"That's it?" she whispers. "You're sorry?"
"He died bravely, ma'am," I add.
Her eyes widen. "One of my brothers is gone and the other may never wake up!"
Trust me. I know. I don't say anything. Part of the grieving process is anger, and I've been the target of it for a great many family members. If it helps them sleep at night, then I don't mind.
God knows I don't sleep anymore. Someone should.
"Forgive Katya. She does not know what we do about war, Captain Mathis," her father says, approaching. His Russian accent is heavy, his words slow. His bushy eyebrows twitch. "It is not those who were lost but those who were saved that should be counted."
"Don't patronize me, baba!" Katya snaps. With a furious look at me, she marches away, breaking into a run after a few steps. I can hear her sobs.
I hate seeing women cry. It makes me edgy. Turning my attention to her father, I hold the flag out to him on both my palms.
His eyes mist over. "Thank you. You are a good man, Captain Mathis." He takes it and kisses it. "Come." Their father takes my elbow and guides me towards the gate she fled through. "Tell me how he died defending his country and his men." He gazes at me with sorrow and compassion mixed with hope.
"He did, sir," I reply. "He saved many lives, including mine and Petr's. We wouldn't have made it out without his sacrifice."
"I knew it." His eyes sparkle with tears, but he's proud. "A soldier wants a good death, eh?"
I don't answer, not expecting him to be quite so understanding. I know the Russians we worked with occasionally in Iraq view life a bit differently, in a more grounded if not cynical way, and I'm kind of grateful for it right now. The past week has been brutal. First the firefight that cost me half the super specialized, well-trained men fighting under me, and then four funerals and families I personally visited to convey my condolences.
The damn counselor I was assigned after the suicide mission says part of what I feel is survivor's guilt. I'd characterize it more as commander's guilt, if such a thing officially exists.
Mr. Khavalov opens the gate of the private cemetery, and I glance towards the massive stone mansion that resembles a castle a short distance from us.
"My Katya, she is a good girl. You are fortunate all she did was slap you. Her mother could throw a shoe halfway down a football field and hit you anywhere she aimed." He grins, affection crossing his features. His eyes are on his daughter, who is racing across the field separating the graveyard from the stately mansion. "She will understand one day."