- Raichi, listen. - the palm of one of the soldiers rests on his shoulder. - You have the only tent - a free one. Take it to you.
- I? What should I do?! - Jingo turns around, already thinking of sending, but looks back. The stranger looked up. From under tangled reddish-red hair, two eyes, almost closed from fatigue, looked at him. Or not at him. Rather, into the void. And there was so much fear and pain in those eyes - so much that he had not seen in any colorful and romantic description of boring Russian and foreign classics.
Jingo spits. Gin ignores him. It's annoying that you have to listen to someone. He insults Gagamaru, gets up from the ground and approaches the group of his comrades. "...hear, aren't you a saboteur?" “Look at your eyes, you can barely keep them open. And your hands, do you see how they are pounding?” "- See... What if he's pretending..?" "-...why doesn’t he even look like a Turk. Fall ours?" "- Yes, what is ours... Ours are not like that. Others..." "-...and I have nothing with me. I didn’t come to talk..." Pushing aside the soldiers muttering to each other, Raichi looks at what they are discussing. More precisely, that one. To be honest with himself, he was surprised. He had never seen such desperate people. Neither in childhood, nor in adolescence: even here, in the war, I saw only animal rage, but not despair. The very sight of a thin, shaking body in dirt, sand, dust and God knows what else, was the personification of this word. Through his raised hands, covered with bruises and scratches, the boy - and he really looked like a boy - begged for mercy. Yes, this exhausted, whining creature, God knows why, can hardly be considered an enemy.