Two weeks later, their unit came under heavy fire. The ground shook, the air was torn apart by explosions, and the cries of the wounded mixed with the thunder of artillery.

The lieutenant was hit in the leg and fell into the mud. The other soldiers, not noticing him, retreated toward cover.

Only the young woman — the same one he had shouted at — ran back. Bullets whizzed over her head, shrapnel exploded around her, but she didn’t stop. She crawled to him, grabbed him under his arms, and, fighting through pain and fear, dragged him to safety.

Later, in the hospital, the lieutenant regained consciousness. A white ceiling, the drip of an IV, pain all over his body. Beside him — the same young woman, bandaged and exhausted.

He stayed silent for a long time, then finally whispered:

“All my life, I believed in my men. I thought men were strength and protection… and women were just there to bring coffee.”

He turned his head, looked straight into her eyes, and said:

“But the only one who didn’t leave me… was you. You’re stronger than all of us. A true soldier. A real hero.”

She didn’t answer. She just nodded and said quietly:

“I only did what anyone wearing this uniform should do.”

That day, for the first time, he truly understood what it means to serve — not just to command.