The Contact Front | BANDERA FELLA

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Dawn hardly stirs as we inch through a mist-enshrouded valley; the stillness is deceptive. We forge onto terrain so familiar, memorized briefings containing every detail for a potential lifeline. Our unit slides forward, and one hears only the squelching of the boots on wet ground and the clinks of gear. Each of us breathes between the suspensions, sharp, tense, with the earthy smell mixing in, far away.

Suddenly, the tranquillity is broken as a sniper’s bullet hisses through the morning air with barely missing our leading man by inches. Instant command: “Contact front!” Years of training and countless drills click in as we scramble for cover. The valley becomes an anthill of deadly, swift movement.

My back pressed against the cold, rough surface of the large rock, my eyes scanning for the faintest movement or a telltale reflection of light that would give a position away. Steadying my rifle and squinting through the scope, I tracked the shifting red dot, moving left, right, up, and down, adjusting the scope accordingly. Command posts ran through the earpiece, rapidly exchanging coordinates and directives. Artillery support minutes out, but it’s one of those waits where, for every beat of your heart, it stretches into hours.

The enemy, of course, did not sit quietly during such a short intermission. The machine gun, which, of course, did not stop, burst to life, its rounds stitching the earth near our positions.

I bark the orders back to my team, my voice steel even with the flooding adrenaline. “Suppressive fire!” I shout, their answering sound coming back in ordered, methodical shots, keeping the enemies pinned.

The battleground comes alive when our artillery finally speaks. Ground shaken for that fraction of a moment, but the fire from the enemy has stopped at precise bombardment. From the enemy’s line, smoke is billowing—only the temporary veil that grants this momentary advantage.

“Advance!” My command cuts through the momentary lull. We move urgently, darting from cover to cover, closing the distance to the enemy.

And now, over the brow of the hill, the full extent of the disaster is gained.

The artillery hurled them back in disarray, and their fortifications were nothing more than smoking ruins. Some men came out, bewildered and defeated, throwing up their arms to surrender among the ruins.

The intense rush of battle subsides, leaving behind a heavy silence now broken by the labored breaths of my squad. We move from securing to beginning to administer aid for the wounded, theirs and ours equally. Professionalism takes over; this is routine after the storm, practiced and precise. The sun pierced the clouds full force, surveying the ridge it had so quickly hidden behind. Its light could be termed glaring if anything could be against the backdrop of destructiveness. This victory, if one calls it so, is not without its weight. Every such battlefield ‘win’ carries the solemn reflection on the price—etching the complex faces of young soldiers with the responsibilities of duty and survival. And now I looked out across the valley that lay quiet, and I saw the first light of day, extending their long shadows across the scene as though it was fortifying our gains with a little shot in the arm, a moment of calm belied by the conflicting path still ahead. Slava still ahead 🔱