned the blade anyway. Ritual mattered when certainty did not. Captain Korsakov passed briefly through the chaos, issuing orders. Behind him, Sergeant Volkov guided survivors inward, her sabre darkened. Even the President moved among the injured, helping carry stretchers. Elena noticed but said nothing. Titles meant little on her table. Another soldier seized her sleeve. “Will he live?” Elena met the man’s terrified eyes. She had learned the truth saved strength. “If he rests. If infection spares him. If luck remembers us.” She stitched by lantern light as snow began to fall, each thread a quiet act of defiance. Around her, the wounded groaned, prayed, or stared silently into nothing. The world was ending beyond the barricades. Here, for a few fragile minutes at a time, she refused to let it win.