原文鏈接：https://medium.com/balakun/half-drunk-coffee-e456009e3578
Half-drunk coffee
By:Balakun
Here, on clinic floors, another war is raging a different bloody front with its own acts of heroism, its own heroes and tragedies, all overshadowed by roaring artillery duels. This is where its decided whether a person will live and how. There are no loud explosions or machine-gun bursts here, just the indifferent, intermittent beep of a cardiac monitor like isolated sniper shots into emptiness.
In May 22, we were told to return to the half-surrounded Lysychansk and set up a medical aid point. When we arrived, two critically wounded men were brought to us. In that moment, more than ever, I felt that I was needed. And everything that happened afterward it was all not in vain.
A military doctor appeared. He was tall, thin man with bad posture and wearing glasses. When he started his work, I could see the innocence leaving his eyes. He was a gladiator ready to slice and stab human flesh. However, he would do that to make the human stand up and win.
Only the doctor could sense a true enemy. They both stood in front of the injured man, as if in a different dimension. For the sake of 21 gram, they. were ready for a deadly fight.
Both needed help at the same time.
Who first? asked the orderly attendant.
The gravity of the moment couldnt be overstated. The military surgeon looked at the soldiers and paused for a few seconds:
The younger one. unemotionally, decisively, and confidently, it came from beneath his mask.
Quickly! he ordered loudly and with urgency, and the sturdy young man was carried on a stretcher into the makeshift operating room.
For some reason, I looked at the wounded man who had given up salvation for his younger comrade as if I wanted to see his reaction and say: Friend, forgive us. You wont be abandoned. Youre not alone. Hold on. Hes just hes seen so little of life. Instead, the man lay unconscious, smeared in scarlet mud. He must have been five to eight years older than me, with dry, sinewy hands. The long, dirty fingernails on his right hand told me he hadnt left the trenches for weeks. On the left, instead of fingers, there was a bloody mess filled with mud.
In my mind, I saw his mother an elderly village woman with a headscarf, worn out from hard labour and the harshness of Ukrainian history, whose only joy and purpose in life were her children.
We began to cut the wounded mans clothes off, examining his body, trying to find hidden entry wounds that barely bled or were masked by smeared blood and dirt, but were so merciless in their killing. I began to recall Tactical Combat Casualty Care which we hadnt even been taught back then and the MARCH Algorithm seemed like gibberish now.
After some time, the doctor emerged, and they wheeled out Nazariy that was the name on his military ID. The surgeon shouted after him:
Monitor his pulse its stable. Next one!
I saw sweat on the doctors temple as he removed his bloody gloves and apron, washed up, and put on a fresh gown. We could sense the tension and chaos it was clear that things would become more complicated. I heard the defibrillator sound then again
At some point, an overwhelming fatigue hit me. I sat against the wall, remembering that I hadnt slept for over twenty?four hours. I cradled my head in my hands and closed my eyes. I dont know how long had passed before my comrade nudged me:
Lets go. Youll help.
Half-aware, I complied and followed him.
For the first time in this war, I witnessed a peculiar psychological phenomenon: when you fall asleep whilst stressed, and the only calming force is the person beside you you follow every command hypnotically, whether you know their name or not; the important thing is their digital?camouflage.
We entered the operating room, and saw a body covered by a blood?soaked combat shirt. Then I heard someone shout:
Where to take the two?hundred?
For some reason, all I could think about was where and when Id be able to sleep. When we zipped up the body bag, my comrade said hed seen an empty bunk in the basement and promised to cover for me.
Another norm of war: sleeping in buildings full of people youve never met and waking up to complete strangers. Its hard to describe how it feels to lie down in a half?basement without electricity, on a filthy mattress shared by dozens possibly the wounded. Your only light a headlamp from volunteers; you fall asleep to deep snores, despairing stories about assaults, and distant artillery rumbles. Your pillow is your fleece jacket, and youre glad just to loosen your boots a bit because removing them completely is a forbidden luxury in a combat zone.
How I longed then to hold my beloved pillow from home or a childhood toy. But instead, my pillow was my AKS rifle cold, its bolt pressing into me as I slept. And its absence sent me into a cold sweat. Your military ID and weapon are your only possessions. You belong to no one even yourself. But protect that weapon!
In the morning, I drove the wounded those who could endure the ride to a hospital away from the front. Among them was Nazariy. He turned out to be a cheerful young guy. He tried to joke, and I laughed not at the jokes, but at the euphoria of triumphing over death. I felt part of that triumph for life, smiling as he spoke.
We reached Bakhmut quickly at the time still a relatively peaceful city in the blossoming spring. On the return, I found his military ID in my vehicle and a photo of Nazariy, smiling and next to him, a photo of a young woman.
The next day was calm: wounded again, evacuation again but I welcomed the chance to return to civilization. Though Ive never been a coffee person, I always drank it when I got out of the front-line towns and into the rear areas. Then I realized that I had tasted the best drink, not because it was brewed differently, but because it contained the ingredients of Peace and Calm.
All that was left was to return Nazariys documents. I found the senior officer at the hospital and asked him to give them to the guy. The doctor looked at the officer, who called the orderly attendant:
Sasha, take them to the morgue its for that young guy, Nazar
For a few seconds, I couldnt process the situation and the information given. Then, with relief, I called the doctor back:
No, his name is Nazariy. I brought him in yesterday, young guy
The doctor looked at the documents again:
Nazar or Nazariy, thats correct. He died overnight
A few seconds later, I realized that I was in the way of rotations wounded coming and going. I was holding a cup of coffee but didnt finish it. I left it on the curb. I had to return to Lysychansk.
That summer, we fully withdrew from Lysychansk and it was occupied. Later, Bakhmut fell too. But I believe that one day we will return and drink the coffee that tasted of Peace.
標題：半杯咖啡
作者：Balakun
* Nazarnazar來自文尼察，是烏克蘭武裝部隊的一員，自2024年1月以來一直是Balakun社區的學生成員。請點擊此處閱讀更多關於作者的信息。*
在這裏，在診所的地板上，另一場戰爭正在肆虐這是一場不同的血腥的前線，有著它自己的英雄主義行為，它自己的英雄和悲劇，所有這些都被轟鳴的炮火聲所掩蓋。在這裏，決定了一個人是否能活下去以及如何活下去。這裏沒有震耳欲聾的爆炸聲或機槍掃射，隻有心髒監護儀那冷漠的、斷斷續續的嗶嗶聲像是空曠中孤零零的狙擊槍聲。
2022年5月，我們被命令返回被半包圍的利西昌斯克，並建立一個醫療援助點。當我們到達時，兩名身受重傷的士兵被送到了我們這裏。在那一刻，我比以往任何時候都更強烈地感到自己是被需要的。而之後發生的一切都並非徒勞的。
一位軍醫出現了。他身材高大、瘦削，姿勢不好，戴著眼鏡。當他開始工作時，我看到天真從他的眼中消失。他是一名角鬥士隨時準備切割和刺傷人的血軀。但是，他這樣做是為了能讓人站起來並康複。
隻有醫生才能感覺到真正的敵人。他們倆都站在傷員麵前，仿佛身處不同的維度。為了那21克的靈魂，他們準備好進行一場殊死搏鬥。
兩人都需要同時得到幫助。
先救誰？值班的護理員問道。
這一刻的嚴重性再怎麽強調也不為過。軍醫看著士兵們，停頓了幾秒鍾：
年輕的那一個。他麵無表情、果斷而自信地說道，聲音從他的麵罩下傳來。
快！他大聲而急切地命令道，這個強壯的年輕人被用擔架抬進了臨時手術室。
出於某種原因，我看著那位為了他年輕的戰友而放棄獲救機會的傷員仿佛我想看看他的反應，對他說：朋友，原諒我們。你不會被拋棄的。你並不孤單。堅持住。堅持住。他隻是他經曆的人生太少了。但是，這個人昏迷不醒，沾滿了猩紅的泥巴。他一定比我大五到八歲，有著幹燥、肌肉發達的雙手。他右手上長而髒的指甲告訴我，他已經有幾個星期沒有離開戰壕了。在他的左手上，代替手指的，是一團沾滿泥土的血淋淋的爛肉。
在我的腦海裏，我看到了他的母親一位戴著頭巾的年邁的村婦，被辛勤的作和殘酷的烏克蘭曆史所摧殘，她唯一的快樂和人生的目標就是她的孩子們。
我們開始剪掉傷員的衣服，檢查他的身體，試圖找到那些幾乎沒有出血或被斑斑血跡和汙垢所掩蓋的隱藏的開放傷口，這些傷口在險無比。我開始回憶戰術戰鬥傷亡護理我們當時甚至沒有學過這些而MARCH算法現在聽起來就像是胡言亂語。
過了一段時間，醫生走了出來，他們把Nazariy推了出去那是他軍人證上的名字。醫生在他身後喊道：
監測他的脈搏穩定了。下一個！
當醫生脫下血淋淋的手套和圍裙，洗幹淨，然後穿上了一件新的手術服，我看到汗水從醫生的太陽穴上流下來。我們可以感覺到緊張和混亂很明顯，事情會變得更加複雜。我聽到了除顫器的聲音然後又一次
在某個時刻，一種壓倒性的疲勞襲擊了我。我靠著牆坐了下來，想起我已經二十四個多小時沒睡覺了。我雙手托著頭，閉上了眼睛。我不知道過了多久，我的同誌推了推我：
走吧。需要你幫忙的。
迷迷糊糊的，我聽從了跟著他走。
在這場戰爭中，我第一次目睹了一種奇特的心理現象：當你感到壓力很大，並在睡著時，唯一能讓你平靜的力量是你身邊的人你會像被催眠一樣地服從每一個命令，無論你是否知道他們的名字；重要的是他們的數字迷彩。
我們進入了手術室，看到一具被血浸透的作戰襯衫覆蓋的屍體。然後我聽到有人喊道：
把兩百號送到哪裏去？
出於某種原因，我所能想到的就是我可以在哪裏以及何時能夠睡覺。當我們拉上屍袋的拉鏈時，我的同誌說他已經在地下室看到了一個空鋪位，並承諾會掩護我。
戰爭的另一個常態：睡在滿是陌生人的建築物裏，醒來時周圍全是陌生人。很難描述躺在沒有電的半地下室裏的感覺，躺在一張幾十個人共用的髒兮兮的床墊上可能還有傷員。你唯一的光亮是誌願者的頭燈；你伴隨著深沉的鼾聲、關於空襲的令人絕望的故事以及遠處的炮火隆隆聲入睡。你的枕頭是你的絨衣夾克，你很高興能稍微鬆開你的靴子因為完全脫掉它們在戰區是一種被禁止的奢侈。
那時我是多麽渴望抱著家裏的我心愛的枕頭或童年玩具。但是，我的枕頭卻是我的AKS步槍冰冷的，在我睡覺時它的槍栓壓在我身上。而它的缺失會讓我陷入一陣冷汗。你的軍人證和武器是你唯一的財產。你不屬於任何人甚至不屬於你自己。但要保護好這件武器！
早上，我開車送那些能夠承受顛簸的傷員到遠離前線的一家醫院。其中有Nazariy。他原來是個開朗的年輕人。他試圖開玩笑，我笑了不是因為那些笑話，而是因為他戰勝死亡的欣喜若狂。我感受到了人生勝利的一部分，微笑著聽他說話。
我們很快就到達了巴赫穆特那時它仍然是一座相對平靜的城市，沐浴在盛開的春天中。在返回的路上，我在我的車裏發現了Nazariy的軍人證，還有他的一張微笑的照片，旁邊還有一張年輕女子的照片。
第二天很平靜：接收傷員，再次疏散但我歡迎有機會回到文明。雖然我從來都不是一個喜歡喝咖啡的人，但當我離開前線城鎮進入後方地區時，我總是會喝一杯。然後我意識到，我品嚐到了最好的飲料，不是因為它衝泡的方式不同，而是因為它包含了和平與平靜的成分。
剩下的就是歸還Nazariy的文件。我找到了醫院的高級軍官，並要求他把這些文件交給Nazariy。醫生看著軍官，軍官叫來了值班的護理員：
Sasha，把它們送到太平間這是那個年輕人的，Nazar的
有幾秒鍾，我無法處理這種情況和所給的信息。然後，我回過一口氣，把醫生叫了回來：
不，他的名字是Nazariy。我昨天把他帶進來的，一個年輕人
醫生再次看了看文件：
Nazar or Nazariy，沒錯。他昨晚去世了
幾秒鍾後，我意識到我擋住了輪換的道路傷員來來往往。我拿著一杯咖啡，但沒有喝完。我把它放在路邊。我不得不返回利西昌斯克。
那年夏天，我們完全撤出了利西昌斯克它被占領了。後來，巴赫穆特也淪陷了。但我相信有一天我們會回來並且喝到那杯嚐起來有和平味道的咖啡。
