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Burlap is pressed tight against the pilot’s features, getting heavier and more moist with each breath. The time he’s spent tied to this chair could as well have been centuries, but his racing pulse and the hum in his ears tells him it must be four-five hours at most. He doesn’t need a new dose: not yet.
A clinking sound approaches, accompanied by the shuffles of Allied soldiers’ boots against the floor. The sound is muffled by walls, sure, but this is not a bunker or a military camp. Just a haphazardly arranged outpost of sorts, he guesses. It takes eternities for the clinking to reach his cell.

A door opens and a blinding light penetrates space and time and the burlap on the soldier’s face. He flinches away, pain searing into his optic nerves.
”Guten morgen, soldat.” A calm, almost gentle voice greets, closing the distance between them.
”How are we today, comrade? Planecrashed a little, stayed alive a little, got captured a little… Little blessings all around, wouldn’t you say?” The voice continues in German, slowly and clearly enough that the pilot understands every word despite the man’s accent. Russian accent. The hell is this man doing here? The pilot’s almost certain he crashed over British or maybe American troops.

”The word on the field is, they got you once already, had you in cuffs and in their truck, and you pulled a pin from a grenade with your mouth.” The Russian says, weighting the allegation on his tongue. Then, without a warning, the sack is pulled off of the pilot’s head. The burning light makes him yelp. Cold sweat breaks on his skin and time slows down to a desperate crawl.
There are no insignias on the Russian, just a rumpled uniform shirt. His legs are supported by metal braces and the blinding light glistens from them like from the edge of a knife. He has two holsters strapped to his belt and in each, the pilot can detect an outline of a beautiful revolver. Half a dozen allied soldiers, maybe Americans, have gathered in the door frame, looking at their captive with a thinly veiled malice and lust in their eyes. There is fear too, but he can see it wither with each heartbeat as he tries to shuffle away from the searing light. The heavy, wooden chair he’s been tied to slows his attempts to a clumsy tilt. He rocks once, twice, the room sways and the Russian reaches his hand outward… The chair sways for the third time and suddenly he’s in a hard decline, a fall through the air that takes ages, and just a heartbeat. Back of his head meets with the concrete floor and pain explodes through his skull.

”This one has grit. Hmm, one of you, bring him back up for me, please,” the Russian chuckles and presses the tip of his boot against the pilot’s cheek.
”And hold him up for me, would you?”
The chair is hauled upwards. The mass of a large, unyielding soldier presses against the pilot’s back and a thick arm wraps around his neck, holding him in a loose choke-hold.
The Russian looks at the pilot, smiling slightly.
”We don’t want any accidents this time, comrade. I am comrade Valeri, and we’ll get along just fine, ain’t that right, Rauser? Would you like it if I keep calling you that, or do you have a real name, comrade?”
The pilot spits, a bloody mist spattering on his chin.
”Look at you… barely even salivating there. The plane is down but you’re still high as a kite. Would you like a drink, comrade?” the Russian asks, smirking. There is a wave of chuckles among the soldiers, and one of them unbuckles his belt and looks at him with a challenging stare in his eyes.
The pilot doesn’t agree, doesn’t decline. What difference would it make, except maybe excite them more. His dry throat constricts and he lets out a wheezy breath.
 ”What was that, comrade? You want to be a piss bucket for the whole unit? Sure, maybe later. But we can’t have you pass out here, okay. Open up. Come on, open your mouth. We don’t have the whole day.”
Another soldier steps close, shoves his fingers inside the pilot’s mouth to wrench his clenched jaw open. He can’t bite, not even yell, and the man’s leather gloves scrape against his dry tongue.
”That’s a good boy. Now, just be a good boy and take your medicine.” The Russian, Valeri, shoves a handful of pills into the pilot’s mouth. They are bitter and tangy, and their surface is dry like sand or flour and sticks to his dry mouth. He can’t spit, he can’t swallow, and the bitterness makes him gag, but there is not enough bile in his guts to throw up. His eyes water and he coughs and wheezes but the pills don’t go up or down.
”Hmm, need a helping hand there, comrade?”
Suddenly there is a splash of liquid on the pilot’s tongue, and for a moment he actually thinks the Russian is pissing on him, in him. But the familiar sting of vodka comes through, flushes the bitter drugs down and moistens his dry mouth like a rain from heavens. He sucks on the flask, eyes half-lidded and cheeks reddening. If only they’d keep him in the haze of booze and drugs until he’d get the chance to escape or catch a bullet…

”That’s enough, comrade. You need to use that mouth of yours if you want more. I do have everything right here, if you are a very good boy. Vodka? I have vodka. Pervitin? All you could hope for, right here… even a bullet, if you’re good enough. What do you say?”
”Fuck… You. What… did you give me?”
”Antibiotics. Painkillers. Medicine to keep you living and breathing and conscious for as long as I need you to be, comrade. I’ll shove a feeding tube down your throat and strap a piss bag to your leg if that’s what it takes to keep you with us. I’m not a monster, I wouldn’t let a prisoner die on my watch… Not unless there was an accident. What do you say?”
”Fuck… You...”
”Okay, then. We’ll talk in twelve hours. Sweet dreams, comrade.”