"Without Me, you can do nothing."

      If someone says that going to the Special Military Operation is a mundane, almost everyday affair, do not believe them, because not everyone can openly express that the first and all-consuming feeling is fear, which lives in everyone—whether you are an experienced warrior and fighter or a recruit, conscripted or a volunteer. Or a mother seeing her son off to war. Only those who left with a cross and faith will say that the strength to overcome the horror of death and pain came from God. And those women who sent their children to the battlefields say that they have no right to lose their minds from grief, so that when the time comes, "the prayer of a mother will reach her son from the depths of the sea."

      A quarter of a century ago, when participants in the Afghan and Chechen campaigns called themselves atheists, almost every warrior firmly knew at least one prayer. Or the words of the prayer "Our Father, who art in heaven," which they recited before battle, in the trench, under fire, or over the body of someone they had called a friend just yesterday, saying goodbye today to "cargo 200."

      Then, the sacrament of baptism, seeking and finding help, forgiveness, and protection from Christ, was accepted by entire outposts of conscripts, not leaving behind even the career officers. Thus, Father Igor, a priest of the Vyatka diocese, inspired by Bishop Hrisanph to the martial feat, asked helicopter pilots to bring "crosses and strings" from the mainland, because the 350 pieces blessed for the Kirov soldiers by the Bishop were enough for two days.

      The sky is blue, but scarlet

      As a journalist from one of the Kirov TV companies recounted, his disbelief in God ended in an instant—on Christmas Day. "We got up early: it was barely dawn, twilight and a veil of rain. We went to the parade ground, where Father Igor was supposed to read a sermon and sprinkle the guys with holy water. Suddenly, in the heavy sky, a long hissing flash, and the quiet morning was torn by a voice: 'Red'... The outpost sprang into action, but not chaotically and fussily, rather purposefully and ominously—thudding feet, heavy breathing, sounds of commands. The infantry loaded into 'Urals,' the reconnaissance jumped onto the armor, the BTRs turned as if on racing cars... The column was leaving the checkpoint when what I call a miracle happened before my eyes: gray clouds, as if sliced by a sharp knife, parted over the outpost like a curtain in a theater... The sky became high, blue-blue and at the same time scarlet. A terrible wind rose, knocking us off our feet, and on the parade ground, on the elevation, stood the priest, his cassock billowing under the onslaught like a black sail, and the cross on a long chain waved through the air. Father Igor prayed, raising his hands to the sky... It was so... strange and majestic that I, like a fool, didn't even remember to take the camera out," recalls the journalist.

      By the way, while in the combat zone, Father Igor worked from early morning until evening, consecrating barracks, headquarters, and even helicopters. "Once, coming to the airfield at the request of the crew commander to bless the 'chopper,' I encountered 'misunderstanding' from the flight engineer, who 'was a Muslim.' I had to calm him down: fine, I'll perform the rite only on half of the helicopter... It was clear that there was no talk of any half, and the young pilot, who was probably among the not particularly religious, simply wondered if his prophet would be angry at Christ's protection," Father Igor recounted.

      Why they were silent about Him

      Then, during the Chechen campaign, few dared to speak openly about feeling "some kind of force" that pulled them from the jaws of death. They were also afraid to talk about how dark, inhuman forces became tangible and even palpable. Because they would be "recognized as having lost their minds from fear" and sent for treatment. But if in the 90s they were silent about God and the Antichrist, it does not mean that today they have forgotten about it.

      "We and a comrade were standing on the 'line,' controlling movement on the mountain road, covering our columns of cargo transport, tanks, and BTRs (we pronounced it 'BTR,' and the driver was called 'BTR guy'). That day it was raining, and water from the mountains flooded the checkpoint so that we couldn't light a fire to warm up lunch. We couldn't stand in front of the checkpoint—live target. We went behind a stone, threw a few branches, and as soon as the fire flared up, an enemy armored vehicle crashed into the checkpoint, flattening the foam blocks and wooden roof decking. A few moments, and instead of a checkpoint, there were scraps and dust. And we, though in shock, were alive," recalls Yuri Loginov, former head of the Ministry of Transport.

      "I wasn't an unbeliever," says Yuri Nikolayevich, "if more precisely, a calmly believing person—without fanaticism, but I knew prayers, just like my partner—'Afghan' Volodya. However, it wasn't customary to talk about it. But that day we, young officers, who didn't even have body armor, and our rifles were 'crooked'—with the sights cut off, admitted to ourselves that only God could give us those seconds that separated life from a terrible death in the meat grinder... We decided we would live a bit longer," he and his partner decided then. Yes, if someone tells me: it's just a coincidence, just luck, I will reply: never again have the mountains cried so hard as to flood our checkpoint.

      To come out of hell

      ...There is a small town in the Donetsk People's Republic, at the entrance of which a large Orthodox cross is installed. "When you return from a mission, there is a goal—to reach the Cross. You reach it, bow, and exhale—'I came out of hell.' About one of his Easter days, when they celebrate the Bright Resurrection of Christ—the triumph of life over death and light over darkness, Nikita Gorelov—a participant in the Special Military Operation (from December 2022 to September 2024), initially a sniper in the reconnaissance company, and later the deputy commander of the security platoon, now the head of the Sosnovskaya city administration—recounted.

      "On the morning of May 5, 2024, our unit was sent to a point to pick up water, gasoline, and Easter gifts. Before going on the mission, it was as if someone quietly told me, beware, something will happen... We loaded up fully, barely making our way back: five people—all in body armor, the load was heavy, but the mood was excellent—it was a holiday. Spring, the sky was high—blue-blue and the sun... Suddenly, right in front of me, a kamikaze drone—I only managed to shout to the guys to get as far away as possible and take cover. I didn't run myself—I was the commander, I had to answer. Moreover, the guys had nowhere to go: to the right was a field—mines, corpses... To the left—a strip of forest, from where the drone had flown out unnoticed. I bent down to the ground—very low, covering my head... I whispered: 'Save and protect,' and waited for the impact... One second, two seconds... I hear the guys shouting: 'Nikita, look!' About ten meters away from me or less sits a 'bird'... dead—the charge ran out. We went around it through the minefield and back to ourselves," recalls Nikita Gorelov.

      As Gorelov explained, he later realized that such a fall of the drone was contrary to all earthly laws: the speed of the 'bird' was over 200 km, I saw it right in front of me, clearly understood that there was only a moment left to live—one or two seconds was already a lot. But the kamikaze drone landed so gently, like a butterfly on a flower, that the ammunition (usually a grenade) did not explode. "When I came to the Special Military Operation, I was baptized, a believer. And my faith only grew stronger," he noted.

      As Nikita Vasilyevich recounted, without a cross in war, you cannot go: of course, you hope for friends who will help and cover you. But when you come without faith in your heart—after all, the brain is rational, then God speaks to you in the language of circumstances. And it is impossible not to understand, not to hear Him.

      "The reconnaissance company received a mission, we loaded into the vehicle, they shouted to us: 'With God, guys,' and one fool replied: 'To hell with it.' He probably thought he was joking. The fighters only glared at him angrily but remained silent. Half an hour later, we hit a mine—one wounded, tires torn, but we could still drive. We loaded the wounded, sent him to the medical battalion, and walked on foot to the deployment site until dawn. Now no one jokes like that anymore," Nikita Gorelov recounted.