Author's Note:
The individual who sent me this, known only as Alena, declined to participate in an interview. Instead, she provided me with raw, unedited footage documenting an assault to retake a section of trenches near Gagarine, Russia.
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The footage begins with a shaky, bloodied view through Alena’s GoPro lens, the camera bouncing with every frantic movement. She’s crouched in the cold, mud-slicked trench, her hands trembling as she fumbles with the tourniquet, struggling to secure it around the soldier’s mangled leg. The leg is a mess—barely a stump remains below the knee. Blood is splattered across her gloves, and her breath comes in ragged gasps, mixing with the bitter air of late October.
"Goddamn it!" she mutters under her breath, voice strained. The tourniquet slips from her fingers again, and for a split second, panic flickers in her eyes. She slaps it back into place, forcing herself to breathe as she tightens it. Another soldier leans over, helping her keep the man down as they work under the dim glow of their helmet lights, the sounds of distant explosions and frantic shouts blending with the harsh, rhythmic thud of incoming mortars.
"Push forward! Grab his ammo and get the hell out!" a voice shouts from above, cutting through the chaos.
Alena looks up, before pulling herself to her feet, desperate to stay focused. She helps a young soldier, no older than 17 his face a mixture of exhaustion climbs out of the trench, the name SASHA is written on his helmet in a black marker . He stumbles, pale and shaking, but she grabs him by the shoulder, before pushing him forward. The roar of mortar rounds landing a few hundred meters away seems to swallow the world, the sound deafening as they dash toward their objective.
She turns her head and looks at a knocked out T-72 tank, half deep in mud. The hatches open and one charred corpse halfway out of the commander's hatch.
"Slow down, you retards!" The sergeant’s voice cracks with frustration, barely audible over the roar of the battlefield. "You’re running straight into the mortar fire! Sasha, get the hell away from her, keep some goddamn distance!" His words are lost in the deafening noise, but they somehow push the group to slow their pace, their heavy breaths mingling with the explosions that now seem to come less frequently, though no less intense.
They keep moving, but the atmosphere is thick with tension. Every step feels heavier, more deliberate. The sounds of the world are a blur—the constant thud of artillery, the crackle of gunfire, the metallic shriek of tanks stuck in the mud—and in that chaos, something shifts. A shot rings out. Sasha firing an old, worn SKS in the direction where the mortars had just landed. His aim is frantic, untrained, sending erratic shots in the air, hoping for a miracle.
Alena’s head snaps in his direction, her heart pounding. She watches as he pulls the trigger again, a look of desperate determination on his face. A moment later, her own instincts kick in. She raises her AK74 and fires in the same general direction, her mind screaming to cover their flank.
"What the hell are you shooting at, debil?!" The sergeant’s voice, sharp and enraged, echoes across the line, but there’s no time to argue. As if on cue, the trench line ahead—a few hundred meters in front of them—erupts in a hail of fire. The whiz of bolts fills the air, the eerie crack of the rebar fired from crossbows mixing with the high-pitched sound of energy blasters.
The GoPro on Alena’s helmet jerks as she throws herself to the ground, the lens capturing the sickening thud of her body hitting the mud. The camera is focused on the mess of wet earth, shattered wood, and scraps of frozen vegetation surrounding her. She doesn't care. Her face presses into the cold muck, eyes scanning the chaotic battlefield. The hands that grip her rifle tremble, but she forces them steady, taking aim and firing.
The camera catches every jolt, every movement, as Alena fights to maintain control. The dirt streaks across the lens as she shifts, steadying her weapon. The camera catches the blur of her breath, every exhale loud in her ears.
For half a minute, there's nothing but the cacophony of battle. Then, the flamethrowers ignite.
A line of napalm surges forward from her left, the flame crawling through the air like a dragon’s breath, illuminating the darkness. The camera tilts slightly, catching a glimpse of the fiery arc as it splashes onto the trench ahead. The flames burst outward, engulfing the landscape in a searing wall of orange and yellow.
Smoke billows into the air, the camera capturing the moment before everything is consumed by the fire. The hissing of the flamethrowers blends with the roar of soldiers charging forward. The air is thick with the scent of burning fuel and the unmistakable stench of burning flesh.
The camera shakes with the intensity of the roar as soldiers rise from their crouched positions, rushing toward the trench. They move like dogs trained for battle, instinctively pushing forward, driven by a primal call to fight. Alena’s heart pounds in her chest as she watches, her helmet barely able to track the frenzy of the scene.
Something catches her peripheral vision—a dark shape kneeling. The figure freezes for just a moment, hesitant. Her instincts tell her to stop, but she falters, unsure of what it is. Then, the scream.
The camera jerks with Alena’s movement as she snaps her head to the right. A soldier from her squad is writhing on the ground, clutching at his leg. The camera captures a glimpse of his injury—shrapnel lodged deep, blood already staining his uniform. The wound looks horrific, burning as it begins to blister from the impact.
Her hands shake as she shifts her weight, her boots splashing through the mud. The camera captures her frantic movements as she sprints towards him. Her breath catches in her throat, but instinct overpowers thought. She reaches him for only a heartbeat, but then something pulls her back—the mission. The trench. The enemy.
Alena hesitates for just a second, but the sounds of battle pull her forward again. The camera captures her hesitation before her legs propel her back toward the trench.
The camera shakes as Alena throws herself into the trench, landing with a thud. Her rifle is raised, scanning the area for immediate threats. She spots her sergeant, crouched low with his rifle in hand, firing at a crab already lying dead on the floor.
The GoPro follows the movement of his rifle, the metallic glint reflecting in the dim light of the burning napalm. Alena kneels beside him, her eyes still wide, alert, even as the heat from the napalm scorches her back.
Minutes pass. The camera captures every movement, each step forward a battle. Alena takes point, her rifle raised, boots splashing through the muck, the faint smell of burning flesh still thick in the air.
She turns a corner, her breath catching as her eyes lock onto a crab—a massive creature, crouching in the shadows. The camera’s lens captures the click of its appendages, its presence unnerving in the silence of the trench. The clicking sound, sharp and rhythmic, echoes faintly before Alena raises her rifle.
She fires, the camera jerking with the recoil. Four rounds. The first hits the creature square in the chest. The crab doesn’t move.
For a split second, Alena freezes. The camera stays locked on the creature, the lens focused as Alena waits. Why hasn’t it shot back?
The crab shifts.
A click, then a sudden movement. Her heart races. Without thinking, Alena fires again. The camera captures the flashes of her muzzle, the sound of her rifle discharging, the dirt and dust moving around her because of her rifle. Four rounds this time. All hit, and the creature jerks back.
“One down!” Alena yells, her voice rough with adrenaline, the camera catching her triumphant stance at the corner of the trench.
Just as she exhales, a voice cracks through the chaos.
“Alena, hold!” The sergeant’s voice is distant but urgent. “Sasha, get the flamethrower up here—NOW!”
The camera tracks the sergeant and the two soldiers with the flamethrower as they rush to catch up. The flamethrower barely squeezes past them, the heavy tanks awkward, but they know the importance of their weapon. The camera briefly catches the flicker of the flamethrower’s tank before they vanish into the smoke-filled corridor ahead.
“Stay here, and when the second squad arrives, guide them to us!” the sergeant barks.
The camera remains focused on the trench as Alena’s hands grip her rifle, watching them disappear into the haze. The ground is thick with tension, each second dragging longer than the last.
Then, the sound of a bolt cuts through the air. The camera shakes slightly as Alena looks up, listening. It’s distant, but enough to send a chill down her spine.
The explosion is instantaneous. The camera jerks violently as the shockwave hits. The flamethrower erupts in a hellish fireball, lighting up the trench in a blinding orange and red bloom. The blast consumes everything in its path, and Alena instinctively ducks, throwing herself against the trench wall as the heat slams into her back.
The camera catches the horrific roar of the explosion, the flames rushing through the trench, consuming everything. The screams are deafening as the heat scorches the air, mixing with the stench of burning fuel and flesh. The camera shakes, briefly losing focus as Alena tenses, trying to shield herself from the firestorm.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence—broken only by the screams. Alena’s heart pounds in her chest as the air fills with cries of pain, desperate, guttural, raw. The sound of agony slices through the smoke, twisting Alena’s insides.
The camera shifts again as Alena’s rifle jerks in her hands. She spots a crab outside the trench, charging toward the position she and her squad had just attacked. Without thinking, she lifts her AK-74, aiming down the sights. The camera follows her line of fire as she takes the shot. The first one misses, but the second strikes, the creature jerking violently before collapsing in a heap.
Before she can take a breath, another figure catches her eye—fifty meters away, standing tall, aiming in her direction. Alena sees the flash of a blaster, and the camera catches the deadly arc of the explosive round. It detonates just meters from her position, the shockwave slamming into her like a battering ram.
The blast ignites in a burst of incendiary flames, sending shrapnel flying. The camera captures the heat, the light flickering across the lens, distorting the view for a moment. Alena ducks, the blast almost knocking her off her feet. She crawls forward instinctively, her breath ragged, gasping for air as she scrambles away.
The camera stays steady, capturing every frantic movement, the dirt and grime mixing with her sweat as she digs her fingers into the ground. Each breath is a struggle as she claws forward, the air thick with smoke and the stench of battle.
She moves ahead, every step a desperate push to escape the chaos. The camera captures the blur of the battlefield as she inches closer to safety—closer to her squad.
The trench ahead deepens, a faint hope rising in her chest. She calls out, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the war.
“Human!”
She peeks around the corner, the camera catching a glimpse of a soldier from her platoon climbing out. The soldier turns, and his face morphs from determination to shock.
Before he can react, an explosive round hits him. The camera captures the impact as his body is torn apart, the explosion splitting him in two. The force sends his lower half collapsing back into the trench while his upper body is nowhere to be seen. The camera shakes violently as Alena stumbles back, her heart racing in her chest, the horror of the moment impossible to ignore.
The world around her spins, but survival takes over. She lifts her head, rifle still clutched in her hands, scanning for any sign of movement.
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The camera shakes with each breath, its lens capturing the dirt and mud splattering across the view. Alena’s chest rises and falls heavily, her breathing labored as the sounds of chaos and distant explosions echo in the background.
The screen is smeared with blood, some of it her own, the lens now focused on the ground beneath her feet. A faint clicking noise can be heard—an odd, mechanical rhythm—before she pulls herself up, her gloved hands tightening around the rifle, the metal glinting briefly as she shifts it.
Alena’s eyes dart back and forth, and the camera captures the erratic movement of her helmet, her face barely visible through the grime. She crouches, her rifle aimed straight ahead. The camera’s view is narrow, only showing the part of the trench she’s focusing on.
She pulls the charging handle back, checking the chamber.
Mud.
Her expression flickers, frustration creeping into her tense jaw as the camera catches her fingers brushing against the weapon. She wipes the lens with her sleeve briefly, the motion jerky.
The clicking sound grows louder, more distinct, and the camera captures Alena's eyes narrowing, a flash of recognition, but no time to think.
Her breath stops as a massive figure emerges from the trench. The camera is fixed, capturing only the strange, hulking form in front of her. It’s a crab-like creature, nearly 8 feet tall, armored with red, segmented plating. Its body shimmers beneath the dim light. Its head is alien—shrimp-like, with long sensory appendages, and two wide, dark eyes scanning the battlefield. The camera lens locks on its movements, its grotesque form slowly approaching Alena’s fallen comrade, the body sprawled just outside the trench.
The creature stops. It clicks its mandibles. Then, it turns.
Its eyes lock on Alena.
The GoPro catches the rapid rise of her shoulders as she breathes heavily, the rifle's muzzle now aimed at the alien figure.
Clicking. The noise is louder now, closer. Alena’s finger tenses on the trigger, and the camera follows the barrel as she fires. The camera jerks with the recoil, but the shot misses. Her breath comes faster.
Click.
The creature raises its own weapon, a sharp mechanical whirring sound filling the air as it fires. The camera captures the impact in the dirt just ahead, the blast throwing fragments of mud and rock against the lens. The shockwave rattles the camera, shaking it violently.
Alena’s rifle is already back up, aimed again, and she fires another shot. The camera catches the brief flash of the muzzle, then the bullet hits. The alien stumbles, but it doesn’t fall. It’s still standing, unphased.
Click.
A second shot from the creature. The camera catches the explosive round streaking just past her, a few meters away, the blast sending a wave of heat and debris against the lens, warping the view. She ducks instinctively, but the blast doesn’t catch her.
She fires again. The camera shakes as the rifle recoils, and two shots hit, but the creature remains standing. Its armor dents slightly where the bullets hit, but it’s not enough.
Click, click, click.
The creature raises its weapon again, the mechanical hiss building in the tense silence.
Alena’s breathing comes in short, frantic gasps. The camera lingers on her helmet as she stares down the barrel, her hand steady on the rifle. The creature is still there. It’s not retreating.
Her finger tightens on the trigger again.
BAM.
The GoPro on Alena's helmet captures the sudden drop of the crab’s body. It collapses in an instant, its limbs jerking unnaturally as if the life inside it had been extinguished with the flick of a switch. The camera catches the moment it crumples to the ground, the legs twitching in their final spasms before stillness sets in.
The lens shakes as Alena’s breath quickens, but just before she can react, another figure comes rushing towards the now-dead crab’s position. The camera tracks the smaller creature, its movements swift, its red markings clearly visible against the backdrop of smoke and fire. The creature peers down into the trench, its round, black eyes locking onto Alena.
Before she can make her next move, the creature swiftly raises its rebar blaster, aiming directly at her. The camera shakes again as Alena’s body stiffens, the faintest motion of her shoulders as she braces herself.
The first bolt of rebar flies through the air, slamming into her chest. The impact sends a shock through her, but her body armor absorbs the hit. The camera jerks slightly as the rebar fragments upon contact, shards of metal scattering from the force. Alena stumbles back, a sharp gasp escaping her lips, but she barely has time to recover before the second bolt comes.
This time, the rebar slams into her lower right leg. The camera captures her agonizing scream as the thick metal pierces through her thigh. The lens shakes violently as Alena stumbles, her body crumpling under the weight of the pain, the rebar lodged deep within her flesh.
She struggles to lift her rifle, fingers trembling, but the pain is overwhelming. Before she can aim, another bolt slams into her body, just out of the frame of the camera. The camera captures the subtle jerk of her body as the third bolt strikes, and her scream echoes through the battlefield, her entire form jerking with the impact.
But before Alena can even attempt to regain her composure, the sound of crabs clicking and her screams is drowned out by the sudden roar of a machine gun. The GoPro shakes with the violent noise as the creature’s body is torn apart by the rapid fire, the rebar blaster in its hands no longer a threat.
The camera follows the creature’s last moments—its body disintegrating under the relentless barrage of bullets. The harsh cackling of the machine gun fills the air, cutting through the battlefield’s chaos as the crab-like figure crumbles to the ground and out of sight.
The GoPro stays fixed on Alena as she fights to stay conscious, the chaos of the battlefield continuing around her in a blurred haze. Her breath comes in desperate, jagged gasps, each inhale shaky and uneven as the pain surges through her body. Her face, smeared with dirt and blood, contorts in agony as tears mix with the grime on her cheeks. Her hands shake violently as she tries to reach for the tourniquet strapped to her vest, but every movement is heavy, slow, and agonizing.
The camera captures her fingers trembling as she struggles to grip the strap, slipping in the blood that covers her hands. She winces, a choked sob escaping her throat as the pain in her leg intensifies, the blood pooling and leaking out in waves. The sound of her muffled crying, punctuated by her sharp breaths, is the only noise that cuts through the raging battlefield.
She finally manages to wrap the tourniquet around the gaping wound in her leg, her hands trembling uncontrollably as she tightens it. Each pull sends a wave of agony through her body, her face scrunching in pain as the muscles in her leg spasm. The tourniquet digs into her skin, a temporary solution, but she knows it won’t be enough.
Alena gasps, her body shaking with sobs, the camera capturing the raw emotion in her face as tears fall freely down her cheeks. Her breath comes in strangled cries, the weight of the pain, the fear, and the loss threatening to overwhelm her. The camera catches the stark contrast of her vulnerability—broken, crying, and alone—while the sounds of battle continue to rage beyond her.
She struggles to open her bag, hands slick with blood, each movement slow and desperate. With trembling fingers, she rips open the packet of blood clotting powder. She looks at it for a moment, disoriented, and then pours the contents into the wound on her lower abdomen. The powder spills out in a messy cascade, mixing with the blood as she presses it in. Another sob escapes her, her chest heaving as she bites down on her lip, trying to hold back the full weight of the pain. But it’s impossible. The sobs continue, escaping her in broken, ragged breaths.
Her face crumples, the tears flowing freely now as she gasps, trying to steady herself. Her body trembles with the effort of survival, but everything feels too much. Every cry she tries to stifle, every inch she moves, it’s all consumed by the overwhelming sense of helplessness.
The camera, locked onto Alena’s face, shakes with her violent sobs and the chaotic tremor in her hands. The world around her is still a blur of blood, smoke, and the sounds of war, but for a moment, everything feels like it’s slowing down. The pain in her leg is unbearable, but she forces herself to focus on what she can. The world is a haze, and every second seems to stretch into eternity. Her breathing is ragged, gasping for air, her chest rising and falling in erratic motions.
Suddenly, a figure drops down beside her with a soft thud. The camera catches a glimpse of a combat boot hitting the dirt before everything else happens in a blur. Instinctively, Alena’s trembling hand drops the tourniquet, and she reaches for her rifle, pulling it up to aim at the new threat. But before she can even bring it in his direction, something hits her weapon—a boot, forcefully kicking it away with its sole. The sound of metal scraping against the muddy ground is sharp and jarring, but the figure is already moving, the commando's boot catching her rifle and knocking it from her grip. Her heart races as she sees the barrel of an AK pointed at her, the muzzle flashing in the dim light as it’s aimed directly at her face.
She freezes, her eyes wide in fear and confusion, but the commando doesn’t shoot. Instead, he yells something in a guttural tone, the harshness of his words cutting through the air before he nods at her as if telling her without words everything would be alright, something she struggles to do in turn. It’s not the frantic urgency of her sergeant, but a calm, deliberate command in Vietnamese. Alena can barely process the words, too disoriented from the shock and pain to understand, but she knows he’s talking to his squad. The commandos own red GoPro flash reflects off the camera attached to her helmet, a brief signal of recognition before everything speeds up again.
A pair of hands appears from behind her, gripping her under the arms and lifting her up roughly. The pain flares in her leg, and she screams, her body stiffening with the force of it, but the hands keep pulling her. Another pair grabs her legs, lifting her in a swift, coordinated motion as if she’s nothing more than a weight to be hauled.
There’s a blur of movement—two pairs of hands, rough and strong, grabbing her arms and legs. The sharp sound of her screams echoes through the air, muffled by the chaos. Her body twists against them, but they’re relentless, hauling her out of the trench with a single-minded determination. The camera shakes as her body is lifted higher, her legs dangling as the weight of her injury sends another pulse of pain through her.
The tarp. It comes into view, catching the edges of the camera's lens as she’s carefully laid onto it. It shifts beneath her, the jarring motion only making her pain worse. Ropes are quickly pulled tight around her, securing her to the tarp as the camera lingers on the tight, jagged knots tying her down. Every movement, every adjustment, seems to send waves of pain through her body. Her leg is still bleeding, her screams fading into ragged gasps as the camera captures only the blur of her body being secured.
Smoke grenades explode in flashes of green and orange, filling the air with thick clouds. The camera captures the haze swirling around, thick and suffocating. It swings erratically as Alena’s body is pulled, the motion of the commandos running making the world a blur. There’s no focus on her face, no sign of her expression, just the blur of muddy ground, the rough heave of her body, and the chaos surrounding her.
The soldiers move fast, the sound of their boots pounding against the muddy ground blending with the background noise of distant gunfire and explosions. The camera shakes violently with each jarring step, the muffled thud of her body being dragged along with the motion. The air is thck with smoke, the world around her a distorted mass of fire, chaos, and shadow.
Her body jerks on the tarp with every step they take, her leg bouncing and pulling painfully against the ropes that hold her. The camera captures brief moments—glimpses of soldiers’ faces, their hurried movements as they sprint, the blur of their figures rushing to get her out.
The tracked APC ambulance rumbles along, the constant shaking reverberating through the stretchers and the personnel crammed inside. The harsh, mechanical sound of its engine is accompanied by the soft, wet noise of a man above her, leaking blood down onto her uniform. The camera remains fixed on Alena’s helmet, showing only glimpses of the chaos and noise that surrounds her as the world outside is a blur of motion.
A hand, gloved in plastic, comes into view, moving carefully across her face. The fingers are gentle but firm, unstrapping her helmet with practiced ease. The GoPro catches the moment when the helmet is pulled off, its red flash briefly illuminating her surroundings before being dropped to the ground by her feet.
The camera remains motionless as her face is revealed. Her eyes are shut, her skin pale and slick with sweat, but there’s no expression—just the faint rising and falling of her chest, her breath shallow, as though every inhale is a battle.
The Mongolian medic, silhoetted by the flickering light, moves into view. She hovers above Alena, her face a mask of concentration as she surveys the soldier’s body with practiced precision. The camera captures only the medic’s hands, gloved in plastic, moving methodically over Alena’s chest and legs to check for injuries. Her eyes flick back and forth between Alena’s body, checking for wounds missed in the chaos of the battlefield.
The medic pauses above her chest, her fingers brushing over the straps of the body armor. She frowns slightly, her brow furrowing as she studies the armored plating. The camera focuses on her eyes, tracing the careful deliberation in her gaze as she assesses how best to remove the body armor. With a quick, precise motion, she begins to work on the straps, fingers working deftly over the buckles, her gaze darting between the armor and Alena's fragile, battered form.
The camera remains fixed to Alena’s helmet, capturing the chaos of her surroundings as she is lifted from the battlefield. The deafening noise of gunfire and explosions slowly fades, replaced by a soft, constant hum of medical equipment and the low murmur of voices. It’s a stark contrast to the hellish scene she just came from.
Alena’s body is still, lying on a cot in the sterile medical tent. The only sign of life is the faint rise and fall of her chest, the labored breath barely audible. Her helmet, no longer on her head, rests by her feet, its camera still blinking red, recording every moment. The view is jarring—her hands and legs, stained with blood and dirt, are all the camera captures as it remains fixed on her body. Her face stays obscured, hidden from view, even as the medics work frantically around her.
The two medics move quickly, their hands skllde and precise. The man in the Japanese Self-Defense Force uniform, with a medic arm band, leans over her abdomen. His eyes scan the damage, and he speaks in a low, calm tone.
“Yeah, this one we can still save,” he says, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. He looks down at her legs, where tourniquets are tightly applied. “Tourniquet stopped the bleeding in her legs. The wound on her abdomen isn’t that terrible, but it’s going to need attention.”
The Chinese PLA medic, standing beside him, shines a small flashlight over Alena’s wounds. His gaze is intense, his hands precise as he inspects the rebar sticking out of her lower abdomen and leg.
"EOD told us it's rebar,” he says, his accent thick but the meaning clear. He gestures to the metal shards protruding from Alena’s body. “You can see it here and here.”
The Japanese medic nods, wiping sweat from his forehead as he assesses the situation. “Is it safe to move her? We got EOD approval before she was brought in?”
The PLA medic glances briefly at the other, his brow furrowed in concentration as he continues to inspect the injuries. “Yes. Rebar, no explosives. Clear. She’s stable for now.”
The Japanese medic exhales, his shoulders slightly relaxing, but the seriousness of the situation still evident in his eyes. “Good. Get her ready for the surgery table. Stay focused.”
After a long, silent pause, the PLA medic finally leans down toward Alena's helmet, his hand reaching for the GoPro mounted on it. His fingers, gloved in plastic, press the button to turn off the camera. The red light blinks once, twice, and then fades to darkness.
The recording ends.
