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He lay on an old greatcoat, curled up in a ball in the corner of a damp dugout near Verdun, slowly squinting his single eye. The white-and-grey spotted cat named Veniamin had lost his other eye back during the autumn artillery barrage of 1915, but that didn't diminish his authority among the soldiers of the 14th Infantry Regiment in the slightest. Veniamin held no official rank, yet he carried out a strategically vital mission. In the endless labyrinth of World War I trenches, where mud and dampness were constant companions, trench rats had become a true plague. They destroyed field rations, chewed through leather gear, and kept exhausted soldiers awake. The cat worked silently and relentlessly: every morning, a new 'trophy' lay at the entrance of the dugout, earning him a piece of stewed meat and the unofficial title of 'Trench Sergeant' from the medics. However, Veniamin's greatest talent lay elsewhere. A few minutes before enemy artillery opened fire or a deadly cloud of mustard gas drifted over the trenches, the cat would suddenly leap up, arch his back, and bolt deep into the safest shelter. The soldiers quickly learned to read his signs. Sentries watched the cat's behavior more closely than the horizon: if Veniamin was asleep, you could enjoy a hot cup of coffee; if the grey veteran's whiskers trembled with tension, it was time to put on gas masks immediately. His fur had long been soaked in the smell of gunpowder, soot, and cheap tobacco, and the tip of his left ear was torn by shrapnel. But whenever the guns fell silent, this whiskered soldier would climb onto the knees of young recruits, purr like an old motor, and bring them at least a drop of home warmth amidst the hell of No Man's Land.