"Fear is a strange mechanism. Turns off when I see a wounded person"
Medical service Lieutenant Burliyat Smirnova often hears the words: "Commander, you saved me." She doesn't remember the faces — only the nature of the wounds and the depth of the crater from which the fighter had to be pulled out. In her motorized rifle regiment, she is the only woman who remained on the front line despite the order to withdraw to the rear. Experienced fighters call her a guardian angel, but beginners quickly learn that her word is law. During her time there, she built an evacuation system where monitors at the command post, mobile teams of paramedics and anti-drone equipment work as a single mechanism. About how an accident with a lighter saved her life and why caution is more important than bravery at the front — in the Izvestia article.
Severed braids and the first frost
She introduces herself dryly, in a military manner: "The head of the medical service of the motorized rifle regiment, Lieutenant Smirnova, call sign Belka." Behind this laconic wording, there are thousands of kilometers of forest lanes, mined fields and night roads. There, fear is replaced by a single attitude — "we need to pick up, we need to make it."
The girl's path in the army began with the position of an ordinary nurse. Since 2015, she has been slowly climbing the ranks of positions and ranks. From the first days of the special military operation, she found herself in the thick of events, engaged in the evacuation of the wounded.
— It was very scary. This is my first combat action, complete uncertainty," Burliyat admits. — But fear is a strange mechanism. He shuts down when he sees a wounded man. You forget about everything, your strength comes from somewhere. You lift a stretcher with a heavy fighter and you don't feel the weight. The main thing is to take it out.
Burliyat Smirnova
The beginning of the special operation for her medical staff turned into four months of living "on the ground." February, March... Forest belt. There is no water. There is no shower. Just dry rations and a piece of bread, if you're lucky.
— We took turns washing — one at the wheel, the second watching the sky, the third holding a pea jacket to cover herself somehow. But it's freezing in February, and you can't wash much. Can you imagine what happened to my hair? — The girl smiles. — They had to be cut off later — they just turned into one solid lump.
But then the fighting was different. The enemy used mostly artillery, and an experienced ear made it possible to calculate the pause between "arrivals." Today, the sky belongs to drones.
The hunt for the "three hundredths"
Evacuation has become much more difficult. Previously, it was possible to count down 40 seconds after the explosion and change the position. Now UAVs are on duty everywhere: over the rear, over the medical center, over almost every path. Now ambulances are more like mobile fortresses: they are hung with nets and electronic warfare systems, and medics go to the task with anti-drone guns.
— It's scarier to work at night. It's frighteningly dark," explains the Squirrel. — And you can't visually detect the drone. Only the detector beeps, showing: "the bird" is nearby. But we carry out the evacuation precisely at night, it's safer that way.
The Burliyat has a well-established nest system. These are the points of shelter where a medic or a trained fighter who has been trained in tactical medicine at the training ground is on duty. The wounded man waits there until the sky clears. Sometimes you have to wait a long time. This is a painful choice of the commander — for the sake of one fighter, you cannot put the entire evacuation group at risk.
— The UAV sees everything. If a fighter is just sitting under a tree, he will be "painted" instantly. And in the "nest" he waits for the peak of drone activity. Sometimes you have to keep people there longer than you would like. One of the problems is that the enemy methodically hits the same wounded man in order to destroy the entire evacuation group that will come after him," recalls Belka.
Today, the medical service command post resembles a mission control center. Every point and every movement of groups is displayed on large screens in real time. Belka watches the monitors without looking up.
— It's easier to control the situation now. Heaven and earth compared to 2022. I see that the fighter is in hiding, that the "birds" are gone, that the corridor is clear. I give the command: "Drag to the next point," the lieutenant notes.
When the groups start moving, there is a tense silence on the radio. For her, these are minutes of extreme concentration.
— You understand that on your conscience is not only the life of the wounded man who needs to be transported, but also the fate of the entire group. Until they get out of the danger zone, everything inside is clenched into a fist.
There can be several such groups on the monitors at the same time. Each one needs to be "led by the hand" through a maze of attacks.
The price of a word
There are a lot of numbers in military statistics, but the Squirrel has its own account — for all the time it has not lost a single wounded during transportation. The rescued soldiers find her months later, sometimes they just recognize her on the street.
— They often come up: "Commander, that's when you pulled me out." But I hardly remember the faces — I usually look at the nature of the injury, at how a person holds himself," says Belka.
One of the most difficult episodes was the evacuation through a mined field under shelling. The command has arrived: there are wounded at the point. How much is unknown. We arrived in a huge KAMAZ truck, but the field turned out to be mined. I had to leave the car in the green.
"We went on foot, in a chain — the driver, the orderly, me. One after the other, step by step, so as not to step anywhere," she describes.
We managed to take out two. When they returned for the others, heavy shelling began. But there was no thought of leaving.
— People are injured, they are waiting for help. And then the shelling starts — should we leave them and save ourselves? There is no such thing in our practice," she says.
At such moments, the line between heroism and cold calculation is blurred. When a heavy stretcher cuts your hands, and the ground is tearing up around you, fear is replaced by a short thought: "We need to pick it up. The main thing is to convey it."
— God knows, I try not to think about anything at all at such moments. And it's unbearable to even imagine that someone will say later: "The squirrel got scared, left us under fire and left," admits the medical service lieutenant.
Even when the infantry cannot pull the wounded back to safe points, the Squirrel does not retreat and takes responsibility for itself. Recently, when she saw a heavy fighter on the monitor, she sent a "loaf" into the heat at her own risk. The car came through, took the people and got out. This is the daily work of the head of the medical service — on the verge of the possible, contrary to the logic of the shelling, for the sake of one goal: for everyone to return home.
A trap for a kind heart
March 2022 was a time of disillusionment for Belka. Back then, at the very beginning of the SVR, it was difficult to imagine that one could be afraid of, for example, civilian vehicles. But the radio stations kept sending disturbing messages: "A red Gazelle, a mortar is working," "An ambush on a civilian car." Later, the enemy's special services will confirm it themselves.: It was a tactic of the SBU to disguise militant groups as civilians.
"We were following the wounded through endless forest belts," recalls Burliyat. — On the side of the road, a man and a woman are waving their hands, almost bowing: "Stop!" The commander and I exchanged glances: what if it was a trap? We drove past. But on the way back, they were still standing there. We decided to take a chance.
A woman in tears warned: everything is mined ahead. And in the basement of the house there are wounded after the shelling. They told the driver, "Stay on the edge. If we don't come out in 10 minutes, leave."
There were indeed people lying in the house, it wasn't a trap. The squirrel helped them and took them to the hospital. But the fear of "peaceful" cars is still there.
Between Boss and Mom
Despite the harsh conditions, the Squirrel did not become embittered. Her unit has become a humanitarian hub. Doctors share rations with the elderly, give sweets to children, and give medicines to local residents. Caution has become a "religion," but it has not deprived humanity.
"We helped and we will help," she snaps.
Her name is different in the regiment. For some, she is the Boss, for others she is the Mother, but most often she sounds short and weighty: Commander. This appeal has stuck with her since the days when she commanded a platoon. There is no official coldness in it, only trust.
- Fighters sometimes say: "Commander, with you — at least to the end of the world. You are our guardian angel. We know that if you're around, nothing will happen," the Squirrel smiles.
There is a heavy burden of responsibility behind this soldier's faith. Belka remembers one of the trips with a driver, a young guy named Dima. The path led through checkpoints, where soldiers waved at them, pointing to the gaps ahead: "Where are you going? There's an attack!" But the "three hundredths" were waiting ahead, and there was no choice.
— I looked at Dimarik and understood: if something happens now, he will be on my conscience. And it's impossible not to go, and it's scary to the point of pain for him. Later, I asked him, "Dima, what if we got in? Would you blame me later for dragging you there?" He replied, "No, Commander."
This answer is the whole point of the Squirrel service. She knows that many people shut themselves in after experiencing the horror, looking for the guilty. But her people know that her every decision is dictated by only one thing — the need to save a person.
— My main goal is to avoid stains on me. To avoid a situation where I gave a task and we lost people. I'm not holding on to my life, I'm holding on to their lives," she stressed.
"Her word is law"
For Lieutenant Smirnova of the medical service, the front line has long ceased to be a temporary business trip.
"The soul is there," she admits. — Everything is clear there: you know what every fighter is capable of, who can be trusted with what task. That's where my real home is.
Burliyat Smirnova
Returning to the rear is much more difficult for her than going to the front line. At home, her mother's tears and her father's stern pleas: "Don't leave... resign..." leave a new scar on her heart, but Burliyat's choice remains unchanged.
This choice cost her her marriage. She got divorced in early 2024. My husband, being the commander of the medical battalion himself, set a harsh ultimatum: "Either you sit next to me in the rear, or you go home." For him, she was primarily a wife, but for herself, Burliyat remained primarily an officer.
"I'm a soldier of the regiment, not its nurse," she says. — How can I leave my people? What will I teach the personnel then, if I set an example of desertion from the area of responsibility? No, that's out of the question.
For Belka, "their own" is not just a line in the staffing table. These are the people for whom she is "responsible before God and their parents." And for the sake of this responsibility, she is ready to sacrifice personal happiness, proving that a real commander is not the one who gives orders from a safe office, but the one who shares bread, fear, and victory with his fighters.
Few people know that Burliyat Smirnova is the only woman in the regiment who remained directly in the combat zone. After the order to return all female military personnel to their permanent locations, she remained an exception.
"I'm sitting alone among the men at the regimental meeting," she says. — Newcomers, especially from the Caucasus, are initially surprised: "How will I obey a woman?" But they are quickly told, "Her word is law. Either you do what she says, or you say goodbye to the unit." The regimental commander says, "This woman has something that many of you don't have."
"I lit a cigarette and survived"
It happened near Rabocino. At the exit from the evacuation zone, a convoy of several trucks with wounded was covered by heavy mortar fire.
"We didn't calculate, we didn't think that they would start hitting this road so precisely," recalls Burliyat. — The shells landed nearby, and it hit the next car. On nervous grounds, I tried to light a cigarette, but the lighter in my hands jammed treacherously. She turned to the driver: "Give me the fire."
The driver struck a lighter, and Burlyat leaned heavily toward the fire. At that moment, an explosion occurred. A huge piece of glass pierced the windshield exactly where the lieutenant's head had been a second ago.
"If I'd been sitting up straight, I wouldn't be here anymore." But I have a ruptured eardrum, a concussion, a closed craniocerebral injury," she lists like a shopping list. — I was evacuated to the hospital. I refused to go any further. But after a month and a half, the left side of the body completely failed. Then I agreed. She was treated in Rostov. She received 15 days of release from service.
"And you used them?" — I'm asking.
— I refused. She returned to her home area on the same day.
The word given to the father
The character of Burliyat is not only the result of combat experience, but also a family trait. She grew up in a family where the ringing of medals and military uniforms were a familiar part of everyday life. My father served, my mother served, and now my brother, first and second cousins, are at the front. Burliyat is the second woman in the family to change from civilian clothes to camouflage.
"I tried to work as a civilian, but I quickly realized that the army was my thing," she says.
When I came to my father asking for help with the appeal, he was not happy. He warned me that it would be difficult — harsh life, endless business trips, lack of basic comfort. But seeing his daughter's adamancy, he set a strict condition: "If you wear shoulder straps, never ask for my help in the service."
"I gave my word. And I'm still holding it," the Squirrel says shortly.
Today, she understands that it was her father's school that helped her survive and become a respected commander. Her main reward is not the ranks, but the rare moments of recognition when rescued soldiers find her parents to simply say, "Thank you for your daughter."
— You know, at such moments, quiet pride takes hold, — admits the lieutenant of the medical service. — Yes, I could. I did it.
When asked about the awards, she answers the same way — without details. Medal "For bravery" of the II degree — for that very wound. The medal "For Bravery" was awarded after a very difficult operation near Rabocino. The medal "For the Rescue of the Dead" is based on the totality of hundreds of trips and saved lives. She doesn't remember the specific wording in the orders. Another statistic is important for her: during the entire evacuation, she did not lose a single wounded person on the way and none of the personnel.
Переведено сервисом «Яндекс Переводчик»
