Kevin Bretonnel Cohen is the emeritus director of the Biomedical Text Mining Group at the University of Colorado School of Medicine and a combat medic in the Ukrainian Volunteer Army. His call sign is Knyzhnyk, meaning “scribe” in Ukrainian.
In this short essay for The Ukrainian Week, he shares his firsthand experience from the Ukrainian frontlines, talking about the sacrifices his fallen comrade and his family made, showing deep love and dedication that stand out amidst the harsh realities of the Russian-Ukrainian war.
***
For Fathers’ Day:
Dear David,
I don’t remember your name, so I’ll call you by my son’s—because you look like him. Same short, chubby body, with cheeks way too round for a man in his thirties. Same shaggy hair, same scraggly red beard.
When we picked up your dead body, whatever had blown your legs into an impressive number of pieces had also shredded your pants. It was February, and it was cold and inconceivably muddy and wet in the trenches, and you were wearing these insulated pants. Wonderful insulated pants, the kind of pants that you can’t afford on a soldier’s salary. The kind of pants that your friends and family take up a collection to buy for you. I saw those pants, and I thought: somebody really loved this guy.
I’ve taken care of a lot of guys in your unit. The guys with shrapnel wounds, with trench foot, with concussions. The guy who was so tired that he fell asleep on the table while we poked and prodded. Fell asleep, had a nightmare and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. He then woke up when we were finished, pulled on his uniform, and refused to be sent to a hospital in the rear. “My guys are still here,” he said. And walked out the door.
I’ve taken care of a lot of guys in your unit, so I have a good guess of what you would say if someone asked you about the sacrifices that you are making. If they have fought, they already know about the cold, about the wetness, about the mud that comes off of the wounded guys, the mud that clings to the floor of the stabilization point like the black, tarry feces that come out of your ass if you have gastrointestinal bleeding too low to vomit blood, and too high to come out bright red. But, that is not what you would talk about. I’ve taken care of a lot of guys in your unit, so I know that you were probably a volunteer. I know that you probably would look puzzled if someone asked you about your tough situation, about the sacrifices that you are making, because you don’t think that you’re making sacrifices. You’re Ukrainian, so you would look puzzled for a moment, and then change the subject by offering me a cup of tea. A cup of tea that you would not let me say no to. And some cookies, which I would accept without discussion even though I don’t want them because I’ve been here long enough to know that if a Ukrainian thinks you need to eat something, it is a waste of time to argue.
Your parents: I wouldn’t have to ask them about their sacrifices because I am a father myself. Because I am a father myself, and my son looks like you did. Same short, chubby body. Same cheeks, way too round for a man in his thirties. Same thick hair, same scraggly beard. I wouldn’t have to ask, because I saw those pants, too expensive for a soldier’s salary. I wouldn’t have to ask about their sacrifices because when we picked up your dead body, I saw those pants, and I thought: “Somebody really loved this guy.”
***
Knyzhnyk
