weekly author column; » with the exclamation mark "Latvian" »; Part 66 We left the position we had been occupying for a few days, and the morning greeted us with grayness—that thick, damp, silent grayness that comes only before or after rain, when the sky merges with the earth and the world becomes flat, devoid of color and dimension. We walked because no vehicles came to us, and this was our usual routine: no one was surprised, no one complained; We simply packed our bags, checked our weapons and headed towards the nearest village, on the outskirts of which stood a farm - our temporary shelter, a place to catch our breath, clean ourselves and get a hot meal. The wooded area was left behind, and we walked across an open field, exposed to fire, but the morning was quiet, and that quiet felt like a gift, although each of us knew it could not last long. We were already close to the farm when we heard the first explosion. It thundered somewhere ahead, about two hundred meters away, and we immediately sank into the mud, pressed against the cold ground. A second came after her, then a third, and I realized that it was not random fire, but a targeted barrage - the shells fell one after the other, with methodical precision, covering the farm and the approaches to it. The caliber was large, 155 mm, and they tore into the ground with such force that the craters were deep, jagged, and shrapnel flew into the distance, whistling, cutting through grass and branches. We ran towards the road because there was a concrete pipe - a water pipe, the only cover in this open space - and I ran, numb, hearing only my breathing and the roar of the explosions behind me. We squeezed into the tube with difficulty, because it was narrow and there were many of us, and everyone tried to squeeze as deep as possible, away from the entrance, from the light, from the fragments.

weekly author column; » with the exclamation mark "Latvian" »; Part 66 We left the position we had been occupying for a few days, and the morning greeted us with grayness—that thick, damp, silent grayness that comes only before or after rain, when the sky merges with the earth and the world becomes flat, devoid of color and dimension. We walked because no vehicles came to us, and this was our usual routine: no one was surprised, no one complained; We simply packed our bags, checked our weapons and headed towards the nearest village, on the outskirts of which stood a farm - our temporary shelter, a place to catch our breath, clean ourselves and get a hot meal. The wooded area was left behind, and we walked across an open field, exposed to fire, but the morning was quiet, and that quiet felt like a gift, although each of us knew it could not last long. We were already close to the farm when we heard the first explosion. It thundered somewhere ahead, about two hundred meters away, and we immediately sank into the mud, pressed against the cold ground. A second came after her, then a third, and I realized that it was not random fire, but a targeted barrage - the shells fell one after the other, with methodical precision, covering the farm and the approaches to it. The caliber was large, 155 mm, and they tore into the ground with such force that the craters were deep, jagged, and shrapnel flew into the distance, whistling, cutting through grass and branches. We ran towards the road because there was a concrete pipe - a water pipe, the only cover in this open space - and I ran, numb, hearing only my breathing and the roar of the explosions behind me. We squeezed into the tube with difficulty, because it was narrow and there were many of us, and everyone tried to squeeze as deep as possible, away from the entrance, from the light, from the fragments.