The answer given by Kalachev did not exceed Malashenko's expectations, but even so it still made people feel helpless, painful, and extremely angry.
"damn it!"
boom--
Malashenko, who was anxious like an ant on a hot pot but had no choice but to relieve himself, could only relieve himself by venting the suppressed emotions in his heart.
His fists as big as sandbags were smashed firmly on the broken wooden table. Even the empty cup on the table was knocked several centimeters high by Malashenko's fist, fell from mid-air, and rolled to the ground.
The crisp sound of "bang" seemed to correspond to the sound of heartbreak.
"One year, I dare to guarantee you another year! In another year we will definitely overthrow the nest of those German bastards. Isn't there any way to make him hold on until the day when the red flag is planted in Berlin? This is
His greatest wish, he must see it with his own eyes before he dies!"
The emotional Malashenko was pounding the table and demanding answers from Karachev, but Karachev, who knew that his words were too full and still a lie, were unwilling to do so, even if it would allow Malashenko to find temporary relief.
The same goes for peace of mind.
"I still say the same thing, I can't give you any guarantee."
"Do you know what a powerful enemy Comrade Political Commissar is facing? This is the king of cancer! It's not breast cancer or even vaginal cancer that can be cured if you endure it for a while!"
"There is no cure now, and even extending life is almost impossible. I can even tell you that even if pancreatic cancer takes another fifty or a hundred years, there may still be no cure. If you don't go
If you study medicine, if you don’t understand it, you won’t know how terrible it is!”
"Materialists do not believe in gods, but pancreatic cancer is the messenger of death! It is the incarnation of Satan and the ultimate demon that harvests human lives! Once diagnosed, it means that the sickle of death has been placed on your neck and begins to cut off the flesh bit by bit.
Throat! Comrade Political Commissar is now using his own muscles to contend with the sharp sickle blade. Do you know what a great and respectable miracle this is?"
The more he spoke, the more excited he became. Kalachev, who started slapping the table, was the first to realize his gaffe. "A doctor should never be swayed by his emotions at any time." This was the advice given to him by his mentor, forcing him to regain his rationality and calmness.
The calm Karachev soon spoke calmly again.
"The medicine I brought from the United States is about to run out. I have to find a way to contact Jessica and ask her to send me another suitcase from the United States! The transportation method can be directly through the Lend-Lease Act, which is no problem, but
I don’t have the connections or the ability to deliver messages here. You have to help me, otherwise Comrade Political Commissar may not be able to last even a week once he stops taking the medicine.”
Malashenko, who was holding a cigarette butt in his hand, clearly heard every syllable that came out of Kalachev's mouth. He knew that Kalachev always had a "high-end suitcase" in his hand, which he brought with him from the United States when he got off the ship.
To be carried with you.
It is filled with all kinds of weird and tricky items that can only be used in difficult situations, but can save someone's life at critical moments. They are extremely difficult to get in the American market. A lot of them are still in the laboratories of pharmaceutical companies.
The gadgets, including the new oral compound morphine tablets that the political commissar has been taking, who knows what unpredictable side effects may occur after using them.
But, it’s better than letting people lie there waiting to die. As long as it’s stronger than this, it’s worth a try? It’s nothing more than treating a dead horse as a living horse.
The ability to obtain these things was not due to any extraordinary ability of Karachev, a "foreigner", but all thanks to the help of his little girlfriend Jessica, who had been tricked into sleeping with him and was in love with him. Her father was a member of the family.
The boss of a pharmaceutical company? The industry is considered to be in the middle and upper reaches, and the relationship network in both black and white is pretty good.
If he wanted to get more medicine, he could only rely on her. The key was how to contact him. After returning to his motherland, Karachev, who was completely unfamiliar with the place he was born in, had to find someone to help him.
"How long can the remaining medicine last?"
Malashenko, who kept tapping the table with his index finger, asked, his words full of uneasiness and thinking.
"If you only refer to Comrade Political Commissar, then four months is no problem? I just counted it. But... there may be other people, and other wounded people need the same medicine? Comrade Political Commissar is not the only one now.
We need morphine tablets. If this happens, the corresponding medicine may not be enough for a month? It may even be used up in two or three weeks..."
"..."
Malashenko, who has a black face, is so black that his face is dripping with ink. There may be a lot of life-saving medicines for those who are dying. Do you need to share them with those who are waiting for life-saving treatment? Among them is Petrov, the political commissar. The cruel reality requires that Malashenko
Rashenko must make a decision.
This is a painful choice that must be made. Should you save more lives? Or just save the one that is most important to you. As the leader of a division, you are trusted by your comrades to the point where you are willing to risk your life.
Malashenko? But he can only choose one of them and abandon the other.
Malashenko couldn't remember the last time he made such a painful choice? After being silent for a full minute, he finally opened his eyes again and slowly spoke.
"Unless I personally order it? Otherwise, these medicines have been "used up" and can only be used by Comrade Political Commissar... Do you keep this in your stomach? Don't mention it to anyone? Comrade Political Commissar and Deputy Division Commander
Not even!"
The moment these words were spoken, Malashenko seemed to feel something flying out of his body and soul, leaving him. Is that something that originally lived in his heart, invisible and intangible? But it was real.
something that exists.
Feeling that there was no need to say anything more, Malashenko wanted to be alone for a while, so he stood up from the chair while holding on to the corner of the table, which seemed a bit slow and difficult.
"Write a letter to your little girlfriend? Please explain the words clearly and fill in the address. Leave the letter delivery to me and deliver the things to me before dawn."
"Unless there is a special person who needs medication, don't bother me with a report? Just...that's it for now..."
Malashenko did not return to the living room of the hut where everyone was, but went straight through another corridor? He came to the back of the hut, found a leeward place, squatted down and lit a cigarette for himself.
For a long time, Malashenko has been demanding himself to be "perfect" and must fulfill his duties as a commander. Even the most ordinary soldier cannot live up to the trust that puts his life in his hands. Who is not the son of his father?
?No Red Army member is unimportant to his relatives.
But now, everything is a little different.
History: July 16, 1945, in the mountains outside Los Alamos, New Mexico, USA.
The first atomic bomb in human history exploded here, evaporated, and turned into a bright and huge mushroom cloud of strong light. The light of destruction it released could be witnessed by people hundreds of kilometers away.
After witnessing the Great Destroyer created by himself, Oppenheimer, one of the instigators, wrote this passage in his own notes.
"I became Death, the destroyer of worlds."
His college classmate and colleague Ben Brickey happened to see him and leaned over to say something to Oppenheimer who was sitting at his desk holding a pen and writing an inscription.
"Now, we are all sons of bitches that are cursed by thousands of people."
Malashenko, who was squatting in the cold wind and smoking a cigarette alone, said slowly with trembling lips.