1942, September. Somewhere in the Soviet Union. There was a war, a fierce, bloody war. A terrible time that will be remembered for many decades with tears in the eyes. There were no birds in the forest. From the constant noise of artillery, tanks, many human corpses and just a terrible atmosphere, even the birds flew away, which created an even more depressing atmosphere. It was cold. The ground was damp, in some places there was mud. It was no longer light, there was no Sun, but the sky was white, but it was still dark. The trees were tall, and its tall green crowns oppressively closed the forest, made it closed, made frames. This month children were supposed to go to school, but young innocent hearts had to break themselves with war, be forced to grow up, often come face to face with the enemy, and instead of getting a bad mark in literature, today's children were preoccupied with something completely different, adult, frightening. And there is no dream. No empty promises, no lies, no empty talk. There is a war that has sorted everyone into traitors and people, but neither will have a good time, everyone will suffer. There is nothing in the soul. And only one path - to victory. Only one goal - to win. Only one reward - victory. Only one desire - to win and take revenge. Only one concern - war.