ace of the earth. Villages fell,
burned, disintegrated, but for some reason never disappeared completely.
Like scabbed-over sores they lay on mountain slopes, in the "greenery" and
along roadsides -- a blind reproach, malignant and unforgiving of what was
done to them, ready to wreak revenge for the cruelty with which, free from
doubt and hesitation, the people from the North, the shuravi, who always did
whatever they wanted, had dealt with them.
A lone, stunted tree stuck out above a long, partially ruined wall,
chunks missing from it like bites from an apple. The tree had lost its crown
in the shelling, but it still lived. It looked out fearfully at the
surrounding world after the artillery storm.
... just like that old man behind the house ...
The familiar, relatively safe passage of life, accompanied by the roar
of diesel engines and shuddering armour, suddenly broke off. A grenade
launcher opened up on the first BMP from behind the wall.
... like a fireball ...
it flew from the shelter of the wall, beside the tree, and a moment
later the armour under Oleg jumped. The shell hit the vehicle's tread,
blasting it off.
Whee, whee, whee! Screamed wayward spook bullets on all sides. Soldiers
fell flat, pressing themselves against the ground, into the dust, dived
under vehicles. Everyone took whatever shelter they could.
A machine gun chattered in fury and hatred, striving to kill off as
many as it could of these suddenly vulnerable people, jumping off the armour
to the ground.
Sergeant Panasyuk was caught in mid-leap. He bounded up and fell like a
sack on his back; his helmet rolled away, and his hand clenched his gun.
The sergeant had no time to even shout, he just grunted almost
inaudibly, as if to himself, before his long, bony body struck the ground.
In the all-embracing silence before death, the sergeant was quiet and
relaxed for the first time in one and a half years of war, as if he had
returned home and wrapped himself in a blanket, hid his head and went to
sleep.
Hefty Titov crawled up and dragged him behind the BMP, pulled off his
bullet-proof vest, and only then saw the reddish-brown spot on Panasyuk's
shirt.
The battle cut off the squad from the rest of the world, deafened it
with shell-fire, blinded it with explosions; lead whizzed all around.
Sharagin emptied his second magazine, replaced it and turned, wondering
why the BMPs were not firing. The cannon of the nearest one was swiveling
back and forth. Prokhorov, staggering, as if drunk, could not figure out
where the fire was coming from and where the spooks had taken up their
position. Finally he fired by guess: Kaboom! Kaboom! Kaboom!
Kaboom! Kaboom! Came belated fire from the second BMP.
... serve the bastards right! ... give them another one! ...
Ah, that was better. Now all guns were firing.
Shattered by explosions, the village fell silent. The spooks must be
retreating. But the infuriated soldiers kept raking the area with every
available weapon. Eventually the barrage ceased, hot barrels cooling one
after another.
Death, which seemed to have come from nowhere and almost won, fell back
in the face of the soldiers' desperate resistance, taking sergeant Panasyuk
with it.
He lay there with an expression of faint chagrin or disappointment on
his face, his legs bent and doubled over like a snapped branch, pitiful,
frail, shot through the side just in the spot left exposed by the
bullet-proof vest.
Sharagin railed, swore at the radio operator, who spluttered
desperately, trying to summon a helicopter. There was not a single cloud in
the sky, and not a single chopper. Time was passing, flying away
uncontrolled, and together with it, with those speeding minutes that
replaced one another on the liquid crystal display of the black, quartz
watch in a plastic thick casing on the sergeant's wrist, hope faded.
"Where the hell are they, the swine!" Shouted Sharagin, but there was
nothing anyone could say. "I've got a man dying here!" He yelled into the
silent airwaves.
Titov, Prokhorov and others stared at the distant pass, hoping to catch
sight of the choppers, then looked back at Panasyuk, seeing how he was
slipping away, without a word of farewell, into another world, giving up,
cornered and unable to find anything to grasp and hold on to life. The
younger soldiers gaped at their dying comrade in terror, as though they
could no longer recognize him, so helpless and no longer in charge of them.
The men wandered around, smoking, chewing dry rations, talking in muted
voices, and each one was thinking: fuck, what lousy luck ...
Unable to do anything, the squad leader went through moments of
despair. When the sergeant opened his eyes slightly for the last time,
Sharagin thought:
... it'll be all right ... hang on, just don't die ...
Even though it was obvious that the sergeant wouldn't pull through: and
in that moment, in some distant corner of his mind, a hint of his own death
raised its head, a hint he immediately and naturally brushed aside, unable
to agree or accept such an eventuality, but at the same time, he wished that
his own end would be quick and without suffering.
Panasyuk died fifteen minutes before the choppers arrived. Lieutenant
Sharagin sat beside the dead sergeant, exhausted, drained, for the first
time in his service in Afghanistan cursing the war, cursing himself,
suffering as though he could have stopped those bullets that penetrate human
bodies, or dissipate the fog at the other end of the pass, so the
helicopters could come sooner and get the sergeant to the hospital on time.
Chapter Four. Chistyakov
He saw Yepimakhov for the first time when he returned to the regiment
after conducting the column, and was dragging his tired body to the
barracks, thinking only of two things - to have a bath and down a glass of
vodka. Zhenka had stopped in town and bought a couple of bottles. Almost as
if he knew they would be needed.
The new man with a lieutenant's shoulder boards was being escorted
toward regimental headquarters by a soldier. He was dressed in a "Union"
uniform, which nobody in Afghanistan had worn for a long time as it had been
superseded by the special so-called "experimental" uniform, supposedly
tailored to new field conditions. The soldier was lugging a suitcase,
bending under its weight, and a carrier bag. The lieutenant, natty in a
tailored military jacket with a high collar, carried a greatcoat over his
left arm.
.... must be Zhenka's replacement at last ....
Sharagin unlocked the Chinese padlock which hung on two bent nails
after they had lost the only key to the dead lock on the door and stepped
into the tiny entry hall. He leaned his rifle against the wall, dropped his
rucksack on the floor, gave a tired yank at his bootlaces, too lazy to undo
them completely, and got his boots off by pushing the heel of one with the
toe of the other foot. He flung back the curtain separating the entrance,
and stepped into the main room. The platoon leaders and sergeant lived here,
surrounded by family photographs and cuttings out of the "Ogonyok" magazine
pinned to the walls. Standard iron bunks lined the walls, and a doorless
clothes cupboard leaned crookedly. A heating pipe ran under the window with
a thin, flat radiator which leaked frequently and was therefore rusted
through. Wooden pegs were stuck into the radiator here and there, where the
leaks were strongest. They all froze in winter, wrapped themselves in their
greatcoats. Home-made heaters made no difference. A lone, naked light bulb
hung from the ceiling. Greatcoats hung on nails hammered into the walls. A
twin-cassette player stood on the table, surrounded by old newspapers and an
ashtray made out of half of a can of imported "Si-Si" soda.
... towel, soap, clean underwear...that's all ...
The burner by the bath-house was silent, cooling down.
... too damn late...
Usually the gas burner hissed, throwing out a tongue of flame, heating
up the steam room. Sharagin threw off his stiff uniform and underwear, which
stank of sweat and diesel and which he had not changed for some time, and
his socks which had a big hole on one toe and also smelled terrible and
stuck to his road-weary feet. He did not throw away the socks, but washed
them with the rest of his clothing. The trickle of water from the shower was
lukewarm, but he gloried in it nonetheless. He stood under it for at least
five minutes as if trying to soak himself through and through, rubbing his
body briskly with a sponge to get rid of the accumulated dirt,
simultaneously shedding the fatigue and nervousness brought on by combat,
washed his cropped hair.
... maybe I should shave my head bald once more? No, once was enough
...
He scraped his cheeks under the now cold shower, swore at the cheap
blade which lost its edge straight after contact with the stubble of many
days.
... the unit had not noticed the loss of a soldier ... they had not
even had time to deal with the enemy properly ... this particular lot of
spooks was very crafty, retreating from battle along mountain tracks,
underground tunnels ... But Chistyakov got his way, did some shooting later
... battalion reconnaissance took three prisoners... one spook was bumped
off on the way ...
All these days, the simplicity and unexpectedness of Panasyuk's death
haunted Sharagin and the war, which had previously given special color to
the imagination, a whole spectrum of exhilarating shades and fascinating
variety of sounds, now seemed bleak and almost monochrome. Earlier the war
had enticed and beckoned with unlimited shooting, frightened from afar with
shell explosions, warned against hidden peril with triggered mines which
concussed but did not kill. Now, for the first time, war had struck a vital
blow, which was serious and extremely painful. War had descended suddenly on
all sides, grim, real, merciless. From now on, Death kept a sharp eye on
every individual, walked in step and whispered something, its breath cold on
the back of the neck.
The bath-house was fast becoming cold. Sharagin splashed a few dippers
on the stones, climbed on to the top bench, stretched himself, closed his
eyes and relaxed. He almost fell asleep. Once something similar happened to
Pashkov, who had drunk a lot, set out for a steam bath and went to sleep on
the top bench. If it were not for the soldier who stood guard at the
bath-house, Pashkov would have been broiled like a lobster. When he was
shaken awake, he could barely move his whiskers and had no idea about where
he was. He drank nothing but mineral water for a whole week after that. When
Sharagin had soaked enough and washed himself clean, he felt fresh in mind
and body
... like a newborn baby...
He went out into the dressing room and was already standing on the
plank floor, barefoot and in his underpants, when he suddenly felt a sharp
surge of desire twist him up inside. Male need.
In order not to embarrass himself before other officers, he bent over
quickly, sat on a bench and pulled on his trousers.
He had forgotten all about that in the last few months, but now, after
the bath, he needed a woman. Badly. So much that he ground his teeth.
... you couldn't bend it using both hands...
The meager handful of women in the company were all accounted for.
Paired off, living with senior officers, no way you could approach them.
Sharagin went out and lit a cigarette.
... it's easier for the "elephants" ... those who are more shy,
masturbate in secret, on sentry duty, when else is a soldier alone? or in
the latrine, surrounded by the stink of shit...but what am I to do? I don't
know how to do it for money ... guzzling vodka is all that's left!... Zhenka
manages much better, straight into battle with reconnaissance and claims
victory over the latest girl...and forgets about it the next day...
... what does a man really need in wartime?..
he wondered, returning from the bath-house.
-"food, medals, vodka and dames!" according to Morgultsev ....well, the
food situation is bearable, there are never enough medals to go around, nor
enough vodka, either, but especially women ... you'd think they'd bring in
enough for everyone, so you wouldn't have to think about it! ... good thing
the replacement's arrived, it will mean a drink or two! ..
The orderly on duty pulled himself to attention and reported that
Chistyakov's replacement had arrived , and that the company had gone off to
eat.
Sharagin hung out his washing, lay down on his bunk and turned his head
to the wall, facing the photograph of Lena and Nastyusha. The gray cardboard
was cut unevenly around the edges to palm size, because for some time he
carried the photo in his pocket. Wife and daughter were frozen in unnatural,
tense poses before the camera, having taken inordinate pains to look as good
as possible.
The tasteless provincial hairdresser had given Lena a "stylish" hairdo,
hiding her beautiful long hair. For some reason she had colored her lips and
eyelashes with something. Her wide-spaced, usually bright and warm eyes,
high forehead and clear, touching face were immobile, as though they had
frozen Lena, enchained her, frightened her. Meek and helpless, but strong in
her love for him, and fearful for him, she seemed to look into the camera
lens as though trying to catch a glimpse of the future, the day when he
would receive this photo, in order to tell him of her love, her anxiety,
about all that surrounds a woman who is left for a long time without the
husband who has gone off to war. Nastyusha had huge bows of ribbon on both
sides of her head, making her look like a funny toy.
... it would have been better to take the photo at home ...
At the moment when "the birdie" flew out they, naturally, were thinking
of Daddy, who was serving in a distant country, and their fears were
involuntarily captured on film.
He had never known the pulling power of photographs before. That a
glance at a photograph is like a voyage in time: a moment of human life is
permanently fixed on a card, so tiny that the person probably did not even
notice it or attach any significance to it, it's like a trip into the past,
a projection into another dimension.
He closed his eyes and imagined the hairdresser's they usually went to
- on the corner near the railway station, possibly the only one in town.
Then - how they stood in line holding the receipt until their time came,
probably going to the mirror a few times to check how they looked, tried to
tune themselves up to smile and then headed back home, dressed in their
Sunday best, along the pitted, dirty streets.
... I bet it was Mother's idea to have that photo taken ...
He did not lie alone for long. Solitude is a great luxury in the army.
The door squeaked open, and senior lieutenant Ivan Zebrev, commander of the
1st platoon entered and, in joyful anticipation of the imminent drinking
spree, announced:
"Chistyakov's replacement has arrived.!" and added his favorite
"Ulyu-ulyu!"
"I know, I saw him."
"Zhenka's beside himself with joy. He's making sure not a speck of dust
settles on him. You could die laughing. He even missed going to the
bath-house, but took the lieutenant by the elbow and steered him off
somewhere. Listen - this is what we'll do. My "elephants" - harrumph! - are
on kitchen duty today, so they'll set up everything, and we'll all make
tracks there after lights out. We'll have a wow of a time. It's been a long
time since we got drunk. What's that you said? You sick or something?"
"Just tired. Is there anything to drink right now?"
"Harrumph!.." Zebrev dived under Chistyakov's bunk and emerged with a
bottle in his hands. "How much d'you want?"
"About a hundred grams..."
It was hard to force down the industrial alcohol. Even if drunk half
and half with juice or water, it gave off a tang of either kerosene or
rubber, seemed to stop in your throat and, after drinking a bottle of that
garbage some people broke out in red spots.
"Going to eat?"
"No thanks, Ivan, I won't bother if we're going to be eating later."
"Right. I'm off for a wash, and then to feed my face."
"There's almost no water left."
"See you!"
For a while longer Oleg remained alone. Relaxed by the alcohol, he
pulled out and re-read his wife's last letters. Lena never complained and
never would complain about any difficulties, especially in a letter. She
wrote only about good things, even if they were a tiny drop once a month.
She wrote that she loved him and was waiting for him. She described all the
new and funny things Nastya had said, how quickly she was changing, how
fascinating it is to watch a child's reactions to the surrounding world, and
did not fail to mention that Nastya loves her Daddy very much and misses
him.
He really ought to sit down and write, but he couldn't get into the
right mood. The words written down on paper became generalized, even if warm
and sufficiently understandable to someone close who was far away and
suffering anxiety. As a rule the tone of his letters was restrained, brief,
from a desire to save the really important words for his return home.
... Lena will understand. Lena will forgive ...
Distrust of the army postal service precluded putting anything secretly
sentimental in a letter. Letters from home were sometimes a week late, and
on the back of the envelope he had twice seen the stamp "Letter received in
damaged condition." That meant that the letter had been opened, checked,
possibly read. Sometimes letters did not arrive at all. It was assumed, in
such cases, that some swine of a soldier on duty at the post office had
opened the letter in search of money - cash was often enclosed - and then
thrown the letter away instead of resealing the envelope.
Suspicion also fell on the KGB personnel, and he did not want some KGB
sneak finding out the thoughts of lieutenant Sharagin.
In the barracks, everything went haywire whenever senior lieutenant
Chistyakov appeared on the threshold. The men would report glibly, one after
another. Chistyakov had trained them well, had them running on a string.
Zhenka was a bit "under the weather", his face red
... he's already had a drop or two...
thrusting the lieutenant in the "Union" uniform into the room. "Olly!
Fuck it, why are you lying around? Reveille! It's my big day today! Look
who's here - my replacement!"
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Nikolai Yepimakhov, " said the newcomer,
standing uncertainly between the doorframe and his big suitcase.
"Come in, come in," urged Chistyakov, dragging him forward. "Take a
seat, you'll soon be at home here. "
"Where?"
"On this chair. We need some more glasses," fussed Zhenka. He fished
under his bunk for the bottle and was surprised to find it had been opened.
"Shit, you're gone for half an hour, and some sonofabitch takes advantage!"
"What's the matter?" asked Oleg, not understanding.
"Someone's been at my vodka!"
"Actually, I took a swig."
"Oh.. well, in that case, all right," replied Chistyakov approvingly.
"Right, mate, we'll drink later. Meantime, let's go get you some cotton
clothes. It won't do to be wandering around the regiment in Union uniform.!"
Chistyakov's farewell party made Oleg feel sad. Zhenka had been part of
his first months of service, Zhenka had taught him how to survive in
Afghanistan.
However, Sharagin liked the look of the new lieutenant, and this helped
lessen the gloom.
There was something child-like in Nikolai Yepimakhov that immediately
appealed, something clean and naive - in his eyes, his long eyelashes, in
his unfeigned enthusiasm, mixed with a measure of shyness, in the way he
would spread a thick layer of butter on a slice of bread and top it off with
home-made jam or sweetened condensed milk from additional rations, sipping
tea into which he put at least six lumps of sugar.
... interesting, how did he get into the army at all? ..
Yepimakhov changed his uniform for the "experimental" rig and now held
himself proudly, trying not to crease his imperfectly ironed new outfit. His
uniform stood out in its bright greenish-yellow markings and smell of dust
from the quartermaster's shelves. The clothing of the other officers in the
room was faded from numerous washings, almost colorless.
"Fabulous uniform!" enthused the lieutenant. Like a child, he played
with the Velcro stickers on the pockets. "It's really comfortable, and all
these pockets...!"
"Sure," interjected Ivan Zebrev, "only for some reason you're cold in
it in winter, and boil to death in summer..."
Zhenka Chistyakov, as hero of the day, poured the drinks. He also
offered a toast: "To replacements! I've been a long time waiting for you,
baby!"
... we drink the first seventeen toasts quickly, and another forty nine
slowly...
That was how such parties usually went.
In the short breaks between toasts, everyone questioned the newcomer
about news from home, and where had he served and with whom.
Paratroops means a school in Ryazan and a few air-borne divisions and
storm brigades for the entire Soviet Union. Its like being on a small
island, on which it is hard to land and even harder to leave, where everyone
knows everything about each other: either they studied together, either they
served together, or from hearsay. A closed circuit. Being a paratrooper
means belonging to a caste, the elite among the armed services, great pride
and amazing chauvinism with regard to the other branches of the armed
forces.
... paratroopers are like mythical beasts, descending from the skies
... there's nobody to equal us! ... the paras strike unexpectedly, like the
wrath of God, they are as unpredictable as Judgment Day...
'Where'd you guys buy vodka?" asked Yepimakhov in his turn.
"From the locals," replied Sharagin.
"Wha-a-t?" Yepimakhov glanced warily at his glass, and tried again.
"I've heard that they often sell poisoned stuff..."
"Hey, you don't want it, don't drink it!" retorted Pashkov.
"Personally, I've become im-mu-ne (he stressed the word deliberately, don't
teach granny to suck eggs, boy!) to it."
"Quit scaring him," protested Sharagin. "They'd never dare sell
poisoned vodka in Kabul, and everyone knows where they bought their supply."
"If need be, we'll shell the shop," explained Zhenka Chistyakov.
They were nearing the end of the third bottle when captain Morgultsev
arrived together with captain Osipov from Reconnaissance.
The entrance door flew open, and somebody coughed loudly. It was clear
that the arrivals were friends, so everyone continued eating and drinking as
though nothing had happened except for lieutenant Yepimakhov, who shifted
uneasily and put aside his glass, obviously afraid of being caught drinking
on his first day.
Yepimakhov did not know that any appearance by one of the regimental or
battalion brass within fifty meters of the barracks would be spotted
immediately by some of the juniors, who had been taught to stand guard, and
who would warn the officers in time to avoid being punished for drinking
just because some damn sonofabitch in the political section had insomnia.
Captain Morgultsev was worried about something, and therefore sounded
aggressive:
"Bloody hell! Why are you giving me this thimble? Pour me a proper
glass - right, right, half is enough. Got another glass?" Warrant officer
Pashkov trotted over to the hand-basin, rinsed out a mug and placed it in
front of captain Osipov. "Right men, your health! To you, Chistyakov!"
"When are you off?" asked Osipov.
"No need to hurry now."
"I thought you'd be off first thing tomorrow."
"I have to get rid of the hangover tomorrow, tidy up any loose ends..."
"Any loose ends are already in the hands of the military prosecutors,"
joked Pashkov, who was on the jump, opening new cans and clearing things
from the table.
"...get a good sleep, get my gear together," continued Chistyakov,
oblivious of Pashkov's attempt at humor. "Then I have to go around and say
good-bye to everyone..."
"And get roaring drunk again in the evening. Ha-ha-ha!" needled Pashkov
with a braying laugh that shook the barracks.
"By the way, Sharagin, take a good look through your idiots' stuff. I
feel it in my bones that they got some hash when you went out on combat
duty. Damn their eyes," said Morgultsev angrily. "They'll smoke themselves
silly on shit ... You know full well that our sergeant does bugger all about
it," he indicated Pashkov. "All he can do is chuck grenades at scorpions..."
Everyone laughed except Pashkov.
"Sorry, comrade captain, but that's unfair. Everything in our unit's
tip-top..."
"Nobody's asking you, warrant officer!" snapped Morgultsev. "Never mind
shoving your fucking nose into officers' discussions!"
"Senior warrant officer, " corrected Pashkov.
"Same shit," retorted his commander.
Pashkov never took umbrage. He was not young and very cunning, like all
warrant officers. Morgultsev once remarked, that "being a warrant officer is
a state of the soul" and that "the world is divided into people who can
become warrant officers, and those who cannot." The company commander was
fond of Pashkov, but yelled at him in public, chewed him out like a raw
recruit and accused him of all the deadly sins. Pashkov drank in one gulp,
not eating anything afterwards. He was older than the other officers in the
company, but the alcohol which he consumed in inordinate amounts seemed to
rejuvenate him. Amazingly, nobody ever noticed in the mornings that Pashkov
was suffering from a hangover.
"Solid bone," declared Morgultsev, rapping Pashkov on the forehead.
"Nothing there to hurt." Pashkov was always first for physical exercises
after any drunken spree. "A bottomless pit," the commander would say
jokingly. "Don't give him any more, it's a waste of a precious product. If
it's free of charge he'll drink a full jerrican of vodka in three days."
After an "introductory" amount, Pashkov's cheeks would redden as if
he'd been out in the sow, he would perk up and become full of energy, like a
car which had just received a tankful of gas. And if he had been ordered to
do so at that moment, Pashkov would have scaled the peak of the highest
mountain in Afghanistan, dragging a mortar on his back, taken on ten spooks
and beaten them!
Pashkov's favorite word was "Montana." He applied it universally - from
the brand of jeans so popular in the Soviet Union, to delight,
understanding, agreement with an interlocutor, happiness and joy. If he did
not like something he would say: "That's not Montana!" He savored today's
vodka very much, real, not some cheap substitute, and he repeated over and
over, wiping a hand across his whiskers:
"Montana, real Montana!"
Pashkov took a bite of ham, spread a thick layer of butter on a slice
of bread.
"Yakshi Montana! Dukan, baksheesh, hanoum, buru!" This was the sum
total of the senior warrant officer's knowledge of the local tongue.
"What did you say?" asked Yepimakhov.
"It's an old Afghan saying," replied Pashkov sagely.
"Literally: shop, gift, woman, get out of here!" translated Morgultsev.
"Don't give him any more to drink!"
"Why's that?"
"Because every time I hear that idiotic phrase, you go on a drinking
bout!"
Ivan Zebrev winced when he drank vodka, so his face always looked worn
and tired.
"How the hell do the Bolsheviks drink this shit?" he would say every
time.
To which Morgultsev's usual reply was:
"Yes, it's as strong as Soviet power!"
Some nights Zebrev, swearing profusely, would command in battle, waking
Sharagin, Chistyakov and Pashkov; without saying a word, they all tacitly
agreed that Zebrev, if he didn't get killed in the meantime, would be the
next company commander. Because inside this medium-built, unprepossessing
and grayish man there was a stubborn, conscientious officer who, through his
ability and application and devotion to the army would climb the career
ladder to the height of battalion commander. People like that are born so
that in due time they will occupy their proper place in the armed forces.
Ivan Zebrev was born to command a battalion, and by all laws he would be a
battalion commander at thirty, and forty, and go on pension with the
battalion commander still alive inside him. At this stage, Zebrev dreamed of
captain's shoulder boards because, as he often stressed and repeated tonight
for Yepimakhov's benefit:
"Captain's boards have more stars on them than any others."
Zhenka Chistyakov always took a sip of pickled gherkin brine after
drinking vodka. Waving aside a can opener, he pushed the lid in with his
elbow, prized it up with his thumbs, speared out all the gherkins with a
fork as if they were fish in a pond and put them on a plate. The can with
the brine he put by his own plate and wouldn't let anyone else touch it.
The deputy commander of the company's political section, senior
lieutenant Nemilov, never drank his entire glass, always left a little at
the bottom. Neither the officers nor the men liked Nemilov, he didn't fit
in. From the very first day he was disliked for his small, cunning, deep-set
eyes, which seemed to lurk inside his skull. It was obvious that he had come
to Afghanistan out of career considerations and personal ambitions, that he
couldn't care less about his colleagues and despised everyone. Even if he
had been a teetotaler, as was implied by some of his fiery speeches at
meetings, the others would have treated him with a measure of distrust, but
would have forgiven what they considered sheer nonsense. But because Nemilov
only acted the part of a high-principled communist, obeying the instructions
of the Party and the new secretary-general comrade Mikhail Sergeyevich
Gorbachev, who had declared war on drunkenness and alcoholism and even
ordered that there should be no champagne at weddings, the officers and men
turned their noses up at the political officer.
However, despite his superciliousness, high-handedness and sententious
pronouncements, senior lieutenant Nemilov did not miss any opportunity to
have a drink with or without good reason, because everyone in Afghanistan
wanted to drink vodka, but not everyone was willing to spend their own money
on it. Moreover, Nemilov did not say much in company, and this fueled
further suspicions.
Nikolai Yepimakhov prepared to down his vodka after every toast with
great care: first he would breathe out, tip the drink down with difficulty,
and it was clear that although he was unaccustomed to drinking in such
quantities, he was doing his best to keep up. The new boy became visibly
drunker by the minute.
Morgultsev, whose lower jaw tended to stick out, and who was often the
butt of jokes to the effect that he must get a mouthful of water every time
it rains, followed each draught with a gherkin, crunching them in evident
enjoyment. He had a prominent forehead, and was the author of many snappy
phrases and sayings such as: "An officer has a head not to eat porridge, but
to wear a cap."
This was his second tour of duty in Afghanistan. He never talked about
the first months after Soviet forces entered Afghanistan in 1979.
Captain Osipov was an unexpected guest, but the legendary "regimental
scout" was greeted enthusiastically, despite the old Russian saying: "An
unbidden guest is worse than a Tatar."
"An unbidden guest is better than a Tatar," quipped Chistyakov when he
saw Osipov.
Osipov drank vodka as though it was ordinary water, occasionally
sniffing an onion. His reconnaissance company had recently caught a caravan
carrying a large consignment of weapons, so a medal for past accomplishments
arrived right on cue. For some days, he had been "watering" his award.
Osipov was of medium height, sturdily built, a tough nut with wiry hair
cropped short, with a prickly mustache and a hard stare, the stare of a lone
wolf. Even drunk, his eyes never lost that hardness, his gaze did not become
blurred but seemed even more penetrating.
"Fuck it, Vasili, show us the medal!" Zhenka Chistyakov held out his
hand. Somewhat reluctantly, captain Osipov parted with his trophy. Zhenka
had no intention of examining the "piece of tin", he had one exactly like it
himself. Chistyakov just wanted to test his friend, so he said: "Shall we
'water' it again?"
"What?" asked Osipov.
"One more time," proceeded Chistyakov, putting the medal in a glass and
filling it to the brim with vodka. "Can you handle it?"
"Sure thing!"
"O, my replacement," said Chistyakov, slapping Yepimakhov on the back
and pointing at captain Osipov: "Remember captain Osipov, he'll go far. A
regimental legend! Not just the regiment - the division! A famous scout!"
"Come off it!"
"This man will soon be awarded the Hero's Star. Fuck it, I heard with
my own ears how the commander said: "I'll give the Hero to whoever gets the
first Stinger from the spooks!" So when are you going to get a Stinger,
Vasili?"
"We're working on it."
"There you go!" Chistyakov held out the glass and slopping out some of
the vodka. "Drink it down, Vasili. God grant you'll be given the Hero. But
that'll be without me. I'm fucking off out of here. .. Enough, I've fought
enough. It's impossible to kill all the Afghans. The bastards breed faster
than we can kill them!"
Captain Osipov stared into the glass as if he were preparing to dive
off a bridge into the river, but couldn't decide at the last moment whether
he should remove his shoes, or the hell with them? He gathered himself and
took the plunge .... Choked, but kept drinking. His short hair seemed to
stand on end, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like the breech of a
rifle, forcing down the vodka. The glass rose to a steeper angle, now it was
vertical, now the medal slid down the side. Captain Osipov seized it in his
teeth and sat there beaming and looking for all the world like a satisfied
walrus. He took the medal out of his mouth, put it back into his pocket,
cleared his throat and took a bite out of a chunk of ham, which had been cut
the way men cut - in thick slices.
"Basta! " said Osipov when Zhenka began to pour for the next toast.
"I've had my litre for today ... one should practice moderation, my fellow
gentlemen-officers!"
"That's what I'm always saying," added Morgultsev. "Drink your norm,
and into bed."
A few months ago Morgultsev had behaved differently, more simply and
comradely, and would not have left until the last drop had been drunk. Now
that he was aiming to become battalion commander, he kept his distance from
his subordinates. Furthermore, the captain felt that the newly-arrived
lieutenant should begin his service in strict observance of discipline, and
not a drunken spree. However, there was no way he could forbid Zhenka's
farewell evening.
Morgultsev reluctantly stayed another strained quarter of an hour, but
managed to drink quite a lot in that time. Finally he rose from the table,
pleading pressure of work and collected Osipov, who was dead drunk. Nemilov
began taking his leave as well.
... it's way over time...
Morgultsev poured a final glass, breathed out with all his might and
downed it with a single gulp, belched loudly and grabbed the last gherkin:
"I'm off, guys. Make sure you keep order here, dammit! Sharagin, you're
the least drunk. I'm making you responsible!"
"Don't worry, Volodya, everything will be fine," promised Chistyakov.
"Bye, Volodya," intoned lieutenant Yepimakhov, completely drunk and
barely able to move his tongue, without realizing that Morgultsev had not
left yet. "He's a first class guy, our commander! And all you guys are all
first class..."
"On your feet, comrade lieutenant!" bellowed Morgultsev, forging back
into the room. "Attention! Who the hell do you think you are, comrade
lieutenant? You go teach your granny to piss through a straw first! I'm not
your kith and kin for you to use the familiar form of address to me! Do you
understand that, comrade lieutenant?"
Lieutenant Yepimakhov stood rocking slightly and trying to find an
answer. Instead of that, he suddenly gave a loud hiccup.
All the officers burst out laughing, and the tension dissipated.
"What's so funny?" asked Pashkov plaintively.
After Morgultsev left, everyone took a turn at imitating Yepimakhov. He
sat there, embarrassed and magically sober, blushing like a schoolgirl.
Everyone in the room was drunk.
... when you're drunk, you want it even more, I'd smother anyone I
could drag into bed right now ...
Sharagin drank all evening without cheating, taking little part in the
conversation and watching Chistyakov and Yepimakhov.
The lieutenant choked but forced himself to drink vodka in order not to
shame himself before his new comrades. He listened avidly to stories about
the Panjsher Valley, twiddling his wheat-colored mustache and poking at it
with his tongue. In spite of the drink, his eyes glistened with interest.
Chistyakov was not as tall as Yepimakhov, but more solidly built, more
muscular. His hair had started to thin and hung down onto his forehead in
stringy wisps, his eyes either went around the room slowly, softly, then
seeming to stop, die. When he looked at his neighbor with that colorless
gaze, it was impossible to tell whether Chistyakov felt anything about what
he was telling, or not.
Drunk Chistyakov was remembering how he was wounded and had to pick out
fragments which had entered his body in different places. Pointing at a deep
cleft a centimeter from his eye, he explained:
"Just a fraction over, and I could have played the leading part in a
film about general Kutuzov. "
Zhenka knew dozens of stories about the spooks and took pleasure in
regaling his replacement with them, so that the new boy would realize that
there was a real war on here, fuck it, that they weren't playing
pick-up-sticks.
Chistyakov called the Afghans "monkeys" and repeated constantly that if
he had his way, they would all be exterminated, root and branch.
"But why all of them?" protested Yepimakhov. "Are the simple peasants
guilty of anything?"
...O, God, another truth-seeker ...
"Why?" exploded Chistyakov. "Why? Because your fucking peasants finish
off our wounded with pitchforks! And hang out severed heads in the
marketplace! Animals!"
... poor naive kid ...
Yepimakhov wriggled around uneasily in his chair while Zhenka informed
him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had
been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The
Afghan lay without breathing
Yepimakhov wriggled around uneasily in his chair while Zhenka informed
him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had
been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The
Afghan lay dead, his body jerking as it was riddled by bullets.
...Zhenka laughed, then spat in the spook's face ...
The new lieutenant was fascinated by stories about the real war, no
doubt about it, it was all new and rather strange, rather frightening. Not
frightening because combat officers could casually discuss with panache how
to kill someone, and not from the realistic descriptions, but out of fear
that something like that would happen to him, the way it had with the
platoon commander Chistyakov had mentioned - the one who got blown up on his
first sortie. As for any normal person, something quaked inside Yepimakhov
at the thought that there were two more years he would have to spend at war,
that anything at all could happen to him, that he might stop a bullet from a
"Boer" at the very beginning of his service.
"That's an old rifle, dates back to the start of the century, "
explained Chistyakov. "The spooks can hit you in the head from a distance of
three kilometers. The rifles were left here by the English. The Afghans beat
the shit out of the English. Killed half the expeditionary corps, the other
half dies from hepatitis..."
The vodka helped in overcoming bad premonitions and Yepimakhov
listened, spellbound. They filled him to the brim with stories and drink.
That evening he had only one real hero, one truly combat-hardened
officer - senior lieutenant Chistyakov, who would be leaving Afghanistan in
a few days time with a combat medal.
Sharagin reacted quite differently to his friend's tales. He was
genuinely fond of Zhenka, pitied him but acknowledged that he feared him a
bit at times because Zhenka was not quite right in the head, just like many
who had served a full term in Afghanistan, not sitting in HQ, but taking a
big and real part in the fighting.
It was said that Zhenka had changed noticeably in two years. He came to
Afghanistan voluntarily, like his brother Andrei.
... probably came here just as green and naive as lieutenant Yepimakhov
...
There was no more cheerful officer in the regiment or, indeed, the
battalion than Chistyakov He lived easily, served diligently, fought well
and bravely, so he was put up for a medal in a few months' time. The
battalion commander thought the world of Zhenka.
Then once Zhenka wandered in to visit the regimental Counter
Intelligence officer - they were practically neighbors back home - and saw a
pile of specially selected photos of "brutalities committed by the spooks."
The Counter Intelligence officer kept them mainly as an object lesson for
the common soldiers. Once you see photos like that, you'll think twice about
venturing beyond the gates of the compound, trade with the Afghans at the
post or on sortie, stay within twenty meters of your position and not take a
step outside the guard post.
"See this soldier with the star cut on his back - he left the post to
go for a swim," the Counter Intelligence officer would say in confidential
tones, steering a soldier into a separate room. Then he would apply
pressure: "That's what will happen to you, too, but the whole band of spooks
will fuck your ass first and tear it apart into the shape of a swastika.
Never been fucked in your ass before? No? Good, that means you're not a
queer. The spooks will make one out of you, though! Then they'll cut your
balls off!"
The Counter Intelligence officer worked on the newcomers who, according
to his information, had been driven to the edge of desperation by the
violence in the ranks and were contemplating whether to make a run for it,
or hang themselves.
He would scare them, shove the photos under their noses:
"Is this what you want, you idiot? No, don't turn away! Look at me!"
If a soldier shot himself, that was no big deal, it could be swept
under the rug, write it off as careless handling of weapons or some such
thing. In a case like that, let his direct commander find a way out. But if
a soldier driven to despair were to run off into the mountains - that would
be something the Counter Intelligence officer would have to answer for.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Pour yourself a cup of tea, help yourself to some jam. I'll only be a
moment." The Counter Intelligence officer slid out into the corridor.
Chistyakov scooped a spoonful of jam, licked the spoon. Delicious!
Raspberry jam. Just like mother used to make. He put a spoonful of jam into
his tea, reached out and picked up the half-open file. Sipping tea, he
leafed through it dispassionately: torn bellies, guts scattered around
everywhere, eyes put out, probably prized out of their sockets with knives,
a cut off penis thrust into a mouth like a gag, severed heads. Nothing
special. Back home Zhenka would have been horrified by such sights, but here
it was run-of-the-mill, he'd seen just about the lot.
"Hey, let me put that away, said his host when he returned. "That's for
special occur..."
He stopped in mid-word in the center of the room, because Zhenka
suddenly jerked, went pale. He thought he'd recognized his brother on one of
the photos. He took a closer look. Yes! It was him! Andrei! Rather, he
recognized a severed head, lying next to a body.
Andrei Chistyakov had served in the "Spetsnaz", their group had been
ambushed and nobody survived. Zhenka went to his brother's funeral back
home, but it had proved impossible to find out the details of what had
happened. The authorities were evasive. They kept silent about what the
spooks did with wounded Russians, how they desecrated the bodies of the
dead. The spooks did not dent themselves anything with prisoners. Some were
skinned alive, and the skins were hung out to dry in the sun in the market
place for all to see. The men taken prisoner died terrible deaths.
"You knew all the time, you bastard! You knew it was my brother! And
showed these photos to the men as a teaching aid! You fucking sonofabitch!"
yelled Zhenka in fury.
The Counter Intelligence officer was perturbed, demanded the photo
back, threatened with dire consequences.
"You rotten swine! And a fellow-countryman at that! All you Counter
Intelligence bitches are the same, dirt! Don't you come near me!" Zhenka
picked up a chair and swung it warningly. He clutched the photo, then thrust
it into his pocket.
They really went at it, a genuine fight, Zhenka almost gouged out the
man's eyes. He was totally beside himself:
"Just try and take it away, I'll shoot you, you bastard!"
It was when he found out about his brother that Zhenka went slightly
crazy. He became vicious and retreated into himself. And for the rest of his
term, he wreaked revenge for his brother, showing the spooks no mercy.
...Their parents had been afraid that the older brother would one day
land in jail, he kept bad company from his early years, got into fights, all
sorts of mischief, carried a prison-made blade, dreamed of using it on some
"deal", even had his arms tattooed.
yet after all, he had turned into a fine officer, a brave commander,
and his nature helped.
He stopped drinking, took up sport, entered the Ryazan military school.
He found himself when he joined the army.
Andrei never went around minefields, but plunged across regardless. He
got a charge out of it. He proved an ace in capturing caravans, came out
without losses of life from the most incredible situations. If rumors could
be believed, the spooks set a price on the head of "commander Andrei" to the
sum of 100.000 afghanis or more.
There was just one unexplained episode. No one could say what had
really occurred. The fact of the matter was that some general became
infuriated and almost sent Andrei before a military tribunal. "What the
hell, they were one spook short!" fumed Zhenka. Andrei's early
recommendation for a medal was withdrawn, and he had been under a cloud for
a long time. The general had a long memory. When Andrei's group was finally
killed in ambush, he was recommended by his captain for a posthumous award
of Hero, but the recommendation was turned back, all Andrei got was a Red
Banner order.
Andrei was shipped home in a zinc coffin without a small glass window.
As if he's been canned. There was no way of opening the coffin for a last
look. The coffin stood on a table in their apartment, alien and cold; their
mother tore at the coffin with her fingernails in grief, pleading for a
look; she never came to believe, not having seen with her own eyes, that her
son was dead. She moaned, holding a photo of Andrei to her cheek, his
graduation photo from military school.
"Leave her be," their father said to Zhenka. "Let her cry herself out."
Zhenka worked out a reflex for spotting spooks, just like Pavlov's dogs
learned to salivate on cue. He could tell them at a glance, or so he
thought, thrusting any doubt aside, and later it would be too late to check,
and why bother? Usually he finished them off on the spot, straight after
battle, taking no prisoners.
... paying bloody barbarians in their own coin ...
and nobody could stop him, even Morgultsev. He just pretended that he
knew nothing. Nemilov tried once, when one of the men tattled to him, tried
to threaten Zhenka with Court Marshals, and then wished he hadn't opened his
mouth.
...Zhenka warned him: "you're either with us, or against us"...
However, despite his hatred of the Afghans, Zhenka did not let his men
go too far and forbade any brutalities against spooks taken prisoner, just
as he never allowed any marauding in the platoon, any theft, and punished
all violators with all severity.
He was the sole judge, avenger and executioner.
... and if Zhenka's brother had not died in such tragic circumstances,
if his body had not been desecrated by the spooks, Zhenka would not have
turned into a blood-soaked avenger ... that's for sure! ..
Nobody tried to stop Chistyakov because everyone knew the reason,
understood that he was wreaking vengeance on the Afghans for his brother,
and sympathized.
... who hasn't been changed by Afghanistan? ..
It usually started when one heard about the cruelties of war; this was
topped of by personal experiences and impressions, which followed one
another like pieces of good, juicy meat on a skewer; and then, without
consciously realizing it, a man would move further and further away from the
values he knew back home, the norms of behavior, and become infected by the
local, temporary Afghan morality, rough mores;
... just like the times of the Golden Horde ...might becomes right ..
that which seemed barbaric back home, somehow became natural in
Afghanistan, everyday, customary, like the passage of day into night, like
reveille and lights out.
Incredible sufferings and grief for lost friends, the difficulties of
semi-nomadic existence essentially incomprehensible life in a strange land,
hundreds and hundreds of kilometers away from home, physical deprivation,
encounter with medieval barbarity and cruelty, horrors endured - all this
dulled the senses, drained pity, sapped the good nature so common to
Russians, reawakened long forgotten, lost in the mists of time crudeness and
inhumanity inherited by one's ancestors from the times of the two-hundred
year reign of the Mongols over Russia.
... Zhenka will come home and everything will change, all the bad
things will be forgotten, be left behind, forever in the past ... or am I
kidding myself? ..
In order to break the silence which descended on the room, Zhenka
Chistyakov began a casual account of the last raid, stressing that
everything had gone well:
"... as far as carrying out my socialist obligations in the matter of
collecting "ears." Well, I collected a bagful. They've already dried out
quite nicely... I'm going to give them away as presents. I've put them on a
string, like beads. I'll give you a couple if you want, kid! How about that?
For luck!" offered Chistyakov sincerely, smiling at his replacement for the
first time that evening and dipping a hand into one of his pockets.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov grinned uncertainly, probably thinking this was
some kind of joke invented by his new friends. When the truth finally
penetrated his alcohol-dulled brain as to what was being offered as an
Afghan souvenir he paled and stared as if hypnotized at the little rag
Chistyakov had unfolded in the palm of his hand. It contained a small
cluster of shriveled brownish-black human ears.
"There you go, kid, they don't bite," urged Chistyakov, thrusting the
ears at Yepimakhov.
"...?..."
"Get them out of sight, fuck you!" said Sharagin angrily. "He'll spew
all over the table if you don't...Everyone's fed up with those ears..."
Zhenka did not seem to take offense: he gave a snort of laughter,
shrugged, wrapped up his trophies again and put them back in his pocket.
x x x
Chistyakov flew back to the Soviet Union, having said his farewells.
With his departure, the company suffered a tangible loss, everything became
quiet and dull. The newcomers slouched around the barracks, making Sharagin
feel bleak. He studied their sleepy, inexpressive faces, having trouble
remembering their names, surnames, recognizing the new recruits by their
snub noses, freckles, prominent ears, watched their awkward movements with
distaste, was annoyed by their hesitation in handling weapons and machinery,
but nonetheless, saw potential in several of them.
Gradually, he got a picture of the replacements. Asked a few of them in
passing about their lives prior to being drafted, about their families. He
learned about some of them from their personal dossiers; a whole host of
small, seemingly insignificant details, made a mental note of them for the
future. He wanted to have a clear idea, and quickly found out, what
determined the mind-set of this or that soldier, whether they were all
suitable for duty in Afghanistan, what sort of news from home upset each
young man before going out on a sortie.
It was still too soon to try and guess who was capable of what, because
only the war can put things into proper perspective. As captain Morgultsev
liked to say on such occasions: "Only the spring thaw will show who shit
where..."
Chapter Five. Yepimakhov
That first evening, Sharagin had not noticed that lieutenant Yepimakhov
was one of those people towards whom, after you have spoken with them, you
begin to feel sympathy and even a degree of pity when you spot a far-off, as
yet unplayed tragedy behind his indestructible or incredibly youthful
interest and enthusiasm. Yepimakhov turned out to be well-read and educated
above army level. Paratrooper in the bone and a dreamer at heart.
After a few weeks, Sharagin realized Yepimakhov's leadership potential
and grinned dourly:
"A brain like that shouldn't be confined by straps and belts. That
would be criminal! Let's go out and catch a breath of fresh air, Nikolai"
"Did you do well at school?" asked Sharagin casually, dragging on his
cigarette.
"Reasonably well, I suppose," replied Yepimakhov modestly.
"D'you remember everything?"
"Everything..."
"Well, forget all that crap!"
Yepimakhov proved to be an obedient, attentive and grateful pupil; he
absorbed advice like a thirsty sponge, and did not hesitate to ask
questions: what does one do in such a situation? what if it happens like
this? He went into everything in the finest details.
Only he was more inclined to talk about other things. Like a kid (and
he was little more than that - almost a contemporary of the long service
soldiers!) Yepimakhov swallowed all that he was told here and there about
the war, all that was heroic and tragic; about the war which lived next
door, somewhere beyond the fencing of the camp, and everyone had seen it
except him.
He was impatient, a typical trait for a newcomer. Yepimakhov wanted to
try, prove himself in battle, under fire, he probably imagined medals and
all sorts of feats of valor.
And in those blue eyes, as yet unshadowed by the war, Sharagin saw the
unspoken question, to the point but not quite: "Have you killed many people?
What did you feel then?" The question shimmered in the air, then disappeared
- lieutenant Yepimakhov could not bring himself to ask outright about such
things, even though they had become friends.
Furthermore, he had burned his fingers in those first weeks, had become
more cautious and restrained. Firstly, he had been put in his place in no
uncertain manner when he had used the familiar "thou" form of address to
captain Morgultsev, being drunk at the time, and then being told to go fuck
himself when he had interrupted someone else's story about something.
"We're not interested in your philosophy, lieutenant," another officer
had said. "You're a snotty-nosed newcomer, and you're shoving your oar in!
We don't need your clever quotes out of books, we graduated from other
universities!" And an even more telling blow: "Your philosophy starts with
dinner, and ends up in the latrine!"
There was no need to ask Zhenka Chistyakov whether he had killed. Just
count the ears he kept as trophies, but Sharagin was different. He knew how
to listen, he read if he had the time. He was the only one to appreciate the
books Yepimakhov had brought. The others were still laughing, and would
probably be laughing still when he ended his service.
"What have you got that's so heavy?" asked senior warrant officer
Pashkov with that rehearsed respect for officers and ill-disguised hope of a
freebie, when he first met Yepimakhov and hefted his suitcase. "Bet you've
got some beer in here! I could murder for a beer right now!"
"No."
"Sausage? Smoked fat?" ventured the slightly disillusioned Pashkov,
still hoping for a miracle.
"No, just personal stuff and books and journals."
"Wha-a-at?" asked Pashkov in disbelief. "You brought books here? You
crazy or something?" he burst out at this unexpected turn, shifting in
amazement from the formal 'thou' to the informal 'you.' "What the hell do
you need them for?"
The newly-baked lieutenant felt a bit miffed at being addressed in such
a manner, but Pashkov's age and the fact that he had been here for a long
time did not allow Yepimakhov to show his chagrin. Anyway, there was nobody
else in the room at the time.
Yepimakhov tried to see Pashkov as simply nice but stupid, a man twice
his own age, especially as Pashkov really was kind, something you could read
in his face at once, no matter how he puffed himself up.
"To read. I think I've brought enough for the first year. Actually,
there are some very interesting books there, a good detective story, for
instance ... I'll show it to you later."
"Good Lord, what have we come to? Bringing books into the war zone.
Don't tell anyone else."
"Don't tell what?"
"That you dragged books across the border. There's got to be about ten
kilos of paper here." Pashkov kicked a dismissive toe at the bag. "Have you
brought the Great Soviet Encyclopedia, or the complete works of Karl Marx?"
"Why shouldn't I tell anyone?" persisted Yepimakhov.
"They won't understand..."
Sharagin was the only one who understood. Yepimakhov was sure of him
immediately. He was different from the other officers. He put on a stern
appearance to the men, but apart from that he was friendly, open, refined
and cynical in reasonable measure. Who else would have spoken confidentially
to a newcomer:
"You think you'll come face to face with the enemy immediately? If so,
I don't envy you, if you have to look into their eyes while they're alive.
You take a look, and it means you've come too close. It's not likely you'll
live to tell the tale. It's better to look at dead spooks after battle...
And don't think, never think that you're smarter than them. The spooks can
watch you from cover all day, and when they find your weak spot, that's
where they'll strike... And another thing - Don't be afraid of being
demanding and meticulous with the men. If you nursemaid them, they'll be on
your back in a flash. If you can't control them through strictness - use
force! A good fight in wartime is good practice, insurance against losses.
If you see that the "elephants" are getting out of hand - beat the shit out
of them! So that they won't loosen up after Chistyakov. You have to keep a
constant eye on those slobs. See that they don't sell fuel to the spooks,
that they're wearing their bullet-proof vests when you go out on combat
duty. If one of them catches a bullet, you're the one who's going to have to
drag his body. If anyone disobeys you - pow! Straight in the kisser! All
they understand is force! They behaved themselves beautifully under Zhenka.
And Zhenka kept them safe. Now they're grateful that he beat some sense into
them and they're still alive..."
"But you don't hit them, like Chistyakov..." demurred Yepimakhov.
"When you've served six months here, you can decide whether to bash a
soldier in the liver, or address him formally... As a matter of fact, you
haven't seen me working out, but if need be, I can hurt them more than
Zhenka could, if they deserve it..."
"Know something?" asked Yepimakhov, looking like a mischievous small
boy. "Yesterday, after lights out, there was this stamping on the roof. I
thought it was a whole herd of mice running to the other end of the barracks
to feed, racing each other to the table, so to speak. Claws scratching on
the wood. You know what the men thought up? They've already killed about a
hundred mice, put out traps for them."
"That was a favorite pastime of Zhenka's."
"...then last night I heard: snap! Everyone ran to see. A mouse!
Honestly, everyone was so happy! They were squealing like children."
"They are children..."
"They put this mouse into an empty pail, sprayed it with petrol - I
thought there'd be a fire, but there wasn't - and threw in a lighted match.
You should have seen it! The mouse went up in flames, it must have hurt
terribly, it was all aflame and running around the bottom of the pail like
crazy. Everyone was laughing! It was just like a living torch!"
"Check out that everything's all right in there," said Sharagin,
indicating the barracks, "and let's go eat. I'm starved."
In the smoking room near the mess hall, hungry officers milled around
under a canopy of camouflage netting. Lieutenant-colonel Bogdanov, who was
temporarily in command of the regiment, was strutting past headquarters,
shoulders back and chest forward, like some hero from a folk tale. Warily,
they eyed this officer, with fists like basketballs. It was said that he
once killed a spook with a mere blow of his fist....
...there is an unpleasant look in his eye, that
lieutenant-colonel...makes your skin crawl...the 'grandpas' straighten their
belts and backs at the sight of him....they're afraid of him....they respect
him .... Bogdanov is strict beyond the call of duty...and rarely fair ....a
petty tyrant ... if he's appointed permanent commander, it'll be curtains
for us all... commanders like that only think about ranks and titles...
"...what in hell do you want with Yugoslavia, Petrovich?" demanded a
warrant officer. "What will you do there?"
"They sell these cans of cherries from Yugoslavia in the
quartermaster's store. What does it say on the cans? Yugotutun or something.
"
"So?"
"I want to go to that factory in Yugoslavia and see how they take the
stones out of the cherries."
"There's probably a machine that does it," suggested captain Osipov.
"That's really interesting - can't say it ever occurred to me before."
"Or they sit there and remove them by hand."
"Nah, by hand? That many cans? Can't be done."
"Why not? Easy as anything. D'you know how many potatoes a platoon can
peel in an hour?"
"About five sacks."
"Five? Ten! You just have to clout them hard and often enough."
"A few tons in a night," was the general agreement.
"So in Yugoslavia they've got soldiers pitting those cherries. So
what?"
"Wheeee!" the eyes of all the officers senior and junior followed a
very plump young woman who was heading for the mess hall.
"A new waitress!"
"Hey, Yakimchuk, look at that ass! All that fat! You'd never manage to
eat that much in a year!" said someone.
Then it was a free-for-all:
"That's some workbench! Enough for a whole platoon!"
"Yes, man, that's a delayed action sex bomb..."
"Nah, she's not my type..."
"Who's asking you?
"In Afghanistan, pal, you don't have much choice. You take what's
available..."
"Spending winter with a woman like that would be easy. She'd keep the
whole barracks warm."
"Where the hell did they find her?"
"She's instead of Luska..."
"What Luska?"
"Remember, the one with the big tits?"
"Oh yeah, I remember her..."
"She didn't work long before she got herself under Bogdanov."
"He's a real one for the ladies, that's true. A stallion!"
"He didn't have much time to ride her, though. She got herself in with
a general from headquarters while Bogdanov was away on combat duty. The
general had her transferred closer to him. Maybe it's a lie, but I've heard
that the general recommended her for a medal."
"Well, well: "Ivan gets a poke up the ass for being in the attack, and
Masha gets a Red Star award for her cunt..."
"That's what I'm saying: this new one will be under some colonel soon
enough."
"Who'd want a fat slob like that?"
"They could have sent someone a bit thinner. I went to pick up the
"elephants" last week, and you should have seen the dames that arrive! Make
your eyes pop. And what do we get? We have to look at that fat ass every day
in the mess hall! She'll never squeeze between the tables! Makes you sick...
I'm not going to the mess any more."
"So who's forcing you?"
"You lads have got it all wrong," chided a gray-haired warrant officer
after the doors into the mess hall slammed shut behind the new waitress.
"You're laughing, but there's a man for every woman here. Not a single one
will be left with nothing to do. This one will find her match, too..."
"Maybe it will be you, Petrovich?" suggested someone. Everybody
laughed. "In that case, all the parachute silk in the regiment will have to
be used up for her knickers! ..."
Butts were thrown into the shell case that served as an ashtray, the
smokers headed for the mess. Only two remained in the smoking hut - Sharagin
and Yepimakhov. Oleg had wanted to draw his friend away, but the other was
obviously interested in the neighboring conversation, even though he
pretended he was not listening and sat with his back turned.
"Take my family, now, Petrovich," said one of the warrant officers. "My
wife doesn't work. Two kids. A third was born last year. D'you know what she
gets from the state? Thirty five rubles a month! Thirty five! If anything
happens to me here..."
"Nothing'll happen to you, you're in the rear, damn it!"
"No, I'm serious. If anything happens to me, how will she live? I
wouldn't walk to the fucking checkpoint for thirty five rubles! "
"You will, what can you do?" insisted the gray-haired warrant officer.
"If you're ordered, you'll go."
"No I won't! As a matter of principle! But you tell me, how can anyone
live on that? And they want me not to steal!"
"All right, let's go," said Oleg rising, bored with this chatter. "No
wonder their character reports say that warrant officers are "thoughtful"
and "have staying power"...."
"In what way?"
... this kid's really from another world...
"Well...how shall I put it to be fair? I don't mean all warrant
officers. Our Pashkov won his medal fair and square. But those two - they're
quartermaster's rats. They're not equal to Pashkov. So they're "thoughtful"
and "have staying power" because they sit around in their store jerking off
until dinner time, thinking and thinking, and after dinner they need staying
power to carry away all that they've stolen. When you go into town, you'll
see that all the shops are full of our products. You and I are supposed to
be fed normally, but these sons of bitches sell off everything right and
left, while we Soviet officers are left with fuck all!"
"When do you think there'll be a chance to go into town, Oleg?" asked
Yepimakhov once they were in the mess hall.
"Been here five minutes, and he's already wanting to go into town,"
commented Nemilov sarcastically.
"But it would be interesting to take a look..."
"Save up your chits first," advised Zebrev across the table.
"Everything in its own time," winked Sharagin.
Spooning soup from a plastic bowl, Sharagin remembered his first
clandestine visit into town. Together with Ivan Zebrev, who was going on
leave and had to buy up as much as possible, they had taken their chances
and gone around the shops. Unfortunately for them, an order had been issued
forbidding anyone going into town for security reasons. You could leave your
unit only with written permission from headquarters, so the MPs were having
a field day rounding up everyone from the shops.
They dressed in "civvies" and gave a bottle of "Stolichnaya" to be
taken out of the camp in a BMP, worrying all the way that something would
happen and their absence would be noticed. Nemilov might report them. They
dodged patrols. Sharagin almost fainted the first time he entered a shop and
saw the abundance of imported goods: jeans, all sorts of cloth, shoes,
folding sunglasses, quartz watches, cigarette lighters of different kinds.
He suddenly felt offended on behalf of Lena and Nastyusha, who were back
there in the Soviet Union and would never see anything like this.
... how wonderful it would be if Lena could choose whatever she
wanted!...I'd give her all my chits - let her enjoy herself...and the
children's things! why are all our children so gray and unattractive? why
can't we make decent clothing for them?!..
Oh, what a chewing out they got from Morgultsev later! He treated them
like naughty children! He almost burst with indignation when he found he'd
been fooled by his lieutenants, he'd shouted and shouted, about twenty
minutes, turned red as a beet, and ended by saying:
"You have been formally reprimanded, and it will go on your records!"
That meant that they would have to give the commander a half litre to
get his nerves back in shape.
...of course, we're used to him and don't react or take particular
offense, he is what he is ....on edge, easily wound up, shouts a lot, but
usually without real anger ... he cools down soon, so we forgive him his
quick temper ... you resent it when he yells and yells, but once he quietens
down you feel sorry for him, because you know that he's not mean, that he
cares about us, his company, his officers, the "elephants"...
Shall we go?" asked Yepimakhov, interrupting Sharagin's reminiscent
train of thought.
"You go. I'll stay and have some tea..."
Almost everyone had finished eating. Sharagin sat alone in the empty
mess hall. A soldier went around lazily swiping crumbs off the tables with a
towel, two waitresses were exchanging confidences near the kitchen. A
soldier without a belt was mopping the floor. Oleg dipped sugar cubes in his
tea and sucked them lazily, holding them in two fingers. The sugar changed
color, fell apart, melted in his mouth. He ate a slice of bread with butter
that smelled rancid. The day they had made their illicit sortie to the
shops, he had been indescribably happy. Together with Zebrev, he sent his
first presents home for Lena and Nastyusha - a musical postcard and a tin of
tea...
... with bergamot oil...not just any old Georgian tea, or that Indian
one with three elephants!...how they'll love it!..
Zebrev had taken the trouble of going to the Sharagins, stayed a while
and told Lena that they were living and working well, comforted her by
saying there was virtually no danger, there were only rare clashes somewhere
near the border, far away from the regiment. "Unusual woman, your wife, " he
commented. "Harrumph! - Quiet and meek. Wish mine was like that. I took out
the parcel from my bag, and she just put it on the couch without opening it.
I barely managed to talk her into unwrapping your presents. You have to make
sure everything fits, I told her. How many chits did you spend? Actually,
you did the right thing. I was too stingy in that shop. She particularly
liked that blue dress. I thought she'd rush out and try it on, but she's a
strange woman, she just sat down by the table and burst into tears. I asked
her why she was crying, and she said she'd never had such beautiful things
in her life. How do you like that! I felt really awkward. My wife did
nothing but bitch and criticize everything I brought. That dress will be
just right for your wife, don't worry, she's very slim. Then she sorted the
children's things and dressed up your daughter. Then she sat down again and
started asking about you. What could I say to her? - Harrumph! - I can just
see her now, sitting on the edge of the chair, pale as anything. Is she sick
or something? Very fragile, she is....
... like a cup from a Chinese tea service... Pashkov bought himself one
like that...
...So there I am, talking all sorts of crap, and she sits there
listening, smiling and crying. Silly little thing...."
Sharagin picked up a tin of aubergine caviar, thanked the waitresses
smoking at a corner table and went back to the company.
Morgultsev looked annoyed..
"Get yourself ready!" he ordered without preamble. "You'll be going out
tomorrow."
"Again? Where?"
"Who the fuck knows? They called from the political section . They've
got some production brigade, or musical brigade or propaganda brigade on
their hands. Damn it! I couldn't make head or tail of it, so don't ask me!
Don't rile me up, Sharagin, I'm in a bad mood today, so be warned! ...What
are you standing around for?"
"I'm waiting for more detailed instructions."
"Wash your ears, Sharagin, I said you're going out tomorrow!"
"Where are we going exactly?"
"How the hell would I know? ...The task is a simple one. They want an
escort, see, to drive around the villages and teach the fucking spooks to
play the balalaika or some such shit!"
"Seriously?"
"How can I know?! The vehicles are falling to pieces, we've got no
spare parts, it's time to write them off and not barge around playing
amateur theatricals! I said to them: "The company's not ready to go!" And
what did they say to me? "Obey orders, fuck it!" So - you're off tomorrow.
We pull out at zero four hundred hours..."
Chapter Six. The Agitprop Brigade
The paratroop company rumbled through a still sleeping Kabul, as if by
waking the hated Afghans would give them a measure of revenge for the
troops' early start. The tracks of the BMPs grated over the asphalt,
powerful motor roared, headlights swung here and there throwing light on
stone walls and the few people up and about at this early hour. It was only
after the company had left the city behind that mullahs left their beds and
the first cries of "Allah is great" screeched out of the loudspeaker in the
minaret.
They had to wait for three hours at the last checkpoint before the
mysterious agitprop brigade put in an appearance.
Morgultsev cursed, calling headquarters to find out where those damned
"artists" were. Meantime, the men dozed.
"What a screw-up! Damn them all to hell!"
Dawn broke. The drivers who had been sleeping in their vehicles at the
checkpoint woke up and went off to wash, clean their teeth and eat
breakfast. Finally, their transport column moved off toward Salang under BMP
escort.
All traffic stopped along the roads with the coming of darkness. A
temporary exchange of power was taking place in Afghanistan. By day, the
roads belonged to the Soviets, and night was the time of the spooks.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov, looking very serious, sat on the turret of a BMP
wearing an earphone helmet, new pea jacket and did not let go of his machine
gun for an instant.
... let him take an excursion, we'll spend a few days in the fresh air,
and then it's
back to the regiment ...
The agitprop brigade arrived at last. Those officers and drivers who
had alpine or motorbike goggles put them on to keep the dust out of their
eyes. Sharagin nodded to his friend. Yepimakhov raised a thumb in
acknowledgment as if to say - this is just great!
The company reformed into battle positions, all the trucks taking their
places between the BMPs.
They topped a hill. A breath-taking panorama opened before them: a
beautiful valley lay below, bisected by a concrete road. In the depth of the
valley Afghan houses clustered among the "greenery" and along its edges,
like mushrooms on a tree stump, forming tiny clusters on the cliffs - sort
of tiny oasis amid the trees.
"This is zero three, this is Zero three! Can you hear me? Over and
out!" came Zebrev's voice through the earphones.
"This is zero one! I hear you loud and clear" Roger!" replied
Morgultsev.
"Column's moving OK," reported Zebrev to his commander. His vehicles
were at the end of the convoy, covering the rear.
If it were not for the danger, it would have been interesting to watch
the column weave its way along the concrete: armored cars, then a couple of
Kamaz trucks, the agitprop's armored personnel carrier (APC), a jeep with a
red cross, another APC, a fuel truck, a BMP, a "Zil" truck and another
armored vehicle to close the line.
"Attention on the left!" barked Morgultsev. The BMP cannons rotated to
the left. They were passing a bomb-blasted village, which meant "be on your
guard!". A line of Afghan passenger buses and trucks were coming towards
them. The column went through the Soviet and Afghan posts along the road and
past piles of the rusty remains of destroyed combat vehicles, lonely
monument to fallen Soviet soldiers.
They stopped for a while in the regional center, while the forthcoming
operation was discussed with the Afghans. Yepimakhov smiled amiably at the
Afghans and nodded to the urchins who clustered around, begging.
"Don't mistake those animal grins for friendly smiles!" cautioned
Morgultsev as he passed by.
"What do you mean? They're only children!"
"Sons of bitches," corrected Morgultsev.
Several Afghans, unarmed but dressed in army uniform climbed on to the
first BMP to show the way to the village. As bad luck would have it, the
selected village lay a fair distance from the main road. It was not
comfortable going so far. The officers and men traded silent looks of
inquiry: were they heading into a trap?
"Should've posted sentries first, and then go into this godforsaken
hole!" muttered Morgultsev.
The company spread out over the village, taking up defensive positions.
The vehicles were parked as close as possible to the houses, waiting.
"What they're doing isn't worth a tinker's damn, but we've got to cover
them!" commented Morgultsev angrily. "Going along any country road without
sappers!"
Only Yepimakhov, who did not yet understand all the dangers of this
window-dressing venture into an isolated village, who had not yet smelled
gunfire and knew nothing of the treachery of the Afghans, was inspired by
the situation. He was gripped by revolutionary fervor. Even the officers of
the agitprop group kept a wary eye on the surrounding hillsides, at the
armed men who mingled with the crowd of locals.
"Who's that with a machine-gun and worry-beads?" asked Yepimakhov,
suddenly feeling a stab of unease. "Is that a spook?"
The skinny Uzbek who was the agitprop interpreter, a small man who
looked like a ruffled sparrow, glanced at him with narrowed eyes:
"Don't use that word. It means "enemy." That man over there, ' he
indicated the armed Afghan with a jerk of his head, "belongs to the
self-defense unit."
"Oh...I see...."
"You new here?"
"Yes... My name's Nikolai." Yepimakhov held out his hand.
"Tulkun." The interpreter's hand was small and limp.
"Look Tulkun, could you tell me a couple of phrases that I could say to
these people?"
"What phrases?" asked the Uzbek, still eyeing him distrustfully.
"Well, something like 'how are you doing? or 'is everything in
order?"', that type of thing'"
The Afghans usually say: "Djurasti, cheturasti?'"
Yepimakhov wrote this down in a small notebook, then repeated the words
aloud. The armed Afghan from the self-defense brigade beamed at him.
"Djurasti, cheturasti, grow your dick until your old age-sti,
chopper-sti will come here-sti, and that will be fuck-all-sti for you-sti!"
mocked senior warrant officer Pashkov.
"I would advise you," said the interpreter when Pashkov was out of
earshot, "to learn some verses from the Koran."
"Why?"
"They could come in useful.
Yepimakhov dutifully wrote out a long sentence dictated by the
interpreter:
"And what does this all mean?"
"It means that there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.
" The interpreter took Yepimakhov by the arm, lowering his voice
confidentially. "If you get captured, keep saying that over and over. The
spooks won't kill you then... Excuse me, I have to go and help the doctor.
We can talk later."
"Capture?" repeated Yepimakhov, stunned. "I've no intention of being
captured by the bandits! I'd never plead for mercy like that Uzbek!..."
Sharagin felt strange, taking part in this charitable agitprop venture.
He sat on the sun-warmed armor and smoked, eyes roving over the surrounding
slopes, the armed Afghans, the activities of the agitprop brigade staff.
... Morgultsev is right when he says that "the only good Afghan is a
dead one" ... all these Afghan villages are hazardous ... you have to keep
your eyes peeled every second with these bearded bastards ... turn your
back, and you'll get a knife in it before you know it ...
... that's how we screwed up over Afghanistan! Instead of bombing the
shit out of them, they play Mister Nice Guy with them, thinking that a sack
of grain's enough to make an Afghan our friend! ... What utter crap! ...
Dream on!..."
He was used to fighting the Afghans, not visiting their villages and
playing namby-pamby. Just look!
... Doctor Dolittle in a nice white coat giving them a medical
check-up. It's enough to make you die laughing. He's lucky he's got an armed
soldier beside him, you can never know what to expect from these monkeys.
They say 'this village supports the people's power regime' ... the hell it
does! Simply the men have all gone off into the mountains or to Pakistan,
where they're being trained to lay mines, what else can they do? There's no
work for them, and they've forgotten how to work the land!... then the men
will return, and the village will belong to the spooks again...look at that
old guy all covered with sores and skin ulcer's pushing his way through to
the table with the medicines ... back home he wouldn't be allowed inside a
hospital, but would be packed off to a leper colony ... and you, old man,
probably go out into the fields every day ... Dolittle there puts some
lotion on a piece of cotton-wool and swabs down the sores, not afraid of
infection" "there you go," he tells the oldster through the interpreter.
"There you go. Next!"... dekhkane, what a word - sounds similar to our
Russian 'workers and peasants'! Dekh-kane-ne! Whole village is turning out
by the looks of it, they believe that this is all it takes - a swab of
something or a pill, and all their ills will be cured! Blessed are those who
have faith! That junior lieutenant who's the interpreter can barely keep up
translating their babble: hepatitis, ulcers, blood pressure, diarrhea, the
clap ....good for you, Grandpa! Says he's got the clap, but I bet his
soldier still stands at attention, otherwise why would he bother looking to
be cured, probably has a nice new young bride lined up, polygamy's not a
problem here ... Bravo, Dolittle! Nothing you can't handle! Calm and
collected, helps all the natives, gives one a packet of powder, breaks a
pill in half for the other and tells him that one half's for the diarrhea,
and the other half for headaches.
...the spooks are pleased the Russian doctor's cured them, gave them
three tablets and made them well...that nurse they've got with them is
something, though! I wouldn't mind traveling around villages for weeks just
for her... she's examining the local women ... shoving a stethoscope under a
raised burqa... I can imagine the filth underneath! Probably hasn't washed
since the day she was born ... you can't see her face...probably she's
uglier than a hundred Chinese... the nurse is monitoring her heartbeats:
tick-tock, tick-tock... can't tell the woman's age - could be anything from
twenty five to sixty five... they all have equally shriveled hands, and the
rest is under those robes...
... hey, nursie, you'd be better off monitoring my heart! ... there
they go over by the truck, sacks of grain going one after the other, and
just watch the spooks grabbing those free galoshes... not everyone back
home's got shoes, and we've been living without decent roads for centuries!
dirt everywhere, any town you name, it'd be better if they gave out free
galoshes to our own Soviet citizens: here you are, instead of asphalt on the
roads! a pair of galoshes for every Soviet family!... like hell! the Afghans
need them more, you see... the friendly Afghan people! we're helping the
revolution ...if we didn't throw everything away to these so-called allies
in the socialist camp and in our struggle, we'd have a chance to live like
normal human beings ... hey, the natives have started a fight, what do they
call them? saksauls? aksakals? elders? going at each other like angry
roosters, give them a chance and they'll work up a real Waterloo! grain
being issued by the sack-load, all free of charge!.. ah, they've put on a
movie... what in hell's the point? a Russian movie at that, a classical
masterpiece ... 'Anna Karenina' isn't it? dubbed of course, but are these
creeps likely to have any idea about what's being shown on the screen? ...
hey, they've shown only one part, and are wrapping up...some agitation and
propaganda exercise! ...and over there, they've got native songs blasting
out over a loudspeaker and are handing out leaflets ... it'd be better if
they printed more books back home instead of these leaflets, you can only
get proper books with special cards, and the amount of paper they've wasted
on these leaflets would be enough to print the entire works of Dumas, I
bet!... tell me, what use are these leaflets for the natives? they're all
illiterate, anyway! They haven't even learned to wipe their asses with
paper! they squat for just a piss!....
... the lieutenant who was interpreting for Doctor Dolittle's talking
to the elders now ... why don't we bring out a piano-accordion, sing some
songs do a little dance for them, maybe then they won't start shooting at
our backs when we leave this bloody village! we'll all get ourselves killed
with this idiotic agitprop do-gooding!...
"Show's finally over," said Morgultsev, not hiding his relief.
They crawled back towards the surfaced main road and returned to the
regional center. The commanding officers of the agitprop brigade retreated
to confer with Afghan activists in a one-storey barracks.
... bet they've gone off to eat pilaf ... and we have to sit around and
wait, like beggars on the threshold...
Impudent, pestering natives began sneaking around the army vehicles
like flies. Some of them were fluent in Russian swear-words. Weaving around,
prying, staring, they try to sell something to the Russians: two offering
wares, four hanging around looking out for something to steal.
... blink an eyelid, and they'll dismantle the BMP in five minutes flat
...
... that sonofabitch isn't as high as the vehicle wheel, but he's ready
to try and lug it off on his back ...
"I'll show you baksheesh in a moment!" roared private Chirikov, and
rattled a grenade menacingly.
... those bastards aren't even a little bit scared, they know that
nobody'll shoot them here ...
A red and white civilian bus pulled up on the other side of the road
from Sharagin's vehicle. A few minutes later it drove off, leaving an old
Afghan with a girl aged four or five sitting on his back, her arms around
his neck. Bending his trembling knees, the old man set the girl down and
stood there, looking around and seeming at a total loss. To the right, a
group of Indian traders sat in a group drinking tea, on the left - bearded
men with machine guns were exchanging greetings, hugging one another and
touching cheeks.
... either they're spooks that are observing a cease-fire agreement, or
they're so-called people's militia, who are also spooks , but today they're
for the Kabul regime, and tomorrow against it ...
Hesitantly, bowing like a slave and cringing, the old man approached
the traders, paused beside them and mumbled something, indicating the little
girl with his hand. The traders eyed him contemptuously and shrugged. They
turned away from him, but the old man did not go away. He milled around
indecisively, turning his head this way and that, finally stopping a
passer-by. The passer-by did not want to listen.
... that child looks sick ... or maybe she's sleepy ... Nastyushka, I
wonder what my little Nastyushka's doing right now?
He imagined her romping around in the grass in little white knickers,
surrounded by butterflies, while Lena lay nearby on a blanket, reading and
enjoying the sunshine ....
Sharagin watched the confused old man, who disappeared and reappeared
through passing traffic. He shifted from one foot to another on the spot and
glancing at the little girl, who was leaning over at a strange angle towards
the traders.
... what if that were my Nastyusha?..
"Gerasimov?..."
"Sir!"
"Run down and get me an interpreter from the agitprop brigade. Not that
Uzbek, though, there's a Russian junior lieutenant there. Tell him to find
out from the old man ... Which one? That one that's crossing the road! Tell
him to find out what's wrong with that little girl. Got that? On the double!
Savatyev and Sychev - you come with me. You keep a watch here," he added to
Yepimakhov, who had just come up.
Had anyone asked Sharagin right then why he was concerning himself with
the old man's problems, he would probably have been unable to answer, it was
just that at this specific time, he thought of nothing else and, moreover,
it looked as though the child was crying.
The old Afghan replied with a torrent of words, gesticulating wildly
with typical peasant incoherence.
"His grand-daughter's been wounded. Got a bullet in the shoulder. She
needs a doctor," translated the junior lieutenant.
The soldiers carried the child across the road and put her down near
the BMP and the vehicles of the agitprop people.
"Chirikov!"
"Sir!"
"Find the doctor!"
"Yessir!"
Sharagin turned back to the interpreter and explained, as if justifying
himself:
"I thought she might have got travel-sick on the bus. Then I saw her
keeling over...."
Chirikov returned alone.
"Where's that Dolittle?" demanded Sharagin in displeased tones.
"He's over there, comrade lieutenant, having dinner with the Afghans
... Says he'll come soon..."
A crowd of some thirty curious Afghans gathered around in a circle,
pushing to get a look, clambering on to each other's shoulders.
"Chase 'em off!" ordered Sharagin.
Private Burkov aimed his gun at the Afghans, snapped the bolt. The kids
jumped back, but were unafraid. They mocked the Russian soldiers.
The girl sat there, crying quietly. The doctor arrived finally, rolled
up the torn sleeve and took a cursory look at the thin arm bandaged with
dirty rags covered with dried spots of blood.
It looked as though the bullet entered the shoulder and was lodged
below the shoulder-blade. The interpreter repeated the old man's account of
what had happened:
"She was working in the fields in the topmost village. The spooks often
fire on the Russian outpost, the Russians fire back, and the civilians get
the worst of it. This was a stray bullet. The field's right in the middle of
the crossfire... She was hit about three hours ago."
- poor little thing, in pain for three hours ...
The doctor put on a new dressing, gave the child a painkiller
injection, and told the interpreter to tell the old man that the girl must
be taken to hospital at once, and have an operation.
"Tell him that the bullet may have grazed one of her lungs, and there's
damage to the blood vessels. Tell him to hurry. That wound could turn
septic."
"I don't know how to say that ..."
"Well, tell him simply that she's got to have an urgent operation. Tell
him to take her to Kabul. Otherwise she'll die!"
"He says he's got no money."
"Oh, shit!" spat the doctor. "What's it got to do with me? Am I a
doctor, or a taxi driver? Am I supposed to operate on her here with my
bayonet knife?!"
"Hang on," interrupted Sharagin. "Are there any sacks of grain left?"
"Probably," nodded the interpreter.
"Give him a sack. Any car will take him to Kabul in exchange for that."
"That should be discussed with the commander..."
"What's there to discuss? How many bags did you give away to the spooks
in that village?! I'll go and speak to your commander myself. Where is he?
"Here he comes now. Captain Nenashev. "
The commander of the agitprop unit needed no persuasion, turned out to
be a right kind of guy. He understood what was happening at once and ordered
a bag of grain unloaded.
In the time it took to flag down a car, haggle with the driver and
bring a sack of grain from the truck, the doctor scribbled something on a
scrap of paper which he handed to the interpreter:
"Tell him to go to the Soviet hospital in Kabul and give them this
note. I've written down what's necessary..."
Chapter Seven. Morgultsev
In the morning, the agitprop commander decided to visit some more
villages in order to "get rid of" the remaining humanitarian aid in the
trucks, then return to Kabul with a glowing report about the latest
successful propaganda action.
Once again, nobody asked the paratroopers whether they wanted to trek
from village to village, or not. They were assigned to guard and were under
the orders of the political workers, so they were bored and had nothing to
do from early morning onwards.
They pitched camp in a field behind the Soviet checkpoint.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov was becoming used to life on the armor, and had
by now a close look at the Afghans. He placed the troops in position quite
confidently and fairly sensibly, assigned sentries for the night. There was
a definitely commanding note in his voice now, even though it was still a
bit overdone and too loud, imitative, but even that was not bad. The main
thing was to keep the troops on their toes and respect the voice of their
commanding officer.
...so that they'll hear his voice in their dreams alongside their
mothers'...
The "elephants" were nobody's fools, either, if they should notice a
blind spot or a hint of indecisiveness, it would be the end for that
officer's authority, the old-timers would be on his back in a flash. They
know their own worth, move around sloppily, know how to avoid duty and are
masters of kibitzing.
At first they traded knowing winks, why show initiative? We'll wait
until we get orders, let the "finch" jump around for a bit, sweat some,
realize that he's nothing without us; was the attitude of the "grandpas"
toward the new commander.
Yepimakhov was not confused. He issued a string of orders, did not take
offense at silly questions and jibes, pretended not to notice them and
showed a strict face. His expression seemed to indicate that he was very
displeased with the men, but was holding back. Still, the implication was
clear that he would have no hesitation in giving someone a punch in the face
if he decided to do so. The "grandpas" had not seen him like this before,
decided that it wasn't worth pushing their luck and, like king Solomon,
settled on a compromise solution: they stripped to the waist and, snapping
their braces, loudly repeated Yepimakhov's orders to the finches and
dippers. Those, in turn, bared their torsos, spat on their hands and started
shoveling, breathing in the aroma of freshly-turned earth. These lowest of
the low had no way of understanding the likes of their new commander in any
case, nor did they have the time - pick up shovels and dig! put your backs
into it! get it all done before dark
The first missile landed about one hundred meters from the camp.
Yepimakhov turned and saw a pillar of smoke. Five seconds later a second
surface-to-surface missile came closer. First he heard its whistling
approach and decided, for some strange reason, that the next one would hit
the camp squarely and he would be killed.
Yepimakhov was dumbfounded, milled around and shouted to the men to
take cover, even though most of them had already done so. He looked around
frantically for a safe place. The third missile hit the ground about fifty
meters away, the earth shuddered, and its movement under his feet filled
Yepimakhov with terror.
The following hits were scattered in the field behind the camp.
As soon as it formed, fear, deep, animal fear, engulfed the
lieutenant's heart, mixed up his thoughts, drained all resolve and assumed
confidence. He fought the all-pervading fear, with the natural impulse to
hide, to flee from danger. He shook all over, knees buckling, but stood his
ground, repeating over and over: "You're an officer, you don't have the
right to be afraid, you're an officer, you don't have the right to be
afraid."
All in all, only seven missiles came over the hill. Sharagin counted
the explosions. Taking cover, just in case, behind the armored bulk of the
BMP, he and the officers of the agitprop group tried to estimate where the
missiles were coming from.
The spooks were clearly shooting at random. Most likely they had
spotted the Soviet convoy traveling and then breaking camp from some vantage
point, and decided to have a go.
There was another explosion further away, somewhere behind them on the
road leading to Kabul. Really alarmed this time, Sharagin and the agitprop
officers spun around as if on command. For a moment they wondered if the
spooks were coming at them from two different directions. There was a
chatter of machine gun fire from the road. It was comforting to know that
there was a Soviet outpost nearby, a reliable shield on one flank at least.
Captain Morgultsev became nervous, lit a cigarette and went off to
contact Zebrev's platoon. Returning, he gestured Sharagin aside:
"Zebrev's lost