— The hatch was open, Petrov was sitting in the same position. I called him again, but he was silent. …

— The hatch was open, Petrov was sitting in the same position. I called him again, but he was silent. Reaching out my hand, I turned off the headlight and instinctively pressed myself against the armor, waiting for the grenade launcher to fire, and waited for half a minute. The enemy ignored me, or maybe he just missed it. I really didn’t want to climb onto the armor; there I would become a good target. But there was nothing to do.

I first lay down on the armor and, hanging down through the hatch, threw the major’s body back. A warm stench hit my face from the car: diesel fuel, fresh blood, exhaust gases and gunpowder.

Petrov’s skull glowed in the semi-darkness, without a scalp; it was blown away by shrapnel or a cumulative jet. I knelt down by the hatch, took the wounded man by the collar of his pea coat and pulled. My fingers, like a sponge, squeezed hot bloody fluid out of the fur collar. I pulled with all my might – Petrov’s hands began to lift up, and I only pulled off his peacoat without moving him. Thinking, I sat down on the armor and completely lost my fear. The bullet struck the armor plate with a squeal, knocking out sparks with a ricochet.

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An honest story from company commander Rustem Klupov about the death of the Maykovskaya brigade on the night of January 1, 1995

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