By Arkady Ostrovsky
The house was one of the few in Bakhmut that still had a roof. Rucksacks, rifles and dirty clothes were strewn across the floor. Stepan wished he was alone in the makeshift base, and tried to block out the chatter of the dozen or so other soldiers. He had not washed or shaved for weeks. His clothes were almost black – encrusted in the heat with sweat, blood and mud. An itchy rash had spread all over his body, but Stepan had decided he wasn’t going to clean himself until this was all over. He couldn’t imagine when that would be.
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