原文链接：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.
标题：半杯咖啡
作者：Balakun
* Nazarnazar来自文尼察，是乌克兰武装部队的一员，自2024年1月以来一直是Balakun社区的学生成员。请点击此处阅读更多关于作者的信息。*
在这里，在诊所的地板上，另一场战争正在肆虐这是一场不同的血腥的前线，有着它自己的英雄主义行为，它自己的英雄和悲剧，所有这些都被轰鸣的炮火声所掩盖。在这里，决定了一个人是否能活下去以及如何活下去。这里没有震耳欲聋的爆炸声或机枪扫射，只有心脏监护仪那冷漠的、断断续续的哔哔声像是空旷中孤零零的狙击枪声。
2022年5月，我们被命令返回被半包围的利西昌斯克，并建立一个医疗援助点。当我们到达时，两名身受重伤的士兵被送到了我们这里。在那一刻，我比以往任何时候都更强烈地感到自己是被需要的。而之后发生的一切都并非徒劳的。
一位军医出现了。他身材高大、瘦削，姿势不好，戴着眼镜。当他开始工作时，我看到天真从他的眼中消失。他是一名角斗士随时准备切割和刺伤人的血躯。但是，他这样做是为了能让人站起来并康复。
只有医生才能感觉到真正的敌人。他们俩都站在伤员面前，仿佛身处不同的维度。为了那21克的灵魂，他们准备好进行一场殊死搏斗。
两人都需要同时得到帮助。
先救谁？值班的护理员问道。
这一刻的严重性再怎么强调也不为过。军医看着士兵们，停顿了几秒钟：
年轻的那一个。他面无表情、果断而自信地说道，声音从他的面罩下传来。
快！他大声而急切地命令道，这个强壮的年轻人被用担架抬进了临时手术室。
出于某种原因，我看着那位为了他年轻的战友而放弃获救机会的伤员仿佛我想看看他的反应，对他说：朋友，原谅我们。你不会被抛弃的。你并不孤单。坚持住。坚持住。他只是他经历的人生太少了。但是，这个人昏迷不醒，沾满了猩红的泥巴。他一定比我大五到八岁，有着干燥、肌肉发达的双手。他右手上长而脏的指甲告诉我，他已经有几个星期没有离开战壕了。在他的左手上，代替手指的，是一团沾满泥土的血淋淋的烂肉。
在我的脑海里，我看到了他的母亲一位戴着头巾的年迈的村妇，被辛勤的作和残酷的乌克兰历史所摧残，她唯一的快乐和人生的目标就是她的孩子们。
我们开始剪掉伤员的衣服，检查他的身体，试图找到那些几乎没有出血或被斑斑血迹和污垢所掩盖的隐藏的开放伤口，这些伤口在险无比。我开始回忆战术战斗伤亡护理我们当时甚至没有学过这些而MARCH算法现在听起来就像是胡言乱语。
过了一段时间，医生走了出来，他们把Nazariy推了出去那是他军人证上的名字。医生在他身后喊道：
监测他的脉搏稳定了。下一个！
当医生脱下血淋淋的手套和围裙，洗干净，然后穿上了一件新的手术服，我看到汗水从医生的太阳穴上流下来。我们可以感觉到紧张和混乱很明显，事情会变得更加复杂。我听到了除颤器的声音然后又一次
在某个时刻，一种压倒性的疲劳袭击了我。我靠着墙坐了下来，想起我已经二十四个多小时没睡觉了。我双手托着头，闭上了眼睛。我不知道过了多久，我的同志推了推我：
走吧。需要你帮忙的。
迷迷糊糊的，我听从了跟着他走。
在这场战争中，我第一次目睹了一种奇特的心理现象：当你感到压力很大，并在睡着时，唯一能让你平静的力量是你身边的人你会像被催眠一样地服从每一个命令，无论你是否知道他们的名字；重要的是他们的数字迷彩。
我们进入了手术室，看到一具被血浸透的作战衬衫覆盖的尸体。然后我听到有人喊道：
把两百号送到哪里去？
出于某种原因，我所能想到的就是我可以在哪里以及何时能够睡觉。当我们拉上尸袋的拉链时，我的同志说他已经在地下室看到了一个空铺位，并承诺会掩护我。
战争的另一个常态：睡在满是陌生人的建筑物里，醒来时周围全是陌生人。很难描述躺在没有电的半地下室里的感觉，躺在一张几十个人共用的脏兮兮的床垫上可能还有伤员。你唯一的光亮是志愿者的头灯；你伴随着深沉的鼾声、关于空袭的令人绝望的故事以及远处的炮火隆隆声入睡。你的枕头是你的绒衣夹克，你很高兴能稍微松开你的靴子因为完全脱掉它们在战区是一种被禁止的奢侈。
那时我是多么渴望抱着家里的我心爱的枕头或童年玩具。但是，我的枕头却是我的AKS步枪冰冷的，在我睡觉时它的枪栓压在我身上。而它的缺失会让我陷入一阵冷汗。你的军人证和武器是你唯一的财产。你不属于任何人甚至不属于你自己。但要保护好这件武器！
早上，我开车送那些能够承受颠簸的伤员到远离前线的一家医院。其中有Nazariy。他原来是个开朗的年轻人。他试图开玩笑，我笑了不是因为那些笑话，而是因为他战胜死亡的欣喜若狂。我感受到了人生胜利的一部分，微笑着听他说话。
我们很快就到达了巴赫穆特那时它仍然是一座相对平静的城市，沐浴在盛开的春天中。在返回的路上，我在我的车里发现了Nazariy的军人证，还有他的一张微笑的照片，旁边还有一张年轻女子的照片。
第二天很平静：接收伤员，再次疏散但我欢迎有机会回到文明。虽然我从来都不是一个喜欢喝咖啡的人，但当我离开前线城镇进入后方地区时，我总是会喝一杯。然后我意识到，我品尝到了最好的饮料，不是因为它冲泡的方式不同，而是因为它包含了和平与平静的成分。
剩下的就是归还Nazariy的文件。我找到了医院的高级军官，并要求他把这些文件交给Nazariy。医生看着军官，军官叫来了值班的护理员：
Sasha，把它们送到太平间这是那个年轻人的，Nazar的
有几秒钟，我无法处理这种情况和所给的信息。然后，我回过一口气，把医生叫了回来：
不，他的名字是Nazariy。我昨天把他带进来的，一个年轻人
医生再次看了看文件：
Nazar or Nazariy，没错。他昨晚去世了
几秒钟后，我意识到我挡住了轮换的道路伤员来来往往。我拿着一杯咖啡，但没有喝完。我把它放在路边。我不得不返回利西昌斯克。
那年夏天，我们完全撤出了利西昌斯克它被占领了。后来，巴赫穆特也沦陷了。但我相信有一天我们会回来并且喝到那杯尝起来有和平味道的咖啡。
