I was the only woman in the patrol, so I was the queen. I carried army equipment and machine guns, just like the men, and wore boots that were way too big for me, causing my feet to swell. The men were all my chaperones; they protected me and were so kind. They knew I was terrified. And I knew they were, too. The artillery was on the outskirts of Biograd na Moru, and when we were on the streets we could hear shooting. But we didn’t talk about it. Instead, we’d make up Slovenian tunes about how wonderful it was to eat potatoes, how the sun’s rays would embrace us again and rain would fall and give us something to drink. We would laugh our heads off at these songs, and that’s how we survived. The men would sometimes sneak out in the middle of the night to find a cozy bed in the village to sleep in. Once, a soldier came back in the morning and gave me a hard-boiled egg. I said, “You better eat that, you need to be big and strong.” And he said, “No, I got it for you.”

In March, a comrade took me aside for a chat, his voice serious and quiet, and told me our brigade was now ready to head toward Slovenia, to sweep the retreating Germans. “Stasha, we are going north to fight,” he said. “It will be cruel, and we will not be able to protect you from the Germans.” He told me in graphic detail what the battle would entail and said I didn’t have a chance to survive. I accepted this, because I was terrified to death. I didn’t even know how to shoot, and the only time I’d fought was fist fighting my two brothers — though I could barely survive my younger brother! I ended up staying behind after being transferred to another unit. Two of the men I was closest to went north to fight. One of them was a poet, the cutest one in the bunk, and he had fallen in love with me. I was surprised by that; I did sort of love him, too, but I was afraid to say anything. Before he left he said someday we’d be together.

The brigade never came back: They went all the way to Slovenia, and it was the end of my friendships with those men. We had a bond that was so deep it will be with me forever. I later found out from friends that after chasing the Germans out of Slovenia, some members of the Fifth Overseas Brigade were shot, by orders of the Yugoslav authorities and the Slovenian Communist Party, or taken to grottos and executed en masse. I think the Communist Party leaders didn’t want to risk being challenged by the nonpolitical factions of the movement. I survived by the grace of God. Thinking of those brave and dear men, I still grieve.

This account has been edited and condensed for length and clarity. Stasha Seaton told her story to Jake Nevins, The New York Times Magazine’s editorial fellow.

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