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Sakhalin.

It's a beautiful place, really; white-sand beaches, lush pine forests, nice weather. Completely unsuitable for me, then, a man who first set foot on that island in the boots of a dead Sergeant, a man I killed. Shot him in the head, Makarov PM.
Bang, Bang.
He was wounded, and I wasn't a medic. Better to die a hero, than to compromise your comrade's mission, eh?

Besides, he wasn't the first. I've filled body-bags in Grozny, in Angola, Egypt, and, after only a few minutes in this beautiful land of snow and trees, in Japan. Not really a nice thing to tell people, sure, but that was who I was, why deny it? I was a soldier, a perfectly trained attack dog, bred to kill, and trained to obey.
But... Something about Sakhalin ("Karafuto", as they call it, nowadays) changed that, in me. Wasn't the environment, that's for damn sure. I'd seen harsher days in the African wilderness, and the fighting in Chechnya was far more brutal than the dirty little war on that island, but... none of those ever affected me quite like Sakhalin.

To me, they were just another assignment, I'd drop in, kill some b*****d, be done with it. Sure, the army commanders, the guys with heads full of patriotic spiel but no sense of tactics, they'd yap on and on about how your mission was "Essential to the survival of the great Motherland", or some nonsense, and your guys, the Vympel and KGB that knew better, they'd explain the "tactical and strategic importance" of this "highly sensitive operation", but, when you were there, boots on the ground with only a list of objectives and when they needed to be completed, it boiled down to survival. Just survival.

Of course, I suppose that's just an excuse. Some of the things we did, both on Sakhalin and elsewhere... well, there was no justifying that. Oh, sure, we'd always repeat things like "No witnesses" and "It had to be done" like a mantra, but, in a lot of guy's heads, I think there was this deep down realization, this thought that, maybe, just maybe, we weren't doing the right thing, that we were a part of the problem.

Hell, looking back, I think it's safe to say that they were right. But, at the same time, what could we do? We were viable assets with heads full of Soviet secrets. If we tried to run, tried to resist, they'd always give us the same answer, same response. And it always came out of the business end of a rifle. But, still, there were those that tried. I suppose I sort of admire them; they didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of escaping with their lives, and, still, their convictions, their faith in the justice of what they were doing, it drove them on, even when we, their comrades, were putting magazine after magazine of 5.45mm ammo into their bodies.

And, you know what? I should have been one of them. I had always felt it, that fear, that loathing of myself for what I was doing. But it was that animalistic instinct, that craving for survival... or, rather, my own cowardice, that kept me from joining their ranks. But, it would take a long time for me to realize that, and not before a lot of innocent people paid the ultimate price.

So, here, now, before their sacrifice is wasted fruitlessly, I wish to tell the story to you. History has already labeled me a monster; but I will not let that stop the truth from being told. Justice, you see, will always be served; the only question is, will you, when the time comes, face up to all that you have done? With the spyglass turned to your own misdeeds, will you be strong enough to face your fears, and, in the end, redeem your very soul?

The answer for you, I hope, is the same that it has been for me.

Humanity will always call me a villain.
The Heavens, however, made me see that I could make myself a hero.

In the end, it's who you choose to believe that makes all the difference in the world.