The army is a complicated beast. Even when you’re not on the front lines, it takes its toll. You don’t see your wife and kids for months, and the same goes for your relatives and friends. You can’t just stroll through the city whenever you want, savor a cold beer on a hot day, or catch a live national team match. If you’re lucky, you might see a replay at night, but by then, some jerk has already spoiled it: “We lost… now, everyone to the front line.”
Writing, my main passion, is out of the question here. Sure, you can keep a diary, but it’s not the same as crafting fiction. Fiction demands a level of silence and solitude, and you just don’t get in a tent crammed with soldiers. Yet, when you see photos from Ohmatdyt or hear your wife’s voice after she’s emerged from the basement with a baby in her arms following a long shelling, you understand why you endure all of this. Your suffering seems minor in comparison, at least for now. You hope it won’t get worse. And so, you endure.
Last night, after dinner, Denchyk and I had a quick sparring session. No boxing gloves, just our palms. It was like a game of tag but with harder hits. We were going at it so intensely that the guys decided to pull us apart just in case. Of course, we shook hands afterwards. I loved it. Denchyk is incredibly strong – fast, healthy, a real machine. He’s only twenty. If he hadn’t joined the army, he could’ve been a champion by now. But he still has plenty of time. We just need to win this war first.
When you’re off duty, you can jot down some notes or read a book. I still have Jack London’s stories about gold prospectors. Those characters face challenges far greater than mine, for now. But somehow, rereading these stories, just like when I read O’Brien’s tales about Vietnam, feels very fitting. Everyone spends their free time differently. Some watch stand-up comedians, some do pull-ups in their body armour, some read Harry Potter, and others watch Euro 2024 matches.
The other night before bed, I filled a small gap in my otherwise chaotic life by watching “Me and Felix” and “Rhino.” Both films whisked me back to childhood memories—those days of photo wallpapers and rotary phones, when a box of Christmas decorations could topple from the closet shelf (just like in the movie). I could almost hear Dad strumming his guitar and singing “Menthol Cigarette Smoke…”
As I lost myself in these nostalgic moments, snapping back to reality was jarring. It’s hard to grasp that I’m now forty, in the army, amidst a war where people are being killed in children’s hospitals. You force yourself to accept it. To endure. So that one day, everything would be alright again. And you can peacefully sift through that old box of Christmas decorations with your kids.
