Tails of Forgotten Wars

By ARMistor

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction and AI generation. The stories told are inspired by real events.

A Free Meal

''I just wanted a free meal, but they spilled more blood than I would. The difference is, I had to, But they didn't...''

- The silent witness

Smolensk Oblast, USSR, November 1941...

The wind carried the scent of frost through the birch forest. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their pale trunks glowing faintly under a sliver of moonlight. It was late November, and snow had begun its slow, relentless advance over the land. Beneath the silver canopy, a young red fox crept silently, his ears swiveling at every creak of a branch or distant sound. His movements were precise, almost cautious, but his golden eyes betrayed his urgency. Hunger gnawed at his belly, sharper than the cold that bit at his paws.

His name was Miloš—not that anyone had ever spoken it aloud. He had no family left to name him, no den to call home. As a kit, he had roamed the edges of a Soviet oblast farm, where humans toiled in their fields. The humans fascinated and frightened him in equal measure. They were loud, with booming voices and strange metal beasts that roared and spat smoke, but they were also providers of scraps—bread crusts, potato peels, and the occasional carelessly guarded chicken.

Tonight, desperation pushed him closer to their world than ever before.

The farm lay in a shallow valley just beyond the trees, its cluster of low wooden buildings surrounded by dark, barren fields. The air smelled of damp wood, old hay, and something richer—warm feathers and life. Miloš's nostrils flared as he caught the faint, tantalizing scent of chickens.

The farmhouse was dark, its windows black squares against the snow-dusted walls. Smoke no longer rose from its chimney. The humans were inside, asleep or quietly murmuring as they prepared for another harsh winter. The silence felt heavy, almost sacred, as if the snow itself muffled the world.

Miloš crept forward, his body a blur of orange and white against the shadows. He moved like a whisper, his paws skimming over patches of frost and bare earth. He kept his ears pricked, every muscle tense with caution. His goal was the chicken coop, a squat structure at the edge of the farmyard, surrounded by a sagging wire fence. He had seen it many times before from a safe distance, its occupants clucking softly in the night.

The promise of a meal quickened his pace. He reached the fence and began nosing along its base, searching for a gap. The cold metal stung his nose, but he didn’t flinch. His sharp eyes found an opening near the corner where the wire had been bent upward. He wriggled through, his fur brushing against the sharp edges.

Inside the coop’s enclosure, the smells were overwhelming: feathers, grain, and the musky scent of the hens themselves. His stomach growled audibly, and he froze, his ears twitching as he listened for any sign of danger. All he heard was the soft rustle of the birds shifting on their perches.

He crept closer, his movements deliberate. One chicken stood near the low doorway, its beady eyes half-closed. Miloš tensed, ready to spring—

But then, a new sound shattered the stillness.

A low, mechanical growl rumbled through the air, growing louder by the second. Miloš froze, his head snapping up. Lights flickered in the distance, bouncing erratically as they approached the farm. His ears flattened against his head as the noise grew sharper and more distinct.

Engines.

Two dark shapes appeared at the edge of the farmyard, their headlights cutting through the shadows like knives. The vehicles came to an abrupt stop, and men poured out. They moved quickly, their silhouettes stark against the snow. These men wore strange uniforms, unfamiliar to Miloš. They carried long, gleaming objects that glinted in the moonlight. Their voices were low and harsh, barking commands in a language the fox didn’t understand.

The peace of the farm shattered in an instant.

The farmhouse door burst open with a splintering crash. A sharp cry echoed from inside, quickly silenced by the crack of gunfire. Miloš flinched, his body pressing instinctively against the coop’s wooden wall. His tail curled around him as he tried to make himself as small as possible.

The farmer stumbled into view, clutching his chest. His thick beard was matted with blood, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. One of the men stepped forward, his face obscured by a dark helmet. He raised his weapon.

Another shot rang out.

The farmer crumpled to the ground, his blood pooling darkly against the snow.

Miloš's world shrank to the size of his heartbeat, which thundered in his chest like a trapped bird. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to put as much distance as possible between himself and these men. But his paws were rooted to the ground, his golden eyes wide with fear and confusion.

The soldiers moved through the farmyard like predators, searching the buildings methodically. One kicked over a wooden crate, scattering potatoes across the snow. Another yanked open the barn door, peering inside. They spoke to each other in clipped tones in German, their words sharp and alien.

Near the farmer’s body, a photograph lay half-buried in the snow. It must have fallen from his pocket when he collapsed. Miloš’s eyes flicked to it briefly—a snapshot of a younger man, standing with a woman and a small child. They were smiling, their faces bright with life.

The chickens were restless now, clucking nervously in their coop. Miloš could feel their fear, though they didn’t understand the danger. The men weren’t interested in them; their focus was on the farmhouse and its belongings. They dragged out a small trunk, a bundle of blankets, and a tarnished samovar, piling them haphazardly near their vehicles.

Miloš’s body trembled as he watched. The acrid smell of gunpowder lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. This was no ordinary human activity, no plow in the fields or smoke from a chimney. This was destruction, swift and merciless.

The blood had barely dried on the snow when Miloš bolted from the farm. His paws carried him through the brush and into the forest, but his mind raced with the images of the farmer’s lifeless body, the soldier’s cruel gaze, and the distant, echoing sound of boots crunching through the snow. Every instinct told him to run, to disappear into the trees where he would be safe from the humans and their violence. But something gnawed at him, a growing urgency that refused to be ignored.

''They have to know. They have to be ready.''

The thought pushed him forward, urging him toward the next farm, then the next, further and further, until the whole district would know the Germans were coming. He knew the land here—the quiet farms nestled between the dense woods, the winding dirt roads that led to them, the narrow trails where farmers often walked. If he could make it there in time, maybe he could warn someone.

Miloš didn’t look back. He had seen too much already.

The night was still, and the air was biting cold, but the fox’s movements were swift. He darted across fields, silent as a shadow. His mind kept flashing back to the farmer’s final moments, the man’s wide, vacant eyes staring out into the night.

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''The others…''

Miloš thought again, ''they have to know…''

He reached the first house at the edge of the next farm just as the moon slipped behind a cloud. The farm looked quiet—too quiet. The barn was locked up tight, and there were no lights in the windows. But it was still early in the night, and the farmers would be awake. Miloš sniffed the air, checking for any signs of movement. He could smell the familiar scent of hay and livestock, but nothing else—no humans, no footsteps, no voices.

He slinked closer, careful to stay out of sight. The chickens in the coop clucked nervously at his presence, but the sound was far quieter than it should have been. Miloš’s heart skipped a beat. He moved toward the back of the house, where the kitchen window was ajar. The faint flicker of candlelight danced inside. ''Someone’s home,'' he thought with relief.

But then, as he rounded the corner, a soft voice rose from the shadows, calling out.

“Who’s there?”

Miloš froze, his body tensing. His golden eyes narrowed into the darkness. A human voice—female, and soft. It was the farmer’s wife, he realized. The woman who often hung out laundry in the sunlight, her laughter light as a bell. He had seen her many times before, though she had never seen him.

''The Germans will be here soon.''

The thought surged in his mind, urging him to act. He needed to get her attention—fast.

He took a hesitant step forward, making sure to stay low. As he did, the woman’s footsteps grew closer. “I know you’re out there,” she called again, though this time her voice was edged with curiosity, not fear. She must have heard his paws on the snow.

Miloš darted into the open, just enough to be visible in the flickering candlelight. His body tensed as he looked up at her. For a moment, there was silence—then her eyes widened. She stared at the fox, her face unreadable, before taking a small step back.

At that moment, he knew he had no time for hesitation.

Without warning, Miloš rushed forward, his small form a blur of red fur against the night. He stood a few feet away from her, his head low and his tail flicking nervously. She gasped, her hands going to her mouth as if trying to stifle a cry.

"Wait!" The woman whispered, crouching slightly. "What... what do you want?"

Miloš let out a soft, urgent yip, a sound that caught in his throat, but he refused to stop. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on hers. For a moment, he felt a strange connection—a silent understanding. She was frightened, but not by him.

Miloš nudged his head toward the barn, then glanced over his shoulder toward the distant hills. He could feel the sense of danger, the weight of it closing in like a storm. He pawed the ground, making a little noise, then stepped back toward the field, looking at her as if urging her to follow.

The woman hesitated. She glanced toward the barn, her eyes scanning the yard. The wind picked up, sending a chill through the air. Miloš’s instinct screamed at him to keep moving, but he couldn’t leave her without a signal.

Finally, she seemed to understand. The woman’s face changed in an instant, a look of realization dawning in her eyes. "You… you’re trying to warn me."

Miloš's fur bristled as he glanced again toward the woods, heart racing. She slowly turned, as if deciding something, then nodded.

"All right," she said in a barely audible voice. "I will go. I will tell them."

Miloš watched her as she retreated into the house, her voice rising to call out to her husband, though the words were muffled by the wind. He stood still for a moment, ears flicking at every distant sound. He couldn’t stay here; there was no time to waste.

As the woman disappeared into the warmth of her home, Miloš darted back into the shadows, knowing he couldn’t stay to see what happened next. He had done what he could.

But in his heart, there was no peace. The raid had only begun. There were still many more farms to warn, and every second felt like a lifetime. He ran deeper into the night, the sounds of human voices behind him fading into the cold distance.

Then suddenly, he froze as the roar of the explosion shook the ground beneath him. The farmhouse behind him, the one where the kind-eyed woman had understood his warning, erupted into a fiery inferno. Flames licked at the sky, debris scattering across the snow-covered fields. His heart raced as he turned his head, his sharp eyes catching sight of the source of destruction—a German Panzer tank, its barrel still smoking.

The tank loomed where he had come from, its iron bulk a monstrous shadow against the night. Behind it, dark figures moved—soldiers, rifles slung over their shoulders, boots crunching the snow as they advanced toward the burning remains of the house.

Miloš felt a pang of helplessness. His warning, his desperate attempt to save the family, had failed. He wanted to howl in frustration, but there was no time. The humans were coming, and their destruction didn’t end here.

As he turned to flee, the sky above roared. Fighter planes streaked overhead, their engines a deafening wail. Miloš tilted his head, watching their silhouettes as they sped toward the nearby town—just ten kilometers away. He recognized the direction; he had roamed those streets in quieter times, scavenging scraps and darting between market stalls. Now, the planes flew with a deadly purpose.

Fear gripped him, but another thought surged to the forefront:

''The town. They don’t know. They’re not ready.''

Miloš sprinted into the night. His paws dug into the snow, his legs trembling with exhaustion. He hadn’t eaten in two days, and the meager energy he had left felt like it was slipping away with each stride. Still, he ran.

The forest blurred around him, branches whipping at his face, the wind cutting into his fur. The snow crunched rhythmically beneath his feet, his breath visible in the icy air. His body screamed for rest, but he pushed forward, driven by the same instinct that had brought him to the farmhouse.

Minutes turned into an eternity. The stars above remained still, cold and indifferent to the chaos unfolding below. Miloš’s vision swam, his stomach hollow with hunger. He could almost smell the chicken he had tried to steal earlier—a cruel phantom of the meal that might have saved his strength.

As he neared the outskirts of the town, he faltered. His legs buckled, and he stumbled into the snow. Panting, he raised his head, his ears twitching. The first faint sounds of warning bells reached him. The town had noticed the planes—perhaps someone had seen them coming.

But Miloš knew it wasn’t enough.

He forced himself back onto his feet and pushed forward, weaving through the underbrush and onto the dirt road that led into the town. The planes were closer now, their engines roaring like wolves on the hunt. Miloš glanced up, catching a glimpse of their sleek forms as they descended toward their target.

Smoke was already rising from the town’s outskirts. The first bombs had dropped.

Miloš stumbled into the streets, his fur streaked with mud and ice. The town was alive with chaos. People were shouting, some fleeing toward the forests, others standing frozen in the streets, staring at the sky. Horses neighed wildly, carts overturned in the rush to escape.

The young fox darted into the heart of the chaos, his sharp eyes scanning the streets. He didn’t know what he could do—what could a fox possibly do against the might of warplanes and tanks? But he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

He moved instinctively, avoiding the panicked feet of the humans, weaving through alleys and courtyards. He passed a young boy clutching a wooden toy, his mother pulling him toward the safety of a cellar. An old man stood defiantly in the street, shaking his fist at the planes above.

And then Miloš saw it.

Near the edge of the marketplace, where the cobblestones were slick with melting snow, a small group of children huddled behind an overturned cart. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with fear. No adult was near.

Miloš’s chest tightened. The roar of the planes grew deafening, and the ground shook as another bomb detonated nearby. He didn’t think—he simply ran toward them.

The children saw him as he approached, their fear momentarily replaced by confusion. A red fox, battered and wild-eyed, stood before them, his head low, his body tense. He barked sharply, a high-pitched, urgent sound, then turned his head toward the nearest alley, pawing at the ground.

The eldest of the group, a girl with braided hair and a soot-streaked face, seemed to understand. “This way!” she shouted, grabbing the hand of a smaller boy. The group hesitated for only a moment before following her, Miloš leading the way.

They darted into the alley just as another bomb fell, the shockwave sending debris raining down. Miloš didn’t stop, even as his legs threatened to give out. He led them through the twisting paths of the town, away from the market square and toward the relative safety of the forest’s edge.

When they finally reached the treeline, Miloš collapsed. The children stopped, panting, and looked back toward the town. Smoke and fire consumed the skyline, and the planes circled like vultures.

The girl knelt beside Miloš, her small hand reaching out hesitantly. She touched his fur, her voice trembling. “You saved us,” she whispered.

Miloš lifted his head weakly, his golden eyes meeting hers. He didn’t understand her words, but her tone was enough. The girl took out a few biscuits from her pocket. Giving them to Miloš to eat. He moved his tail with excitement, and ate them. As the children turned and began moving deeper into the forest, Miloš lay in the snow, his body aching but his heart steady. He had done something. Against all odds, he had made a difference.

And though the war raged on, Miloš knew he couldn’t stop. There would always be more to warn, more to protect.

With a deep breath, he pushed himself back onto his feet and disappeared into the shadows of the trees, his spirit unbroken...

"Operation Barbarossa, the largest military invasion in history, saw over 3 million Axis troops pour into Soviet territory in 1941. The campaign devastated entire regions, leaving millions of civilians dead and countless villages destroyed. The violence did not spare the land—forests burned, wildlife displaced, and ecosystems shattered. In the face of such immense destruction, both humans and animals became silent witnesses and unwilling participants in the horrors of war, their lives forever changed by forces beyond their control..."