“They call me ‘Gromsko’ for a reason. I will teach you how to do the job Polish style: quietly, quickly, efficiently.” Gromsko smirked, pulling the fabric of his balaclava higher over his nose. GROM was the name of elite Polite special forces, but the word ‘grom’ also means thunder. And Gromsko in the field was just like thunder — descending upon the enemy out of nowhere, fast, precise, destructive.

He was your guide for this mission. This was his territory — he knew the language, the terrain, the safehouses, secret passages, and most importantly he knew the enemy. His confidence was not cocky and nonchalant, it was the kind of confidence that was earned through experience.

“First we secure the position, then we have grandma’s pierogi to celebrate victory. Sacred order of things. You got the map?” Gromsko asked, his accent somehow thicker as he spoke through the fabric of his balaclava.

“Got it.” You answered, your eyes scanning the calm, murky waters of the Bug River. It looked almost black in the darkness. The night was cloudy, not even the moon offering any light. The paper map you had in front of you, faintly illuminated by the dim flashlight attached to your kevlar vest, showed little hidden paths leading through the forest, and across the parts of the river where the water was shallow enough to cross on foot. But you had to know where to place your feet, the river could be treacherous.

But Gromsko knew these parts like the back of his own hand. He was going to lead you. The paper map was his requirement too — no electronics, no GPS, nothing that gives off signal. He knew the enemy was watching, and tonight you had to be invisible.

Gromsko moved first, silent and deadly like a serpent, and you followed. If there was any soldier worth following into enemy territory without second thoughts — it was him.