Burning Moscow

Chapter 154: Lessons Learned During My Hospital Stay (Part 2) I lay in the private room the hospital had specially arranged for me and slept for a full day. It was a deep and restful sleep, ever since leaving Moscow—first running around like a fire brigade with Rokossovsky putting out fires everywhere, then assisting the Panfilov Division, and finally taking command of the 8th Guards Division—I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in a long time. And given my deep understanding of the sturdiness of Moscow’s hospital buildings, I wasn’t worried at all about encountering any further danger. After waking up, I tried moving my body a little. Although my back and waist still ached, I felt I could get out of bed and walk around. I sat up on the bed, reached for the hospital gown on the nightstand, and tried to dress myself. The wound on my shoulder had mostly healed, and I could use my left hand with some strength, so I got dressed quickly. After getting out of bed and steadying myself, I tried moving my left hand. It felt fine when I bent my arm, but it hurt terribly when I fully extended it, so I wisely kept my left arm bent and pressed close to my side. I walked back and forth slowly a few times in the room until I felt I could walk normally, then I opened the door and walked out slowly. As soon as I stepped outside, I spotted the nurse who had been caring for me. She was carrying a tray of medications and coming out of a ward across the hall. I called out to her immediately: “Comrade Nurse!” She turned around, saw it was me, and smiled. “Comrade Commander, you’re up? I was just about to come help you change your dressing. Why did you come out so soon?” I didn’t answer her question but asked in return, “Comrade Nurse, do you know which ward Senior Engineer Flonin, who was injured in yesterday’s air raid, is in?” She casually pushed open the door to the ward behind her and pointed inside, saying, “Right here in this room. His condition has stabilized; you can go in and visit him.” I didn’t hesitate. I nodded, stepped past her, and entered the room. Old Man Flonin was lying in bed, his head still bandaged. I walked quietly to his bedside, pulled up a chair, sat down, and silently watched the old man lying there. To be honest, when I heard the news of those passengers’ deaths yesterday, although I felt quite sad, I also breathed a huge sigh of relief. You have to understand—with so many people from the future here, if just one of them had let slip the future course of history to the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the next day’s *Pravda* might very well have run a headline like a headline like “The Party’s Largest Conspiracy Ring Uncovered.” If that Khrushchev—whom I’ve never even met—were to be mysteriously eliminated, the future course of history would be thrown into complete disarray. It seems history does indeed follow its own laws of development, which no one can alter. Whenever a major deviation occurs, it automatically activates a powerful self-correcting mechanism to bring history back onto its original trajectory. These eight or nine hundred time-traveling passengers would have had a massive impact on this era, but a single German air raid reduced them all to ashes, erasing them without a trace. I never imagined that the mystery of the missing subway passengers—which had puzzled Russians for decades—would lead me, by a stroke of luck, to uncover the truth. but this truth I must bury deep within my heart and never share with anyone else. Besides, even if I did tell others, they wouldn’t believe me—they might even think I’m crazy. The most pitiful of all are the relatives of these passengers in the present day, who have waited for their return day after day for decades, never imagining that they would never come back. I sat by the bed for a long time, but the old man did not wake up; instead, the attending physician arrived. The doctor, wearing a white coat and a stethoscope around his neck, nodded at me as he entered, then went straight to the bedside to check on the old man’s condition. He merely listened to the old man’s heartbeat and was about to leave when I called out to him. “Comrade Doctor, please wait a moment.” He stopped in his tracks and asked, somewhat puzzled, “Is there something you need? “Comrade Commander!” “How is Comrade Fronin’s condition?” The doctor replied casually, “He’s out of the woods. The fractures in his limbs have been set, and with a month or so of rest, he’ll be able to walk normally again. He was conscious for a while last night, and I even had a chat with him, but…” At this point, the doctor began to hesitate. “But what?” I pressed curiously. After all, aside from me and Colonel Bezhikov, no one else in the hospital should know that the old man came from the future. Hearing the doctor hesitate, I thought he might have uncovered some truth, and I couldn’t help but feel a little worried. After all, in this country, learning secrets you’re not supposed to know can be a matter of life and death, so I wanted to get to the bottom of it. “He suffered a concussion during the air raid, which has caused partial memory loss…” “Memory loss?!” Hearing this, the word “amnesia” suddenly sprang to mind, but I couldn’t recall the Russian term in the heat of the moment, so I pressed on: “What is this condition?” “Amnesia!” Hearing the doctor pronounce the word in Russian, I couldn’t help but worry. If he’d lost all his important memories, what was the point of him being here? So I asked curiously, “Do you know what kind of memories he’s lost?” ” “He doesn’t even know his own name or where he lives. He just keeps muttering something about an AK-47 and a strange name…” “What name?” The doctor frowned and thought for a long time before saying hesitantly, “I think it was something like Mikhail. He spoke so indistinctly that I didn’t catch it clearly.” “Oh, I see. ” Hearing this, a weight was lifted from my heart. Although the old man had lost some of his memory, he still firmly retained the military technology he possessed. This way, he could provide advanced technology to defense contractors without leaking anything about the future that might affect the course of history. I sat by the old man’s bedside for a while longer, but seeing that he still showed no signs of waking up, I sighed, slowly stood up, and shuffled toward the door. When I reached the doorway, I glanced back at him one last time before closing the door. Not wanting to return to my own ward so early, I walked down the long corridor. I hadn’t gone far when I heard hurried footsteps behind me. Fearing the person might bump into me, I quickly pressed myself against the right-hand wall, intending to wait until they had passed before continuing. It was an officer who walked past; as he passed me, he turned his head slightly to glance at me. He walked five or six steps past me, then suddenly let out a cry, spun around, and rushed back to my side. Turning to face me, he asked excitedly, “Comrade Major Oshanina, is that you?” “Yes, it’s me.” I looked at the officer in front of me in surprise, sizing him up from head to toe. I wondered to myself, who is this? How does he know me? “Don’t you recognize me?” The officer abruptly took off his cap, his face beaming with unmasked joy, and said repeatedly, “Take a closer look, take a closer look—you’re sure to recognize me.” Under the dim light, I examined the officer once more from head to toe. This time, aside from clearly seeing the major’s insignia on his collar, I did feel he looked somewhat familiar, though I really couldn’t recall who he was. Seeing me shake my head repeatedly, he said with a hint of disappointment, “Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, have you really forgotten me? I’m Resdayev, commander of the 3rd Company of the Independent Battalion!” Commander of the 3rd Company of the Independent Battalion—the moment he mentioned the unit number of that temporary force, formed to gather stragglers when I returned from reconnaissance behind enemy lines, my memory suddenly came flooding back, and I immediately remembered who he was. Back then, before the assault on the station, I’d ordered him to lead the 3rd Company in escorting prisoners and supplies on a detour to the 316th Division. I hadn’t seen him since—I never expected to run into him here. I slapped him on the shoulder with a smile and said, “Oh, I remember now—it’s you!” Then I teased him, “Looks like you’ve done well for yourself—you’re already a major.” Restayev scratched the back of his head and laughed sheepishly, saying, “I owe this position entirely to you. Otherwise, I might still just be an ordinary sergeant or staff sergeant.” ” Thanks to me? That comment left me a bit confused again; I’m only a lieutenant colonel, and I don’t seem to have the authority to promote him to major. Fortunately, his prompt explanation cleared things up for me. It turned out that after he had escorted the prisoners and supplies to the 316th Division’s defensive positions, Division Commander Panfilov accepted the supplies and then ordered him to escort the prisoners back to Moscow. At the POW camp, he met a general from the Garrison Command who was there on an inspection tour. The general thought he was quite capable, so he transferred him directly to the Command Headquarters. So that’s how it was. If I hadn’t sent him to lead the troops escorting the prisoners and supplies back then, but had instead had him join me in the attack on the station, he would likely have fallen long ago, just like Ferstov and Pavlov. Thinking of this, I couldn’t help but sigh and say, “ “Alas! Of all the members of the reconnaissance squad who went behind enemy lines with me back then, you’re the only one left. What a pity.” Hearing my words, he replied with some confusion: “That can’t be! Aren’t Lukin and Sapochuk still alive?” “What?” The surprise he had brought me was so great that I could hardly believe it was true. I grabbed his arm and asked loudly: “What did you just say? Are First Company Commander Lukin and Second Company Commander Sapochuk still alive too?” “Yes,” he said with certainty. “They’re currently at the military hospital in Yuzhnaya. I visited them just yesterday. Lukin’s injuries are relatively minor; he’s already able to get out of bed and walk around. Sapochuk, however, hasn’t fully recovered from his back injury and spends his days lying in bed cursing.” ” Lukin, Sapochuk—I silently repeated these two familiar names, my heart filled with mixed emotions. My nose stung, and tears, despite my best efforts, welled up and streamed down my cheeks.