Lalya got hit with a piece of flaming metal. She ran into the woods, screaming, the back of her coat licked by flames. I was about to run after her, but her grandmother caught up to her and pushed her to the ground, rolling her in the snow. The flames went out. Steam rose from the blackened hole in Lalya’s coat, but she appeared unharmed.
Bits of forest all around us burned. We were incredibly fortunate that no one else had been hit.
“Speed up,” said Danylo. “We’ve got to get out of here before the whole forest goes up in flame.”
The two men carrying Ostap were replaced with two fresher men. They trotted as they carried him, anxious to get away from the fire. Sonya, two steps in front of me, buckled and fell, but she still clutched onto Ana.
“What happened?” I asked as I helped her to her feet.
She winced. “My ankle. It’s twisted.”
Martina dashed into the woods and came back a moment later with a sturdy stick. She broke off the side branches, then handed it to Sonya. “Lean on this,” she said. “And let me carry Ana.”
Martina held the little girl on one hip and we walked on either side of Sonya in case she fell again. We had to step carefully through trees and over rocks, avoiding patches of ice, so I held Sonya’s elbow and steadied her when she needed it, but I also noticed that her ankle was ballooning up.
In less than an hour, Martina, Sonya and I were trailing behind everyone else. The only people behind us were the village fighters who were protecting the rear.
Below us, a huge swath of the forest billowed with black smoke. Another grinding whine came from up above and a Soviet plane swooped low, peppering us with bullets. Martina passed Ana to me, then aimed and fired. Our fighters up ahead shot at the plane too, and bullet holes appeared in its side. It flew past unsteadily, then plunged into the forest and disappeared. Moments later, the spot in the forest where the plane had disappeared burst into flame.
I turned to Martina and was about to congratulate her on the shot, but her face looked oddly pale. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. Her chest was wet with blood.
I knelt down beside her, feeling for a pulse. The rest of the group clustered around. “Viktor, Roman, make a stretcher!”
As they assembled two long branches and tied one of our blankets between them, I unbuttoned Martina’s jacket. The bullet had hit the right upper chest. I took off my coat and rolled it up like a pillow, then lifted Martina onto the stretcher, propping up her back with my coat. I covered the wound with some cloth and applied pressure, then put her arm in a sling.
Danylo pushed through the cluster around us and grabbed the front of Martina’s stretcher. I carried the back end. Vera picked up Ana and walked beside me. “That was quick thinking,” she said.
The rest of the trip was a blur. With every step I took, I was plagued with doubt. If Martina hadn’t slowed down to walk with me, would she have been shot? I should have been more careful. One thing only was clear to me: If Martina died, it would be my fault.
When we finally reached the first layer of the UPA mountain defence, the men stationed there radioed ahead. Two fresh soldiers took Martina’s stretcher from me and Danylo and we ran the last kilometre to the hospital.
Vera had Martina on an operating table soon after we got there. Her bloodied jacket was open and the sling loosened. Her breathing was laboured and her lips had turned blue.
“Scrub up and you can assist,” said Vera. “She’s got a collapsed lung.” I swallowed back my anxiety and did what needed to be done, handing Vera instruments one by one. She made a small incision on the side of Martina’s rib cage and plunged in a chest tube. Fluid and blood drained out. Martina gulped in air. Her lips slowly turned a faint pink.
Next Vera explored the wound to find the bullet, and I irrigated the area with sterile saline so she could see what she was doing.
“I think I’ve got it,” she said, withdrawing the long metal cartridge with forceps. “But she has a broken collarbone and maybe a rib.”
She bandaged Martina up and immobilized her arm to keep the collarbone straight. I sat by her bedside for the rest of the day and all through the night.
Sometime before dawn, Martina whispered, “Luka? Are you there?” In the semi-darkness I could see that her eyes were heavy-lidded but open. “Can you hold me? I’m cold.”
I turned on the light to get a better look at her. The wound on her chest had opened up again and her dressing was bright red. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of her lip. I gathered her into my arms and held her close, feeling the warmth of her blood soaking my shirt.
“It’s not your fault, Luka,” she said.
But it was my fault, and I knew it. I fought back my anger and rocked her gently, trying to keep her warm, keep her safe. If only I could have done that before she got hurt.
And now she wouldn’t stop bleeding. I knew she couldn’t survive it, and from the look in her eyes, Martina understood that as well.
“Get away from here, Luka,” whispered Martina. “You need … to live. To tell our story. Don’t let my death … silence the truth.”
“Please don’t leave me,” I murmured, rocking her gently.
But she was already gone.