Three Minutes

The first bullet cracked past my ear like a snapped branch. Then came the rest, a hail of them, chewing into trees and mud around me. I threw myself down, breath caught in my throat, chest tight with that sudden, electric terror that you don’t think about. You just react to it. My rifle slammed into the dirt with me. My cheek stung where gravel bit into it.

“Left flank! They’re fucking moving up!” Pasha’s voice came from somewhere through the chaos, maybe ten meters behind me, muffled by the roar of gunfire and the ringing in my ears. Or maybe it wasn’t him. Sound plays tricks in Bakhmut.

16:41

We had been moving slow through the brush, trying to get eyes on the enemy trench line we thought was abandoned. Should’ve been simple recon, in and out. But nothing is simple anymore. They were waiting. They had better cover, better sightlines, maybe even drones overhead. I don’t know. But they were ready, and now we were pinned.

I turned my head just enough to spot Kostya, low crawling with the PKM slung across his back, the belt of ammo dragging like a tail. The kid was nineteen. Still had acne scars on his chin. But he could shoot, and right now that machine gun was the only thing that could keep us breathing.

The ground around us was wet clay, shattered roots, old bone—some human, some not. War grinds everything into the same dust.

I counted seconds in my head to steady myself.

Four. Five. Six.

Then I moved. Low, fast, elbow-knee, elbow-knee through the mud. I had no idea where the next shot would come from, but I figured stillness was worse.

Then something hit behind me.

BOOM.

The shockwave slapped me forward into the dirt like I’d been punched by God. Ears rang high and hollow. When I tried to scream, nothing came out. Smoke curled in front of my face. Bits of tree rained down around me. My mouth tasted like iron and ash.

Volodymyr.

I hadn’t even realized I was crawling toward him until I fell into the same crater he was in. His body was curled like he’d just laid down. But his eyes were wide open. His mouth too, like he’d tried to speak but forgot the words. A neat hole just above his left ear. Blood soaked the collar of his jacket, dark and glossy. I reached out and shut his eyes with my gloved fingers.

“Sorry, brate,” I muttered. Or maybe I didn’t. My throat felt frozen.

16:42

I forced myself to breathe. Just once, deep. Then again. The firefight hadn’t stopped. It had only grown quieter, more methodical. Short bursts. Tap-tap-tap. Suppressing fire. I could hear the rhythm. They were advancing.

I checked my mag. Eight rounds.

Outside the crater, I saw shadows moving near the treeline. Friendly or not, I didn’t know. Couldn’t risk shooting. Then, a shape I recognised. Pasha, crouched behind a broken log, signaling. He jabbed two fingers forward and held up three fingers: three meters, advance. Then a wave.

I nodded. My body felt like it was made of sandbags, but I moved.

I crawled out of the crater. Gun in hand. Each movement was slow, deliberate. My left arm ached, shrapnel maybe, but it still worked. That’s what mattered. I slipped through the brush like a ghost trying to believe in its own body.

Kostya had found a good perch in a collapsed tree hollow. The PKM barrel jutted out like a dragon’s snout. He caught my eye, gave me a grim thumbs up. Then he opened fire.

The roar of the machine gun cut through everything. The enemy fire slowed for just a moment. Just enough.

I ran.

Six meters. Five.

BOOM.

Something detonated to my right. A mine or mortar, I don’t know. My side stung. I hit the ground again, this time hard. Mud filled my mouth. I spat, rolled, tried to crawl, couldn’t find my rifle—there. My fingers closed around it.

Then I saw someone moving through the smoke. Not Kostya. Not Pasha. Wrong gear, wrong posture.

Enemy.

I raised my rifle. He didn’t see me yet.

I fired. Once. Twice. He went down like a sack of shit.

Another shape flickered in the trees. I fired again. Missed. They ducked.

16:43

I was shaking. Not from fear… okay, maybe from fear, but also adrenaline. My heart was going to blow out my ribs. I had four rounds left.

“Push! Push!” came a voice. Pasha’s again. Closer now.

We moved.

Me, Kostya, two others, no idea who anymore. Names melt away in the fire. We took ground inch by inch, until we hit the treeline. I slipped behind a low ridge of rock and dropped to one knee.

Silence. For one heartbeat, maybe two.

Then a new volley. Rounds pinged off the stone behind me.

I didn’t shoot back. I just waited. I’d learned that. Sometimes, shooting gives away your life.

Then Kostya let loose again. That glorious bastard, chewing up belt after belt, carving silence from noise.

I flanked right, boots slipping in the red mud. I came up behind a half-fallen tree and caught another silhouette. This one had a radio.

I fired.

My last shot.

The man crumpled.

16:44

And just like that, it ended.

The shooting didn’t stop entirely, but it moved, off to the left, deeper into the woods. We had pushed them back. For now.

I slid down behind the rock, chest heaving, ears ringing. The mud was cold. My fingers trembled.

Volodymyr was gone. So were two others, maybe more. I hadn’t even learned their names. And I had no bullets.

But that’s the thing about war. It doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It doesn’t care who you are. It just counts in minutes. And each one you survive is a rebellion against the invaders trying to erase you.

So while the minutes stretch forever, they still end. And when they do, you’re either still breathing… or not. There is no in-between.

Three minutes.

That’s all they gave me.

Three minutes is a lifetime.

Three minutes is nothing.

Three minutes is all I needed.

Three minutes and it starts all over again.

Heroyam Slava. Slava Ukraini.

Bozhe, dai meni shche try.

God give me three more.