a "box"...
"Where?"
"On the road."
"Shall we go there now? Any losses?" asked Sharagin, getting ready to
move fast.
"Calm down, everything's all right," said Morgultsev in hushed,
conspiratorial tones. "No losses. But one vehicle's burned out. I'll go and
sort it out myself."
When the firing stopped and it was quiet again, Yepimakhov peered out
from behind the armor, and realized at once, to his profound embarrassment,
that there was no point in celebrating victory over fear after such
cowardice.
He looked around covertly, had anyone noticed his confusion? He had no
doubt that he looked pathetic and lost. But nobody seemed to be laughing.
However, this did not make things any better. Deep contempt seared the proud
heart of the would-be hero.
"Our boys will have their firing point targeted by now and will give
the spooks a nice dose of artillery," Yepimakhov heard someone say in the
group of officers standing nearby.
"You don't say? Optimistic, aren't you?" Sharagin lit a cigarette from
someone else's and glanced briefly at Yepimakhov. He could guess why the
lieutenant did not look too happy, but showed no trace either by word or
gesture. "They came from behind that hill," he went on casually. "Do you
think anyone's still there? Those spooks would have jumped into a waiting
Toyota and disappeared. Talk about chasing ghosts in a fog...!"
Yepimakhov sat beside Sharagin immersed in his own thoughts, poking his
rice pudding with a fork.
... nothing surprising in that the kid got scared ... it would be
stranger if he hadn't ... if you're afraid, it means you're no fool ...
he'll get used to it ... people get used to everything ... I read somewhere
that the Irish say you can even get used to being hanged ...
An APC was approaching the camp rapidly along the deeply worn ruts in
the road. A major in an earphone helmet, the battalion commander of the
nearest outpost jumped down. He looked like a native of Turkmenistan.
"Where's the company commander?" he shouted furiously. "Ah, there you
are! sitting here drinking tea while one of your BMPs is on fire!"
"Why are you yelling at me?" demanded captain Morgultsev, getting to
his feet. "I know all about that BMP, I've just got back from there. The
spooks hit it with a grenade launcher. Got it right in the oil tank!"
"What fucking rocket launcher! What fucking spooks!" continued the
outpost commander, raising his voice even higher. "Over the past months, the
spooks haven't hit a single column, a single vehicle! I've got an agreement
with the leader of the local gang! So don't give me any crap, captain! I
drove past your three BMPs and saw for myself that the last one had broken
down, the men were trying to repair it ... You set it on fire yourselves!"
"Don't say that comrade major," replied Morgultsev, speaking very
deliberately. "There's no call to slander my officers like that," he went on
with growing irritation, his face turning red. "Everyone heard that shot
from the grenade launcher! "
The major was not ready to back down - "Where are your wounded? Eh? No
answer, captain? It's impossible that someone isn't at least shell-shocked
after that!"
The war of words continued. The major and captain were no longer the
only combatants, they were looking for supporters among the surrounding
officers and agitprop personnel: who had the more convincing argument?
The major pulled off his helmet, exposing a cleanly shaven head.
... there was time when I went around bald, just like that ...
grinned Sharagin.
... looks like the head of a prick! ...
The outpost commander kept shoving his hands in his pockets and then
pulling them out again, gesticulated, poking a finger at Morgultsev, and
then in the direction of the burning BMP, which could not be seen from that
spot.
"What are you smiling about, captain? Admit that you simply wanted to
write off a faulty vehicle as destroyed in battle! It won't work, youngster.
Where have you ever seen anyone attack a BMP that way?!"
"Comrade major," said Morgultsev unpleasantly. "This is my second term
of service in Afghanistan, It's happened to me three times..."
"If you needed to write off that BMP," interrupted the major, "you
could have said so to me. I'd have shown you where to drive it over a mine,
there's a whole shitload of them around!"
Explosions were heard from somewhere beyond the outpost, about one and
a half kilometers away from the camp. It was the explosives in the burning
BMP going up. The major spat in disgust:
"I had a meeting with the head of the gang only yesterday. We agreed
that the spooks wouldn't hit anything along my stretch of the road."
"Does that mean you'd rather believe a spook than a Soviet officer?"
"Listen," whispered Sharagin, "sic our political officer on to him. Let
him give this jerk a brainwashing."
"The hell with him," replied Morgultsev with a dismissing wave.
"Captain, I can hardly believe my eyes, " continued the major, cooling
down visibly. "First there's a broken down BMP on the road, and then it's
attacked by spooks. And no losses at all! Everyone's alive and well!
Congratulations, captain! Tell me, have you thought about what happens next?
This is an emergency! What am I to say to the leader of the gang? Fucking
rangers, damn your eyes! Foraging out to taste a bit of combat, do a bit of
shooting, and I have to pick up the pieces! You'll be off to Kabul tomorrow,
but I have to stay on here..."
Little by little, he lost steam having shouted himself out. Breathing
heavily, the major turned to the officers present, as though seeking their
support:
"I come driving up, but they've already taken up positions and opened
fire on several villages. I asked them who they were shooting at, and they
said that there must be spooks behind the walls. They thought someone had
fired on them, you see! So here I am, walking around without a bullet-proof
vest and trying to get those fucking rangers to stop! Their senior
lieutenant, what's his name ...
"Senior lieutenant Zebrev," prompted Morgultsev.
"That's right, Zebrev. The fusillade he started, you wouldn't believe!
And what if one of your rangers killed or wounded some villagers, hey
captain? That means the whole gang will come down to the road tomorrow and
hit a whole column in revenge! What then?!"
"Come with me, comrade major," said Morgultsev, drawing the outpost
commander away from unnecessary witnesses. They wandered around the camp,
arguing, for about five minutes. The major remained stubborn:
"No, I'll report that the vehicle went up in flames for unknown
reasons. Let a commission come and investigate the matter. And I'll put a
guard around the BMP so that none of your rangers can take a shot at it from
a grenade launcher."
The incident was not discussed in the company. Everyone kept quiet
... just like inside a tank ...
It was clear to all what had happened to the BMP. A routine occurrence
in war. Why wag your tongue for nothing?
Only Yepimakhov, through naivete and lack of knowledge of the
realities, entertained suspicions all evening, and, when night descended on
the camp, protest burst forth from the breast of the young internationalist.
He wanted to sort things out, discuss what had happened with his friend:
" I simply can't understand it, "he confided in a low voice. "On one
hand, if the spooks really hit the BMP, then everyone's a hero, right? They
could be put up for medals! But if the major's right - and you and I both
saw on our way back that Zebrev and his platoon stayed on the road and began
poking around in the BMP's engine, well that would be sabotage, wouldn't it,
it could mean prison. That would mean we're ruining our own equipment,
right? Can you imagine the scandal for the whole regiment!..."
"It's not that simple," replied Sharagin thoughtfully. "The whole
affair will be swept under the carpet, you'll see."
- who wants to go into combat with defective equipment! ... you can't
fix it, you can't write it off - get rid of it! otherwise it will fail you
in battle ...
"But if there were no spooks about, then it's dishonest ... unfair ...I
never thought Morgultsev could do something like that!..."
"You're still new here. Don't judge people. You can talk about what's
fair or unfair back home... when the war's over..."
Captain Morgultsev was equally troubled. He walked around the camp,
stopping here and there, smoking one cigarette after another.
"I sure hit a snag, damn it all to hell! Screw that obstinate Turkmeni
asshole! "
That was the story of Mogultsev's life - medals, then reprimands! From
king to peasant!
He was a lieutenant when he arrived in Afghanistan for the first time.
Nobody was asked whether they wanted to go there or not. The Motherland made
that decision for one and all.
Shortly before departure, in December '79, they spent more than a week
training in the forests of Belorussia. The cold was intense, you wouldn't
wish it on your worst enemy. It was cold like this that beat the Germans and
the French in their times. Only the Russians could take it, and even so, a
few soldiers would be out every day with frostbitten fingers, toes or ears.
The officers felt intuitively that this training was not just like
that, there was something brewing. They spent the evenings discussing their
suppositions, exchanging views. Afghanistan was never mentioned, nobody had
any idea about this country then. Iran was mentioned frequently as it was
there, out of all the countries bordering on the Soviet Union, that there
was unrest. The thought of Iran cheered everyone up. They joked that it
wouldn't be bad to fly south for the winter.
Time passed. The men began to talk of home. Time to get the tree
decorated for New Year!
"Even if we miss out on New Year, we'll celebrate on the 23rd of
February," sighed the officers.
Fate decreed otherwise.
The AN-12 gathered height and set course for the Urals. Lieutenant
Morgultsev worked this out easily by looking at the stars. After a five hour
flight they landed in Shadrinsk. The pilots were taken off for a meal while
the paratroopers made do with dry rations with the temperature at minus 30.
They took off again, and arrived in Andizhan some four hours later, where
they remained on the airstrip for one and a half days.
By this time, there were no secrets - commanders were issued orders,
ammunition and maps ...of the Afghan capital.
The regimental HQ commander pronounced: "..Your task is to help a
friendly country, protect it from reactionary forces ... The situation is
extremely dangerous. Bands of insurgents have seized the airdrome ..."
After these words, the pilots flatly refused to fly. Flying is out of
the question in such circumstances, they said. A parachute drop - OK, but as
for landing on a strip held by insurgents - no way! Whoever heard of such a
thing! No commander would issue an order like that!
"Look, guys," squirmed the HQ commander, "I only said that to scare the
men a bit ... the airdrome is safe, everything's in our hands!"
They landed in Kabul at dawn. A strike force prepared for a lightning
victory, but there was no enemy to conquer. The enemy had gone to ground.
What was the enemy planning, how did he intend to outwit them?
Plane after plane came in, disgorging men and materiel.
A very serious operation was under way.
"So much for southern climes," grunted Morgultsev, rubbing his frozen
hands.
The Soviet units dug in, slept in their vehicles under jackets and
greatcoats. The day brought wet snow, moods slumped because of the driving
wind and a depressing feeling of uncertainty.
A cat, unusually striped in three colors, came up to Morgultsev on
frozen paws and rubbed against his muddy boots, mewing pitifully. Trying the
traditional "here kitty-kitty-kitty" routine, Morgultsev tried to pick up
the cat, but it sprang back in fear.
"Don't understand Russian, hey? Well, I don't speak your language.
Still, you're a living creature. Come on, I'll get you something to eat!"
He took an almost empty tin of canned meat from the soldiers.
Shivering, the cat flung itself on the food, frantically licking out the
sides of the can. She did not leave, but remained with the paratroopers.
"First contact with the locals accomplished!" laughed the lieutenant,
then immersed himself in rosy dreams: - We'll be through here in a week or
two, go home, and take this Afghan Murka with us! I've got to bring home at
least one souvenir!
After breakfast, he was summoned to headquarters. A real live general
was there. Morgultsev was given a military advisor who worked in Kabul, and
a map of object No.14, which his platoon was to seize.
This object turned out to be the Pul-i-Charkhi prison, a name the
senior officers had trouble pronouncing.
"Your task is to take object 14 and free political prisoners! According
to our information there are about 120 guards. Comrade Korobeynikov will
instruct you about the object. He's familiar with the layout. Comrade
Korobeynikov will deal with the political prisoners himself. Any questions?"
"No sir!"
"That hireling of American imperialism, Amin, wanted to destroy all the
prisoners in Pul-i-Charkhi," added the head of the Political Section. "The
prison's being guarded by troops loyal to him. They could start executing
the prisoners at any moment. The lives of thousands of people are in
danger!"
"If you fail, it's the military tribunal for you," promised the dour
general in parting. He fixed Morgultsev with a gimlet eye, as though not
trusting, doubting the lieutenant.
Donning medics' white coats, Morgultsev and the advisor set of on a
reconnaissance trip in an ambulance. They passed by the prison, checked out
the territory and returned to the airdrome.
Uncle Fedya - that was the soldiers' nickname for the snub-nosed,
round-faced advisor - unfolded a detailed plan of the prison, they bent over
it and discussed various tactics. Gradually, matters became clearer. In any
case, Morgultsev had seen the prison from the air when his plane was coming
in to land in Kabul. From above it resembled a wheel which had come off a
giant cart and rolled away. That was what he had thought at the time.
They warmed themselves by the fire and thrashed out the details of the
operation. The soldiers were ordered to pay close attention and remember
everything.
"You can fire at will once we're in," said Uncle Fedya. There was a
moment of silence as he looked hard at all the men, so they would realize
this was not an exercise. "No limits! Any disobedience, any doubts - shoot
on the spot. There won't be time for questions!"
"One hundred and twenty guards," calculated Morgultsev. "That's no
pushover. And we're just one platoon. Still, we're paras, we've got the
machines and we've got the guts!"
They moved out in total darkness. The road was blocked by a portable
checkpoint with a makeshift boom, situated in the village closest to
Pul-i-Charkhi. The column stopped. The leading vehicle trained its spotlight
on an Afghan soldier who pointed a bayonet and screamed "Dry-y-y-sh!" at the
top of his lungs.
"Where the fuck did he come from?" ground Uncle Fedya through clenched
teeth. "Light out! Don't shoot! Knife him!..."
"Why's he squealing like a stuck pig?"
"He's shouting 'Halt!' C'mon, lieutenant, do it!"
Morgultsev jumped down and approached the Afghan, extending a friendly
hand:
"We're on the same side, pal! How are things, slob? What are you gaping
at?" He clapped the Afghan on the shoulder: "Come with me! Come on, let's
get off the middle of the road!"
He twisted the soldier's arm up his back with a practiced move, put the
knife to his throat:
"Look, brother, get the shit out of here. I don't want your death on my
conscience, get it? Beat it!"
The soldier fell to his knees, opened his mouth wide in terror, then
scrambled back to his feet and ran.
At Pul-i-Charkhi the road was blocked by an Afghan armored vehicle. It
was quickly knocked out of action when machine gun fire shredded its tires.
There was no return fire. Maybe the Afghans were out of ammunition.
"Get those watchtower lights," ordered Uncle Fedya, and the men did so
promptly with a hail of bullets.
"Everybody mount up!"
The day before, Morgultsev had coaxed a mobile SU-85 installation from
the regimental commander. He meant to use it to break down the massive
prison gates with no loss of time. "We could hardly do that with an armored
vehicle," he argued, "the 'plywood shield of the Motherland' would never do
that job!"
And then what happened? A fool lieutenant went off the road, panicked
and opened fire with solid anti-tank shots. With no orders to do so, the
"Sushka" hit the watchtowers.
"Stop that!" yelled Morgultsev over the radio.
"Yessir!" replied the lieutenant, but thirty seconds later recommenced
firing.
"Idiot!" swore Morgultsev, and turned to the driver-mechanic: "Wreck
those gates!"
The armored vehicle did it! So much for the slur "plywood shield of the
Motherland"! They broke into the prison compound.
"Reverse! Faster!" commanded Morgultsev. He and Uncle Fedya had it all
worked out: they reversed and crushed the wooden structure which served as
the guardhouse.
"Full forward!"
They had to ram another pair of gates in front of the building where
the political prisoners were confined. Bullets flew everywhere, the
atmosphere was total chaos. Luckily, dawn had broken. Through the triplex
glass, Morgultsev could see armed men running hither and thither. Bullets
spattered against the armor like a downpour on a tin roof.
"Start the carousel!"
The armored vehicle spun around, all barrels blazing.
"Time to go," said Morgultsev, touching Uncle Fedya on the shoulder.
They opened the hatch and leapt out.
"Go!"
The soldiers hesitated. Shooting continued, but who was shooting at
whom and where was unclear. Uncle Fedya urged them on:
"We're losing time! Get moving! " and ran towards the entrance of the
building, jumping over corpses.
"Two men stay here!"
The babble of an unknown tongue could be heard in the depths of the
corridor. They flattened themselves against the wall and when steps
approached, Uncle Fedya fired a volley of shots holding his machine gun at
waist level. Someone cried out in the dark, there was the sound of a body
falling.
"Chuck a grenade!"
As soon as the smoke cleared a little, they raced for the far end of
the corridor. Blankets hung across doorways on both sides of the corridor.
One blanket seemed to bulge so Motgultsev pressed the trigger. An old man,
covered in blood and grasping a string of worry-beads fell out into the
corridor.
"Go! Go!" shouted Uncle Fedya. He himself paused for a moment to jam a
new magazine into his gun. "Cover me!"
It must have been even more frightening for the Afghans. How could they
know how many Soviets had stormed the prison, how many were still outside,
what forces were involved in the operation and, in general, what was
happening in Kabul? That was why they did not resist for long. Overall, they
amounted to two hundred plus guards. The paras had killed a small part of
them, the rest surrendered willingly. The Afghans had no intention of
fighting to the last drop of blood.
Hundreds of hands protruded from the bars of the cells, someone waved a
long piece of cloth - an unrolled turban, someone managed to reach a window
and stick out his hand.
Morgultsev should have felt himself a victor or, to be more precise, a
liberator, someone who had saved thousands of human lives. However, he felt
nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he was suddenly scared: swarthy,
bearded strangers watched the Soviet officer from behind bars. Morgultsev
shivered.
They'd saved them! Freed them! But who were these people? Against whom
had they rebelled? What were they punished for? Maybe they were real
criminals? How can anyone tell? Their language is incomprehensible and they
all look suspicious. We've saved and freed them, but what now? No question
of fraternizing with them! Damn it, what kind of friends were they, anyway?
No, let them stay locked up for the time being. It will be safer that way.
Let those who are in the know sort it out and decide which ones to release
and which ones to keep in the slammer! It's not my job. We've done what we
were ordered. If something like this had happened back home - if, for
instance, revolutionaries had to be rescued from prison ... well, that would
be another mater. That would be a sacred duty! But here ...
"Don't let anyone out!" he warned his men. "Are any of our people
wounded?"
"Not in our unit, comrade lieutenant.
"Where's the third unit?"
"No idea, comrade lieutenant," shrugged the soldier.
The third unit had plunged into a sewage pit. When they drove into the
prison yard, the second armored vehicle had veered sharply to the right and,
not knowing where to go in the dark and general confusion, landed straight
into the evil-smelling muck. The exhaust fumes fed back into the cabin and
the men started to choke. They were discovered by chance and just in time.
Someone saw the turret protruding from the pit.
"Shitheads!" railed Morgultsev. "Not paratroopers, but real shitheads!"
The taking of Pul-i-Charkhi lasted less than one hour - 54 minutes, in
fact. Morgultsev had marked the time on his "commander's" watch.
"Object 14 secured," he reported by radio.
Uncle Fedya went off to Kabul, came back with Afghan "comrades" and
began sorting out the prisoners.
Morgultsev's platoon received orders by radio from headquarters: "Stay
and guard the object. You'll be brought food and ammunition."
They posted sentries, took over the warmest building which was heated
by an oil stove as their quarters and draped blankets over the broken
windows.
Morgultsev warmed himself in the sun, the first he had seen since
arrival, drew on a cigarette.
"Comrade lieutenant! There's a whole bunch of journalists arrived, they
say they're from Soviet television. Should we let them in?"
"Sure, why not?"
"There's a whole lot of Afghans, too."
"What Afghans?"
"About three hundred of them by the looks of it."
"So-o-o," drawled Morgultsev. "What do they want here, I wonder?"
He refused flatly to admit anyone into the prison, contacted
headquarters and waited a long time for explanations. Better be safe than
sorry!
"I'm not going to accept the responsibility. Send someone from HQ! Then
I'll let them in."
"The television crew has to film the taking of Pul-i-Charkhi," said the
colonel who arrived eventually.
"No problem. I'll go whistle up my guys."
"You don't understand, comrade lieutenant. The prison was taken by
Afghan soldiers from units that rose against the bloody regime of that
traitor Amin."
"What do you mean, comrade colonel?"
"I think I've made myself quite clear, lieutenant!"
They made Morgultsev come down from the watchtower he had climbed to
watch the filming - there should be no accidental appearance of a Soviet
officer in the film. He sent a couple of soldiers for the armchair out of
the prison governor's office and had himself a front row view of the
proceedings.
"Just try convincing someone that we took Pul-i-Charkhi after this,"
said one of the men in bitter disappointment. "Nobody will believe it for a
moment!"
"Too fucking right!" agreed Morgultsev, equally put out.
They never saw Uncle Fedya again. It was said that he was killed
several months later. Where? Under what circumstances? Nobody knew for sure.
Maybe they're lying and maybe he really was killed. He's a KGB man, after
all. You'll never get the truth out of them.... decided Morgultsev.
In the first years of the war, asking questions was dangerous, people
were afraid of everything. Once, when Morgultsev was in hospital after being
wounded, he sat drinking spirit with a captain. A black-haired, swarthy
Tatar or Tadjik. He remembered that the captain had a very long nose which
was broken in several places.
They drank a lot. With alcohol-induced frankness, they swapped
information about where they had been, what they had done in Afghanistan.
Fate had landed them both in Kabul in December 1979. After a bit of beating
about the bush, they agreed tacitly not to hold back.
"I took Pul-i-Charkhi prison," confided Morgultsev. "What about you?"
"I took the palace..."
"Amin's palace?!" Morgultsev almost choked. He glanced at the captain
who sat there, head bowed and staring at the floor. He didn't even look up
when he affirmed: "Exactly."
There were all sorts of rumors about Amin's palace. It was said that
the Ninth company of the Vitebsk division stormed the palace, others said
the KGB had sent a special task force.
They shared the last of the spirit, clinked glasses: "Cheers!", then
breathed out almost simultaneously, tossed down their drinks and sniffed
black bread as a follow-up.
"I was in the Muslim battalion," continued the captain. "Ever heard of
it?"
"Sure," lied Mogultsev. He decided not to ask for details. It was
probably some kind of special unit. "And you saw Amin himself?"
"Yes ... only he was dead..."
"..?..."
The captain remained silent, weighing the pros and cons of saying any
more.
"He was lying on the floor in just his undershirt and shorts, there was
a large red spot over his heart. We had to make sure he was really dead. But
when we tugged his left arm, it came off..."
Morgultsev broke out in a cold sweat. "Why is he telling me this? Why
did I tell him about the prison? I should have kept my stupid trap shut!"
He could not fall asleep, the words of the captain from the "Muslim
battalion" were very frightening:
"It was like we were on a platter in front of them during the storming,
they could have shot us to pieces with no trouble. It was a miracle we broke
through, especially when we realized what had happened. After all, we'd
killed a head of state! They loaded us into a plane, we thought we were done
for. Who knows what they might decided to do with us?...They could simply
poison the lot of us. Why leave witnesses? The unit was dissolved and we
were all assigned to different places..."
Over breakfast Morgultsev felt as if his head would burst at any
moment, his eyes refused to stay open. Morgultsev greeted the captain, but
he turned away and pretended not to recognize him. "Talked too much!"
Morgultsev decided that from now on he would keep his tongue on a padlock.
There was no need to boast and brag about the prison!
Morgultsev was put up for the "Red Banner" order for his part in the
taking of Pul-i-Charkhi. He was promoted to senior lieutenant ahead of time.
Then it seemed as though someone had jinxed him! Everything started falling
apart in his hitherto quite successfully unfolding life, as if he had
slipped on the top of a hill and rolled down the slope. First, his wife left
him. She had found someone else while Morgultsev was serving in Afghanistan.
Not someone from the unit, but a civilian who took her away from Vitebsk.
Morgultsev started drinking heavily, received frequent reprimands from
the battalion commander, found no pleasure in his work. The Political
Section subjected him to psychological pressure, pestering him to mend his
ways.
He was young and hot-tempered, telling people where to go in no
uncertain terms, was too quick to resort to fisticuffs before considering
whom he was telling to fuck off or whose nose he was punching. Then he
landed in real trouble: the "grandpas" beat him up within an inch of his
life.
It took a few years for things to improve. He married again, had a
daughter. Then he asked to be posted back to Afghanistan.
He never discussed his family problems, but everyone knew anyway. Who
got divorced or married, who had remarried, who had children and where -
there are no secrets in the army.
Morgultsev had a picture drawn by the son of his first marriage pinned
to the wall in his room. Once a month he sent the boy short letters and
asked officers going on leave to post the boy a small package of presents
once they were in the Soviet Union. The drawing was full of birdlike
airplanes dropping icicle-bombs, burning tiny tanks with swastikas on their
armor which were being crushed by tanks bearing red stars, and people with
machine guns ran between them. In the right hand corner Morgultsev's son had
written: "I drew this myself Dad plees send me chooing gum" ....
+ + +
The days flew by unnoticed, running into weeks and months. Raids,
combat, injury and death of soldiers and officers - he adapted himself to
the Afghan rhythm which turned every severed life into something prosaic;
death could be tragic, accidental, heroic, but it no longer horrified
Sharagin as it had in the early months; death became a routine occurrence
and was accepted as one of the inevitabilities of war.
Sharagin fished out two new stars from a glass of vodka when they were
"washing down" his promotion to senior lieutenant. He was due for a reward.
Morgultsev signed the orders, glanced slyly at Sharagin and asked
off-handedly:
"Do you like sweaty women and warm vodka?"
"Are you kidding?!"
"Then you'll be going on leave in winter."
"Why winter?" protested Sharagin, disappointed. "Come on...!"
"Someone's got to go. Zebrev's already been. It's too early for
Yepimakhov, he's still got to get into the swing of things here. So you'll
have to be the one. It's your turn..."
"Can't we make it a bit later? Like closer to spring?"
"Later-shmater! Dismissed, comrade senior lieutenant!"
"In that case, I'm going into town tomorrow!"
... what else? I can't go home empty-handed!.
"I don't want to know anything about that," answered Morgultsev,
covering his ass just in case.
Once over the border, back in the USSR, Sharagin fell into conversation
with an officer in a jeans outfit as they waited by the military ticket
office. Sharagin had spotted him as an "Afghan" from afar.
...stone-washed jeans like that are sold only in Afghanistan ...One
look
at his face and you can tell straight away that he's an army man ...
To an outside observer, the officer and Sharagin looked like twins.
Oleg had bought his first-ever pair of jeans.
The officer was hoping to get on the same plane. They were lucky enough
to be admitted on the next flight. Sharagin followed his companion's advice
and decided to do the unthinkable: draw money off his bank account and take
his family to the seaside.
He and Lena had so much catching up to do, all the feelings that could
not be fully expressed in letters, the anxieties, the warmth - all this they
would relive. It would be better to do all this by the sea rather than in
the parents' apartment. Afterwards, there would be time to visit relatives,
spend a week or two with his mother and father, go fishing with his
grandfather. He had almost a month and a half - plenty of time for
everything!
"You'll always find a place to stay. If push comes to shove, you can
rent a room. The main thing is to have money!" urged the jeans-clad officer
over a beer.
Lena had never been on vacation by the sea. For that matter, neither
had he. As for Nastyushka, all she had seen was a stream in the village.
"The sea is like hundreds of rivers," Oleg told her in an effort to
explain.
"Wike two or free livers?"
"More. Lots and lots of rivers. And you can't see the other side."
The money seemed to melt like snow. He had to overpay for their
tickets. It was not the vacation season, nobody flew south at this time of
year, but there was a ticket shortage nonetheless!
... it could only happen in our country! ...
Taxi to the airport, taxi from the airport - just as well he was
earning double all those months in Afghanistan. He'd never dreamed of
anything like that before!
... why regret the expense? I'll earn as much again!..
For the first time in his life, Oleg felt himself a free man.
...because you can't earn a lot back home ... If someone has a lot of
money, he'll start to feel independent and go his own way ...
Previously, Oleg had always felt dependent and without any rights.
... "I know no such other country," a drunken captain had sung once,
parodying the Soviet national anthem, "where a man can be so ...at ease!
attention! eyes right!"
The money gave an illusion of freedom, the chance to choose, inspired
confidence.
Admittedly, they were turned away from the hotel because they had no
prior reservation. Oleg tried to offer a bribe, but he did not have the
knack and it didn't work. Moreover, the hotel manager turned out to be a
very self-righteous citizen and reacted to the offer of money as to a
personal affront. Lena and Nastya hovered outside - the uniformed porter
would not let them into the vestibule.
"You picked the most expensive hotel, of course they don't have any
free rooms," comforted Lena, searching for some justification. "Why, only
foreign tourists live here!"
"To hell with them! We'll try the private sector!" Sharagin flagged
down a passing cab.
"Take us along the waterfront, chief. I'll pay double! If there's a
good restaurant on the way, we'll stop there for lunch. And we need to find
a room, too, but it's got to have a sea view."
"You're on, boss!"
They breezed along and chose the most expensive restaurant. Lena gasped
when she saw the check: all that money, and for what? But Oleg was beaming
with pleasure as he counted out the money and added a bit on top.
Lena could not contain herself any longer:
"Why did you give him more? He overcharged us by about three times
anyway!" She was unaccustomed to throwing money around, she was more used to
stretching every penny from payday to payday. When they were first married
they could barely make ends meet, had to borrow ten rubles here and there at
times, yet here was Oleg now, behaving like a millionaire.
"That was a tip," explained Oleg expansively. Seeing that Lena was
upset by such profligacy he gave her a hug: "Sweetheart, don't think about
the money, we'll have this much again! We'll have everything! We've got our
whole future to look forward to!"
Nastyusha woke first, rousing Mummy and Daddy who lay entwined in
sleep. Oleg held Lena clasped close to him all night.
"Daddy, le's go to the liver!" entreated Nastyusha. The sea foamed and
stormed, dark clouds scudded across the sky, blotting out the sun and the
few people out and about cast curious glances at the unseasonably tanned man
accompanied by a pale-skinned woman and child.
For some reason, Oleg recalled a childhood episode:
Oh, to cross the river clinging to his father's shoulders! Nothing is
frightening when you're with Dad! If only his father were always like this!
Vital, happy, joking and laughing. Not only when he'd had a bit to drink. He
and his friends drank a lot. They were lying on the grass surrounded by
sliced vegetables, sausage and lots of bottles. Some of the men were
accompanied by their wives, some were alone. The officers were relaxing.
Oleg sat nearby fishing, but seeing everything and listening to the adults.
Mama hinted tactfully that maybe it was time to stop drinking, that the men
had overdone things a little, all of them unsteady on their feet, speech
slurred. Mama was upset when the men decided to go for a swim: the water's
not at all warm, you'll catch colds, and why take the child with you?! Never
mind. A future officer needs toughening up. They threw off their clothes and
plunged into the water as though on command, splashing and laughing. One
dived under water and the others guffawed: "He's gone down to spawn!" They
say that a drunk thinks the ocean is no more than knee-deep. The water's not
all that cold, honest, Mum! Oleg, jump on! His father squatted down. Climb
on so you'll be comfortable. Someone broke into song: "From the taiga to the
British seas/ the Red Army can whip anyone at all!" Dad slicing through the
water like a torpedo boat. We'll make it across, hey son? You're not scared?
No? Then off we go! But it was not easy to swim with his son on his back.
Father trod on the bottom, standing on tip-toe, the water already up to his
chin. The current pulled strongly to the right. Oleg shone with happiness.
Mama's worrying over nothing! Wave to her! We're perfectly all right! The
others had climbed out and were wringing their shorts in the bushes, jumping
about on one leg, unable to get the other one in, trying to warm up because
the breeze was quite stiff. They waved their arms around, lit cigarettes,
downed a shot of vodka. Dad kept moving forward stubbornly, then suddenly
went under! Oleg slid off his back, plunged under water, began thrashing
about because he was not yet able to swim properly. Mama shouted from the
river bank, someone ran into the water, swam out to help.
... if only I don't drown!..
And Dad, where was Dad? Oleg was caught by the current and swept along.
Dad was choking and no longer swimming. His face was strangely twisted and
he seemed to be moaning. Cramp...Oleg floundered like a puppy, barely
managing to keep his head above water. He swallowed a lungful of water and
began coughing convulsively. But rescue was near. Somebody reached him,
began pulling him back to shore. And Dad made it back somehow...
Everything's fine! The boy's safe! No tears, please! It wasn't
anybody's fault! These things happen. Who could know that there was a deep
spot which couldn't be crossed on foot? Like dropping into a pit ... Pour
the man a penalty glass and give the boy a good rubdown...
... I must teach Nastyushka to swim! next vacation!..
As bad luck would have it, it began to rain. They ate in a cafe, bought
some fruit at the market. It seemed to Lena that Oleg forgot himself again,
he didn't even haggle over the prices, as if he felt ashamed of chaffering
over one ruble, he just flung money around without a thought! Yet a ruble
here and a ruble there added up to a tidy sum in the end! The traders can
tell at a glance, who has money and who hasn't, and set their prices
accordingly. Lena kept her peace, understanding that Oleg was doing this for
her, for Nastyusha, that he enjoyed giving them a treat, and if she were to
protest that he was throwing away money needlessly, she would only ruin his
pleasure. He would come to his senses soon enough. In a few days' time he
would see what was in his pocket and stop spending carelessly. He would
realize that at this rate, they would be left without funds for the return
journey. Still, they had been to the seaside! Who could say when they would
do this again?
The first home leave in wartime flashes by before you know it. The
heart of an officer fluctuates too much between home and duty, there are too
few victories at his back and too many future expectations. Sharagin felt
torn. Moreover, he had not expected to see his family quite so soon. His
parents were equally amazed, nobody had been expecting him earlier than in a
year's time, if not more, after his departure for Afghanistan.
Naturally, they were overjoyed, but they - both his parents an Lena -
had their own estimates of possible times and had prepared to wait
accordingly. Then suddenly - Oleg phones to say that he's in Tashkent and
will be flying out in two hours' time.
The presents Oleg brought home! Tell me how you've all been without me?
We're managing, son, don't worry about anything, dearest. Father could have
kept his mouth shut, though: who asked him to try and put Oleg "in the know"
when they found themselves alone:
"You have a word with her."
"Who?"
"Lena."
"What about?"
"About that guy who's been hanging around her..."
It was like an unexpected slap in the face. He felt dirty. It was not
like him to doubt Lena, but he couldn't bring himself to ask her directly in
case she took offense. Until he spoke to his mother. Mother explained
everything with feminine simplicity. Yes, there was this lieutenant, not a
local but just passing through, and there's absolutely no cause for concern
and Lena is completely blameless. The lieutenant saw her and fell in love at
first sight. Then he showed up after a while with a bunch of flowers. Lena
only felt sorry for him. Who could blame him? These boys sit around for
months on duty at the rocket launching site, there's nothing else to think
about, so in order not to go crazy, the lieutenant imagined himself in love
with her. Lena had a serious talk with him, and he had not been back since.
After a week by the sea, Nastyusha began to sniff and sneeze, then Lena
caught the cold, then Oleg.
... some home leave!..
"We forgot to throw a coin into the sea!" exclaimed Lena. They went
back to the beach, put down their suitcases and went to the water's edge.
Seagulls mewled dismally under the darkening sky.
"This is so we'll come back again," explained Oleg to his daughter. He
put a twenty kopeck coin into her little hand. "Go on, throw it in. There's
a belief like that."
The coin rattled against the pebbles...
+ + +
A new "son of the regiment" had appeared in Oleg's absence. In fact,
Sharagin never got to see him, as everything was over by the time he
returned. The pup had been adopted by Yepimakhov on a mission, a mixture of
boxer and German shepherd by the looks of him. You couldn't tell straight
away. A gift from the "road brigade". The pup was noisy, naive, funny,
trusting and good-natured. He absolutely oozed affection. Whenever someone
came near or stroked him, he would start to wag his tail like the blades of
a chopper and try to lick them from head to foot. The man dubbed him "son of
the regiment" or just "Son." The puppy rode the armored vehicles like a born
paratrooper. In no time at all, he learned to yap at the Afghans. But what
was to be done with him? It was winter. He'd perish alone. Then again, he
could hardly stay with the platoon. They weren't manning an outpost, but
living within the regiment. The rules here were different. The trained dogs
belonging to the sappers were a different breed, but the "son of the
regiment" was a ragamuffin mongrel.
If Bogdanov got to hear about him, everyone would get it in the neck.
They brought Son into the regiment anyway. Now what? He couldn't be
taken into the barracks, and you could hardly build him a kennel out of a
box in the depths of the vehicle park. They put an old trench-coat inside
for warmth and took turns bringing him food. The most assiduous benefactors
were Myshkovsky and Yepimakhov.
Morgultsev, as was to be expected, frowned and fumed. However, he was
spotted feeding the pup secretly. A soldier told Yepimakhov that the
commander had brought Son a mixture of porridge and canned meat, and tried
teaching him the "Sit!" and "Lie down!" commands. However, the pup was till
too young, so all he did was mess up the commander's uniform with dirty paws
and cover him with saliva in attempts to lick Morgultsev's nose.
We'll keep him for a bit, reasoned Yepimakhov, feed him up and on our
next sortie, we'll find a place for him, fix him up at an outpost.
All would have been well if Son had not been spotted by Bogdanov.
Myshkovsky had time to hide behind a BMP, but Son was unaccustomed to hiding
on what he plainly considered to be his territory. And home territory must
be protected. In fact, it was not that Bogdanov spotted him, but Son got
under his feet. Son knew no distinctions between an ordinary soldier, a
lieutenant or a lieutenant-colonel. And there was no way he could tell a
general from a captain.
The puppy bounded out from under the BMP, guarding the equipment
entrusted to him, and started yapping furiously. Not the way he would at an
Afghan - he was good at distinguishing smells. He was just giving a warning
as if to say - careful! I'm here to keep watch and am awaiting further
orders! Bogdanov, meanwhile, had been talking to someone and, taken aback,
stepped on Son's paw with a heavy boot.
Oh, the squeals of pain! Myshkovsky poked his head out but did not dare
come forward and dived back behind the BMP. Bogdanov had offended Son
deeply, and Son did not forget. That boot had really hurt his paw badly. And
for what reason?
Bogdanov cursed fluently and demanded to know who had brought a dog
into the regiment. Morgultsev had a strip torn off for turning the vehicle
park into a zoo. Bogdanov ordered that all stray dogs be removed from the
territory forthwith.
In his turn, Morgultsev chewed out Yepimakhov, yelled at him and
ordered him to get rid of Son. Yepimakhov pleaded for a few days' grace to
find Son a good home.
Two days later, Son was found dead in the vehicle yard. Someone had
shot him with a pistol.
By tacit consent, nobody discussed the incident, but individually the
men were all upset. Yepimakhov and Myshkovsky vowed to find out who shot
Son. Everything pointed at Bogdanov, but how could you prove it? And even if
you did, what would that change? It was not as though a human being had been
killed. Even when a soldier or an officer dies, you can't always get to the
bottom of all the circumstances surrounding the death, and in this instance,
the victim is only a mongrel.
A sentry confided to Myshkovsky that Bogdanov had come to the park to
check personally that the dog had been removed. "Did you hear a shot?" No,
the sentry had heard nothing, and refused to say any more. So the pup was
gone - big deal! Tell Myshkovsky that you'd heard a shot and he might go and
shoot the lieutenant-colonel. Then there would really be hell to pay!
Everyone would be drawn in, the Special Section, the Prosecutors...
+ + +
Nothing in the regiment had changed over the one and a half months
Sharagin had been away. When he was leaving, he had worried that there might
be battles. What if he were to miss out on something really big? How would
they go off without him?
...that's no good ... unfair...
On the whole, he had not missed much, just a couple of sorties.
... as if I hadn't been on leave .. as if I'd never left.. .
Yepimakhov seemed to have been scorched under fire several times,
bullets whizzing by his ears, but he was all right. The lieutenant held his
head proudly now.
... as though he's just had his first woman ...
Like any conscientious and proud young officer, in the best sense of
those words. Yepimakhov had had to be restrained by the scruff of the neck
at first, until he understood the difference between the romance of victory
and genuine combat. Invariably, someone needed to cool down the ardor of the
new boy to fling himself into battle so that he would not share the fate of
so many half-baked lieutenants arriving in Afghanistan and not living to see
their first home leave. In this one instance, nobody had been looking out
for Yepimakhov. He was simply lucky.
"I've been told that I'm safe from bullets," he said to Sharagin when
Oleg came back.
"Who told you that crap?"
"A gypsy."
"Go on, spit! That's better. And touch wood..."
The newcomer was gradually adapting to military life. He learned to
kill, swear like the proverbial trooper, accept death. His personal
possessions increased: he'd saved up his chits, haggled over wares in the
shops, spent some money in the army trade depot, bought odds and ends -
jeans, souvenirs, knickknacks - in other words, acquired the standard
baggage of a Soviet officer in Afghanistan.
He also found a reliable friend - vodka, that age-proven Russian remedy
for numerous misfortunes and doubts, from sadness and spiritual desolation.
He had expended his youthful enthusiasm, become slightly cynical,
disillusionment ousted his former belief in the saving role of the Soviet
army in Afghanistan.
He did not share his feelings with anyone, Sharagin was the only one in
whom he would confide to any extent when they went outside for a smoke,
especially after a good intake of vodka, when thoughts and tongues become
more eloquent.
They talked about the country in which they had been born, grew up and
which they served.
They talked about the war, which had brought such dissimilar people
together. They agonized over the frequently stupid, uncaring and useless
ways
... that the strength of Russia was being misused...
battalions and regiments are expended, that nobody gave a damn about
the soldiers or the army.
There was only one topic that was never discussed - the return home.
If it is not admissible, in wartime, when you surrender your life
temporarily into the hands of fate, when a situation may make you sacrifice
yourself for a friend, an aim, a principle, to plan and map out a distant
future left behind in another world, with other values. At least not out
loud, because you could be wrong so easily, or just jinx your hopes.
Chapter Eight. The General
The 40th army or the "Limited Contingent of Soviet forces in
Afghanistan" was yet another illegitimate offspring of the enormous empire
under the name of the Soviet Union. Its parents - the Central Committee of
the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the Ministry of Defense - did
all they could to hide their transgression, and for this reason, most
likely, forbade the Soviet people to mention the child as if it had done
something unworthy, criminal, something that cast a shadow over the entire
family.
Millions of the country's citizens did not know, were not interested
and did not care that there was a war for almost ten years on its southern
boundaries. As for those who served in the Limited Contingent, especially on
the first years after the forces were brought into Afghanistan - they did
not dare tell even their nearest and dearest about what they had been
through and seen, they feared to broach the subject.
Parents of other illegitimate children who did as they wished in more
fortunate and not war-torn countries - Hungary, Poland, the German
Democratic Republic, Mongolia, Czechoslovakia - were more benevolently
inclined.
The 40th army was dispatched to a strange land at the end of 1979 and
it tried, over many years, to win the love and good will of its ageing and
slightly mad parents. The army was sent to an alien place to preserve order,
increase the prestige and might of the empire, work for the growth and
fortune of already endless, immense territories. But because the empire was
not quite ordinary, and actually the last empire of the 20th century, things
were always turning out opposite to plan.
Instead of receiving profit from its subject lands, the empire gave
away its life-blood, shared its last crust, and its strength diminished
accordingly.
The subjects of the great empire did not know why they had to live so
badly, what had happened to the plenty promised them a long, long time ago,
at the dawn of the Soviet power; they believed genuinely in the gods which
thought up and created the empire; the subjects were romantics, naive
people, they liked hearing promises, believed in miracles and in their
hearts believed that that the miracle could occur at any moment, like in the
fairy-tale about the goldfish that promised to grant the fisherman's three
wishes in return for release.
However, they did not really have much choice. They had nothing with
which to compare their empire.
"If you've never watched a Japanese television set, you'll go on
believing that Soviet-made ones are the best in the world," once said
captain Morgultsev bitterly after a walk around the shops.
... he also liked to repeat that "the Soviet wrist-watches are the
fastest in the world, and Soviet paralysis - the most progressive"...
The great empire's army which, in actual fact, had not engaged in any
large-scale military actions for more than 35 years, suddenly decided to
flex its muscles and test its abilities in reality, assure itself that all
the weapons manufactured in recent years worked properly, try out new
technology, field test the commanders' knowledge of the tactical theories
they had studied in military schools and academies; the Soviet army needed a
foe, but as the foe did not attack, it was necessary to think up something
themselves, organize a lengthy march into a far away land, moreover as the
ideologists had, by that time, concluded work on the latest chapter about
global revolution. That chapter was entitled Afghanistan. Convincingly and
simply as always, it maintained that in exceptional cases, to transform a
feudal country into a socialist one without an intermediate capitalist stage
of development.
Muscles tend to stiffen after a long ride on the armor - similarly, the
Army and the Ideology got tired of sitting around with nothing to do, like a
dog on a chain becomes sick of waiting.
Pride forbade apology or retreat - the empire admitted to no mistakes.
So from the first days of its existence, the life of the 40th army went
haywire.
...how was the decision about Afghanistan really reached? No chance of
finding that out! if they goofed - its a damned shame...they shouldn't take
us for such fools! we fought for a couple of years, it became clear that
things were going wrong, so why not change tactics? you can't be blind
stubborn, you have to weasel around .. or stop pussyfooting around and pit
all our strength against them...
... we all understand geopolitics too, even at the level of a platoon
leader, we're not babies... that's what the army's for, that's what the
paratroopers are for - to guard the Motherland from external enemies,
to
strike first, preventively, so to speak, to be able to foresee what the
enemy has in mind and put a stop to it! even a moron could see that two
ideologies collided head-on in little Afghanistan, locked horns and
will
fight unto death ... the more you see, the further you look - nothing
is
all that simple here... we don't know everything .. there are all sorts
of
underwater reefs in this place ... so, all in all, it's better not to
argue
... better not to resist, not to indulge in masochism ... if you don't
know
everything ... you get your orders - forward ... we'll analyze it all
when
we're old, retired ... by that time things will become clear ... I hope
...
as for today, the task is simple - never mind discoursing about the
global
revolution, just kill the spooks ...
... nobody argues, we're just spent cartridges from a small calibre
weapon by comparison with those who call the tune in big time politics
-
with the heavy artillery ... for me, everything falls within the
framework
of the company, I can't even visualize the whole division even if I
try,
but for them - why, they have to see to the whole country, all the
military
areas, industry, know what's going on out there, across the border,
keep
their eyes peeled and their noses to the wind, to get ahead of the
yanks,
not to lose face ...do they see all this? they must! have they taken
everything into account? they have to! then there shouldn't be any
questions! if you must, you must! give us the picture, we'll
understand!
and win! we won't retreat! only keep faith with us and don't go
revising
things later -, opinions and views, let's remain united to the end!
international duty - well, let it be international duty!
half-heartedness
is the most dread thing of all! the most painful, when someone starts
backing down! then the accomplishments and rewards of the Russian
soldier
will not be worth a penny ... if you don't think you can stick it out,
don't get into a fight! ...
In the evenings, the enervating heat eased. The air freshened,
especially in the tree-lined avenues on the territory of the army HQ located
in Amin's former palace, a three-floor edifice with columns, standing on a
high hill on the outskirts of the city and housing the senior command of the
40th army. The daily fuss around HQ died down until sunrise and people
became more relaxed in behavior and dress.
The palace suffered heavy damage in December 1979 when the empire
ordered the liquidation of Hafizullah Amin, the leader of Afghanistan at
that time. Ironically Amin, who had urged the Soviet Union to bring its
forces into his country, was killed by those very forces in their first
strike.
As the years passed, numerous military installations grew up on the
territory adjacent to the palace. A compound covered several square
kilometers. It was guarded assiduously against the Afghans and, as was to be
expected, Soviet power reigned supreme in that one specific part of Kabul.
Feature films were shown in an open-air cinema behind the officers'
quarters so scraps of dialogue floated above the heads of the few couples
strolling down the avenues.
A red "Lada" raced past, bearing some visiting Soviet advisor back to
town.
Four soldiers in bullet-proof vests and helmets, rifles slung over
their shoulders, emerged from the dusk. They were led by a sergeant who was
supervising the changing of the guards. One of the soldiers concealed a
cigarette in his hand, drawing on it surreptitiously from time to time and
blowing out the smoke downwards, over his chin. The men paused outside the
commissary for half a minute, eyes right, gazing at the imported goodies in
the brightly lit, empty interior: shoes, track suits, Japanese
tape-recorders, all inaccessible to them price-wise.
A soldier could hardly gain access to the store in day time, it's not
for the soldiers to roam around shopping, nobody will give them permission
to leave their unit and, in any case, common soldiers have no money to
spend: all they can do is sneak a glance at the imported plenty. Anyone can
wish for a better life, even a common soldier.
"What a brand!"
"To a man in 'Adidas'/Any girl will give her ass!"
"Come on you Siberian hick, keep moving," ordered the sergeant.
After dinner in a circle of fellow-generals and a game of billiards in
the Military Council hotel built at the foot of the palace, Sorokin took his
leave. The meal had been excellent, real home cooking. All the products were
specially supplied and superb meals preceded by hors d'oeuvres were
separately prepared. The waitresses at the Military Council were selected
carefully: friendly, pleasant and easy on the eye.
Sorokin had declined various invitations to visit, having decided to
take a break from sitting around tables and drinking. He wanted to check his
gear and have an early night in order to go on tomorrow's mission with a
clear head. The general donned a track suit and went out into the street,
lit a cigarette and set off for a walk. He relaxed, putting everyday
problems out of his head.
Nobody recognized him, nobody saluted or greeted him, and the general
enjoyed this because it meant that he was here only temporarily, without any
regular duties, unencumbered by responsibilities for day to day matters of
military administration or the troops. At the same time he was immensely
proud of the fact that he was endowed with special powers and
responsibilities, which were known and understood by a very small circle
within the military command in Kabul and Moscow. His responsibilities
concerned party and political issues, and therefore extended to one and all.
Army generals were always divided into categories - popular or
unpopular, known or unknown, important or unimportant. The generals were
also differentiated by the positions they held, by their temperaments and by
the way they had attained their rank and duties.
Sorokin was one of those who came by his shoulder boards due to
Afghanistan. He had experienced the true meaning of war on his own skin,
earned his colonel's rank under fire and not behind a desk in the Chief
Military Political Administration. The next promotion resulted from his
participation in the war because in the 1980s "afghan" officers were the
driving force of the Soviet Army, they were granted precedence and the main
emphasis was on them.
Walking around the HQ territory, Sorokin noted how substantially the
compound had been built and recalled that he had seen figures recently which
estimated the worth of army property in Afghanistan at some hundreds of
millions of rubles. He compared the present conditions with life under
canvas in the first years of the war.
...An entire battalion had become infested with lice. The pests had
come from the division and then - Mamma mia! - all the soldiers, filthy and
unwashed as they were, began scratching furiously. Sorokin had set a day for
them all to go to the bath house, ordered their uniforms burnt, tents shaken
out and bed linen boiled. As for the men - a bath day is a holiday. The
commanders, however, panicked and cursed, because how could they disobey and
order from divisional superiors, especially an order from the head of the
political section? To whom does one complain about a political officer?
Nobody. Sorokin phoned divisional headquarters, reporting that here we are,
we've reached rock bottom, the men are living like pigs; send us new
uniforms, the unit is not combat worthy otherwise. The divisional commander
shouted that Sorokin had gone off his head, that he was a saboteur and would
find himself facing a military tribunal. Sorokin stood his ground: there was
no way back in any case, because piles of shirts and pants were already
burning merrily. This scandal rocked the entire army. However, Sorokin got
what he wanted, new uniforms were duly delivered. What else?! That was the
way Sorokin cared for the men in those trying years, fought for justice,
pressed his point. Not every political officer would have had the guts to do
that!..
Now everything had changed. Naturally, Sorokin was glad that today's
soldiers were well-equipped with decent housing, air conditioners, bath
houses, shops, cinemas, laundries, bakeries, cafes and barbers. At the same
time, he felt pity for those who had huddled freezing under their
trench-coats in that first bitter winter after the entry into Afghanistan,
those ill-equipped officers and men who were ordered "across the river" to
render international assistance. He felt sorry for himself in the first
place, because he had experienced it all personally.
He was proud that he had been one of the trailblazers. Prior to this
trip to Kabul, he had even fancied that his past record would raise his
standing in the eyes of other officers, but was quickly disillusioned.
Sorokin saw that nobody was interested in hearing about the hardships faced
back in 1980. For the colonels and generals he encountered in Kabul now,
Afghanistan existed in the present, occasionally - in the future, as from
time to time people did wonder about what would happen later, was Moscow
likely to order the withdrawal of the Limited Contingent, but nobody cared
much about the past.
Sorokin passed the officers' quarters in front of which stood a lonely
and incongruous small statue of Lenin on a pedestal, then proceeded past the
stone buildings of command staff apartments. A stream of movie-goers
straggled towards him.
There was another covert reason for this evening walk, known only to
himself. Somewhere deep inside he hoped - who knows their luck? - to meet
some attractive member of the opposite sex, of whom there were plenty in the
army cantonment.
Sorokin had spent the previous day smoothing over a certain unpleasant
incident. A Spetsnaz group that had been conducting an aerial survey of the
approaches to Kabul in search of spook caravans had stopped a bus. They had
fired a warning volley from the air, landed to conduct a search, but when
the men disembarked from the chopper, the bus suddenly drove off. The men
leapt back into the chopper and set off in pursuit, opening fire and turning
the bus into a colander. Blood streamed from the door and they discovered
fourteen corpses of allegedly peaceful civilians inside. Passengers who had
remained alive were herded behind a hillock by the group leader, and shot
with a silenced pistol. They did not finish off the driver, though. His jaw
was slack, and they decided that he was already dead. It was too late to do
anything when it emerged that the driver had only been wounded and was now
an eye-witness in the matter. Otherwise, they could have blamed everything
on the spooks.
Sorokin was pleased with the way he had handled this very awkward
situation. His tactic was to defuse it by a number of diplomatic moves at a
meeting with members of the Afghan Central Committee and their advisors,
attributing everything to the known unreliability of the spook-infested area
where the incident had occurred and asserted that their own Afghan
intelligence service expected a caravan carrying surface-to-surface missiles
to pass through on that day. To cap it all, Sorokin remarked pensively that
it might be best to stop all aerial reconnaissance by the Spetsnaz. The
Afghan to whom he said this took fright and, unwilling to accept the
responsibility for any such decision, agreed that the whole incident was due
to an unfortunate misunderstanding and that everyone was fully aware of the
need for reconnaissance and the Spetsnaz.
Sorokin regretted what had happened, but worse things can occur in war.
Why, whole villages had been reduced to rubble by mistake, sometimes
wrongly-given coordinates brought down fire on their own units. It happens.
War is war.
When he returned to the hotel, a new receptionist - a young, striking
brunette - was seated in front of the television set. Soviet programs came
through to Kabul loud and clear.
"Good night," said Sorokin, straightening his back and pulling in his
very slightly incipient belly.
"Good night to you too," she replied with a flutter of painted
eyelashes and turned back to the screen - it was not part of her job to
flirt with transient generals.
Back in his room, Sorokin indulged in a lengthy telephone conversation
over SAC - secret automatic connection - with a friend in the Chief Military
Political Administration in Moscow, from whom he hoped to learn the latest
news and what the weather was like back in the capital. The friend, however,
had more practical matters on his mind:
"I'm going to be down your way soon," he informed Sorokin. The voice at
the other end sounded stifled, as if somebody had gripped the speaker in a
vise and was squeezing out every word with pain. "I want to buy a video
recorder. And a track suit. I've been told that 'Adidas' stuff is available
in Kabul."
"True. You can buy the suits with coupons. There's a colonel at HQ
who's chairman of the party committee and who's in charge of distribution.
All our operating group was supplied by him. There aren't many VCRs, but the
track suits's no problem."
"Alexei, try to get them to set aside a VCR for me, would you? I'll be
flying in next week."
"I'll do my best. I want to ask you something, too. I'm going on a
combat mission tomorrow. Phone my folks, give them my love. Tell them I'm
fine."
As a rule, senior ranking officers, especially the political ones,
could not survive a day without long discussions with distant headquarters,
districts and staff offices. To an outsider, not versed in the ways of the
senior military, it could seem that SAC had been invented specially for
generals, so that they could contact their friends and relatives at any
moment to hear the latest gossip, exchange rumors, suppositions, find out
about the weather and what the fishing was like in this or that corner of
the immense land of the Soviets.
In the morning, while Sorokin was breakfasting, his white "Volga" drew
up outside the hotel. The staff car was equipped with Afghan number plates
and had curtains on the rear window. Sashka, the driver, parked between two
UAZ jeeps. He was in good spirits, as he had finally repaired the car to his
satisfaction. His predecessor had almost ruined the vehicle because he was
waiting for demobilization and did not give a damn about the car, didn't
want to get his hands dirty. Sashka had had to strip the gearbox, regulate
all the valves, change the head gasket, adjust the suspension and jump
through hoops to get the necessary spare parts. Nobody gives away something
for nothing. His "Volga" was not the only general's car around, there were
plenty of others and they were all in demand by people of no lesser rank.
Bringing the car up to scratch had taken a lot of time, Sashka slaved
over it in the motor pool even at night. If the car was at all mobile, it
was in use during the day so he had no choice.
Sashka was listening to the music which issued loudly and squeakily
from the cassette player between the seats. He had no idea who was singing
about what as the song was in English, but he liked the catchy tune and the
refrain, which mentioned some Mary Magdalene or other. Sashka listened and
his simple, uncomplicated soldier's head was full of dreams about his return
home to his obscure village in the Arkhangelsk region where he would stride
around in a pair of "Montana" jeans which he had not yet purchased but which
were the most popular although not cheap for a soldier, and sport a smart
pen and a quartz watch. The pen was already bought. All his friends would
die of envy!
Dreams of civilian life were interrupted when a black "Volga" pulled up
by the hotel. The driver climbed out and crooked a lazy finger at Sashka:
come here! Sashka switched off the player. He hated that short-legged
Moldavian who was to be demobbed soon, and therefore considered it his right
to steal whatever he could from the motor pool. He and his pals were expert
at disposing of the stolen goods.
Sashka's position was very unenviable, a soldier still a long way from
the end of his term of service and thus with no choice but to obey a
"grandpa." The Moldavian clapped him on the shoulder:
"Where's your guy going today?"
"To the airport," replied Sashka cautiously, expecting some kind of
set-up.
"I've slipped a little something into the boot of your car."
"Why? I've told you - I can't-" pleaded Sashka miserably.
"Yes, you can," said the Moldavian threateningly. "I'm a step away from
going home, fuck it, it's time I started doing my shopping. Can a "grandpa"
run any risks? Nobody will dream of suspecting you. You're an honest lad. If
you don't sell the stuff - don't bother coming back. You'd be better off
with the spooks."
Sashka did not know how to steal, how to lie, and had no desire to take
part in any machinations. Before he'd been assigned a driver, he had been
free of problems. He knew and saw that the long-servers and even men from
his own call-up who were more daring and enterprising than himself stole
spare parts and took them into town for sale. There was word that the
previous week three entire air conditioners had been spirited away. What if
the Moldavian had put an air conditioner in the boot of the "Volga"? Or a
stolen machine gun or ammunition?
"You go to Kitabula, you know where his workshop is, give him the
goods."
" ? "
"I'm not going to argue with you peasant! Stupid Arkhangelsk asshole!"
"But they'll stop me at the checkpoint-" began Sashka, but before he
had time to finish, the Moldavian struck him on the ear with a clenched
fist, strongly enough for Sashka to see stars for a moment.
"They won't stop you with a general in the car" - the Moldavian headed
back towards his own vehicle, "here he comes now."
Sorokin, as a member of the small but all-powerful group of Soviet
military men who called the shots in Afghanistan, differed markedly from his
divisional and staff peers. Firstly, he bore himself very independently,
knowing that he had only a handful of direct superiors. With these, he
behaved almost as an equal, or deliberately demonstrated devotion and
respect if that particular individual was close to a marshal's stars. The
general's clothing stood out, too: he liked to sport camouflage which,
although meant for the field, nevertheless looked good on him, reminiscent
of summer kit, was better cut, and had gold shoulder boards and narrow red
stripes down the trouser-legs.
Sorokin paused briefly on the hotel steps, discussing something with
two other generals, then each went to his own car to start the day's work.
Sashka's hands were shaking, so he gripped the steering wheel as hard
as he could. How the hell did he get into this mess? There was nothing he
could do. Starting a conflict with the "grandpas" in the motor pool was out
of the question. Yet if he were to do what the Moldavian wanted, he's be
loaded with stolen goods the next day, too. He would have no respite until
he found himself in deep trouble. Why, oh why had they put him behind the
wheel of this car!
"Morning, Sasha," said Sorokin, climbing into the back. He had gathered
a small bag of stuff to take with him. It was his long-standing habit to
address drivers by their first name, and not by their surnames. "We'll go to
HQ first."
"Good morning, comrade general," replied Sashka, rubbing his ear.
"What's the matter with your ear?"
"Some bug or other bit me-"
"Oh- well, let's go!"
An unhealthy-looking, thin captain was on duty outside the office of
the head of the Political Section of the army and member of the Military
Council. The captain was flicking through the latest reports in the logbook.
His attention was caught by a report from the Kandahar brigade, that a
certain commander had punished a soldier by putting him in a fuel drum for
half a day in an outside temperature of plus 50 degrees, after which
everyone had forgotten all about the miscreant. Twenty four hours later, the
soldier died. In another unit, a soldier had hung himself in the store room.
The report gave the soldiers name, date of birth and stated that no factors
concerning harassment were discovered in connection with the suicide, that
he had not earned the respect of his peers. The report concluded with the
names and addresses of the parents of the deceased.
The captain read these reports in order to be aware of what was
happening in other units, for his own information and out of curiosity, so
that when he went off duty he would have something to tell his pals,
especially stories like the one about the soldier in the fuel drum. Some
sauna! Fancy the commander forgetting all about him!
He opened a newspaper, yawned from boredom, then saw a drably clad,
plump middle aged woman coming down the corridor:
"Excuse me, but who are you? " he asked phlegmatically and cracked his
knuckles.
"Actually, I need to see the head of the Military Council-"
"He's very busy right now. Actually, why do you need to see him?"
"I'm a milkmaid."
"I understand that you're from the "Milkmaid" retorted the captain
snidely, thinking about the call signal from headquarters of the garrison
stationed at Pul-i-Khumri in the north of Afghanistan. "But what do you want
to see him about?"
"I'm a milkmaid," repeated the woman, standing uncertainly and somewhat
guiltily by the captain's desk.
"Yes, I know, I've only just been speaking to the duty officer at
"Milkmaid." It must have taken you a long time to get here. The convoys to
Kabul take a while," continued the captain with unpleasant, false
commiseration.
"What convoy?" Heavens, I walked here, it's just a step. I'm from the
residence," she explained. "From the army general's residence, I'm a
milkmaid. There."
The captain was at a total loss. From the residence? A milkmaid?
"We've got a cow there, you see, to have fresh milk for Fyodor
Konstantinovich. He likes everything to be very fresh, you see, he's on this
strict diet, and the doctor says that Fyodor Konstantinovich can eat only
fresh food, boiled meat, fresh milk, you see. So the thing is, you see, I
promised to bring your general here some milk, you see-"
The captain burst out laughing.
"A milkmaid! And here I was wondering what brought you here?!"
"Yes, I'm a milkmaid, you see."
At that moment the door opened and the general himself came out,
accompanied by Sorokin and a man wearing the uniform of an Afghan advisor.
The captain sprang to his feet.
"Well, Alexei Glebovich," said the general to Sorokin, "I wish you a
successful trip. I'll be off on combat mission myself in a few days, we'll
meet up there. All the best. And to you, too," he added shaking hands with
the advisor in Afghan uniform. "You're off to see the commander now? Good,
good. Drop by, give me a call any time. Always at your service-Yes? You want
to see me?"
"I've come about the milk-"
"Ah! Excellent!"
"I'm absolutely exhausted," confided the advisor as he and Sorokin
descended the winding staircase.
The general couldn't quite see why the advisor was complaining of
tiredness. He certainly didn't smell of alcohol. And at this early hour,
too.
"Time to go on leave," continued the advisor. "The only pleasure I have
is coming here - to see my army buddies, have a dip in the swimming pool,
spend some time in the sauna - and everything here is fine as far as the
fair sex is concerned. You military men are lucky. It's absolute Paradise
here!"
"Yes, it might look like that-But the workload is enormous. Saunas are
saunas, but there's no time to rest," replied Sorokin, bending the truth.
"I've only been to the sauna once since I got here. You know how it is - a
quick shower before bed, and that's it."
"Well, let's go now."
"Sorry, but as you heard the general say, I'm off on a combat mission,"
said Sorokin with excessive pride.
"Next time, then-. I wanted to drop in on the commander. Do you know
him?"
"Very well indeed. We fought together back in '80."
"Of course, you told me last time. Why not go and see him together? A
courtesy visit," winked the advisor.
Whatever rank one serves in, one has a master at that level. And it is
not the Minister of Defense, as some may think, who is the lord and master
of the Armed Forces. In the army, the boss is the commander. For a common
soldier, it's the platoon or company commander, for a platoon leader or a
company commander it's the commander of the battalion, the commander of the
battalion is subservient to the commander of the regiment, and the latter -
to the commander of the division. Then comes the commander of the army.
Commanders of the 40th army changed every couple of years. Therefore it
would be wrong to single out any particular individual. One brought in
troops, another took them out, yet another built and fought and so on. Each
had his own pluses and minuses, but irrespective of anything, every
commander was the viceroy of the distant great power, the master of an
estate on which, beyond any doubt, Soviet directives and laws were in force.
The viceroy was assisted by party and political structures that kept an
eagle eye on the men to ensure that everyone prayed to one God only - the
Communist Party of the Soviet Union, that not a shadow of doubt crossed
their minds concerning the correctness of the choice made by their
grandparents.
For some of the men the horizon is determined by the battalion, for
others - the regiment, others think within the framework of a division, and
very few who serve in headquarters think in terms of an army comprised of
hundreds of thousands. For those close to headquarters, the commander was
always a mere mortal.
The lower army ranks had no time to wonder or discuss where this or
that general lives, with whom he lives, what car he uses to drive to work,
what he eats for dinner and which bath house he patronizes. For them, the
level of the commander is inaccessible.
The people at the bottom of the ladder, whose feet supported the weight
of the entire army machine, know that it is not done to criticize their
commanders, - history would laugh at them later if they were inadequate or
foolish, - these people at the top of the iceberg must be cared for and
nurtured, they must be objects of pride, because their resonant names were
more likely to go down in history than the names of those who served in the
same battalion, and some five or ten years later it would be nice to recall
that one served under such and such a commander, stress that he would visit
once, regiment frequently, that we knew him, saw him in combat more than
once and that he was one hell of a guy!
The commander of the 40th army had returned from the battle command
center where he had taken early morning reports, and was now engaged on
urgent matters concerning the imminent large operation. He was concluding a
telephone conversation with someone and gestured the advisor and the general
to come in and sit down.
Sorokin made a mental note that the commander was once again acting in
a not too friendly manner, for all that they used the familiar "you" form of
address. Furthermore, twice in the past few days the commander had not
called Sorokin "Alyosha", but "Alexei Glebovich" indicating clearly that no
particular buddy stuff was to be expected. His rise had been too swift in
recent years, he had become too far removed from his old comrades in arms.
Still, Sorokin hoped that during his stay in Kabul there would be a chance
to share a bottle, just the two of them, and indulge in some nostalgic
reminiscences about those early years. Then everything would get back to
normal.
"Over here, please," said the commander, wanting to get rid of his
visitors as quickly as possible. "Viktor Konstantinovich, and you too,
Alexei Glebovich. Come and take a look."
He led them over to the window and pulled back the white tulle
curtains, allowing a view of a summer house with a pointed roof. Right
behind it was a swimming pool with sky-blue water, covered completely by
camouflage netting. Some home-made deckchairs stood to the left, behind the
pine trees. A fat man in striped trunks lay sunning himself, while a second
man swam in the pool, pushing himself strongly away from the sides. A small
table was covered with various kinds of bottles.
"Don't lose any time, Viktor Konstantinovich, go down to the pool, I'll
have my adjutant escort you there. I'm really sorry, but there's no way I
can go there myself today. I'm absolutely snowed under with work."
After saying his good-byes to the commander and the advisor, Sorokin
made his way to the party commission chairman and went inside.
"Alexei Glebovich! Do sit down! I want to copy some Afghan songs. I
could make you a copy too, if you like?"
"Why not?"
The stout colonel who issued coupons for imported technology and
'Adidas' track suits unsealed a block of "Sony" tapes purchased in an Afghan
shop, and began to put stickers on every cassette to indicate sides A and B,
and on which one could write the name of the content.
"Yes, I'll certainly manage that!"
It was impossible to refuse a request for coupons from a general, let
alone a general from an operative group of the Ministry of Defense, but the
chairman, sly fox that he was, managed to give the conversation such a turn
that Sorokin found himself in the role of a supplicant.
"Come in any time, comrade general. Always happy to be of service,"
invited the chairman in parting.
Ask a trifling favor, and find yourself indebted, thought Sorokin
angrily. That sonofabitch will call in the favor, you can bet on that.
"There goes the younger generation," said the duty officer in the main
vestibule to his partner, following Sorokin with his eyes. "Some sharp
dresser! Thinks a lot of himself." He waited until the general got into his
car. "Before, generals were all five minutes to their retirement date.
Nowadays it's all different, Yura. They barely have time to put on their
colonel's shoulder boards before placing an order for those of a general.
That's all due to Afghanistan, pal. If it weren't for the war, where would
the army get new blood? You have to think here, run risks, but those old
farts at the top couldn't handle it, this is no office job, or paper
shuffling or spending a weekend with the grandchildren at their dacha. You
mark my words, Yura, those elders in the Kremlin will soon feel the pressure
of new forces, they're already being squeezed with perestroikas and
accelerations. How can they speed themselves up?
There were two roads leading to Kabul from staff headquarters. The
first was meant for the higher ranks and served as a kind of parade entrance
to the HQ of the 40th. It started from the front of the Amin palace, passed
the residence where the operative group of the Ministry of Defense worked
and where Fyodor Konstantinovich, the personal representative of the
Minister of Defense and for whom a cow plus a milkmaid had been flown in on
a special freight run, lived.
The road came to an asphalt-surfaced square surrounding the Afghan
Ministry of Defense. Another road came out on this square, too, one that was
virtually unknown to the army brass because generals, like lords and masters
of old, did not like to travel along dusty, uneven roads, they did not look
at the rear entrance which was designated for lesser beings, the
insignificant, the servants.
However, the general opted for this particular road, which began
between the officers' houses, the commissary and the cafe, and was manned by
two checkpoints.
They passed the first checkpoint, the thin chimneys of the boiler house
which protruded like matches above the single-storey barrackss, the sports
field, then the second checkpoint and took the downward slope, leaving
behind the shoddy museum of the Afghan armed forces, filled with obsolete,
disintegrating Soviet military technology, covered with a thick layer of
green paint. A sort of crossroads popularly referred to simply as "the
cross" was directly behind the museum. To the left of it lay a road leading
to two regiments - the paratroops and the motorized infantry - and the goods
depot with its enormous storage hangars. A long line of military vehicles
had passed through here early in the morning. Now they were replaced by
numerous Kamaz trucks, which raised clouds of dust in their wake.
A swarm of bare-legged urchins "attacked" the trucks. The more agile
would seize the tailboards, pull back the canvas cover and throw out
everything they could reach. Others ran behind the truck, catching whatever
they could and disappearing into alleyways.
"Just look at them! Look what they're doing, the rotten little
beggars!" cried Sorokin. "The cheek!-"
Such pirate raids by Afghan kids were carried out frequently on Soviet
columns, and were accomplished so swiftly that the truck drivers did not
have time to react in most cases.
Sashka couldn't care less at the moment, even though he dutifully made
noises indicating agreement. Sashka was thinking his own soldier's thoughts
about the load hidden in the boot and caught himself on the thought that
those kids must be making a bundle and maybe he, since he had already been
dragged into this shady matter, should demand a cut, even a tiny one, for
the risk he was running, instead of a mere "thanks!" You can't spread
"thanks" on a piece of bread, after all.
A handful of modest container-shops on wheels clustered around the
"cross" selling the traditional selection of shawls, "stone-washed" jeans
outfits, pens to suit every taste, sunglasses and "biters", nail clippers
which were a favorite gift back home; you could buy a bottle of vodka at the
"cross" at any time of the day or night. The shops were decorated with
notices in mutilated Russian such as "Mischa-empori-shope", posters
depicting black-browed Indian beauties or heroes of American action movies
such as Rambo, with mountainous biceps, streamlined torsos and cartridge
belts slung across their chests.
Several more container shops stood behind the Coca-Cola factory with
its yard full of hundreds of cases of empty bottles. The road at this point
was particularly bad, the general's car and the trucks bouncing along the
uneven surface. They slowed down in order not to wreck their suspension,
crawling past the military traffic police post lurking behind a wall. It was
here that the dust they had raised caught up with the trucks and hung in a
thick pall inside their cabins.
From time to time the shop owners would come out with shovels and throw
some water on the road from surrounding puddles in an effort to damp down
the yellow, choking dust.
The general's "Volga" came out by the Afghan Ministry of Defense, drove
around its perimeter and sped along the tree-lined Dar-ul-Aman, the lengthy
strip of asphalt leading to the center of Kabul.
Various ministries and other official buildings, schools, shops and
bakeries and private villas flashed by.
Sashka glanced at the general in the rear view mirror from time to
time.
Sorokin looked about forty years of age. He was in good shape, but had
aged early, gray-haired and with red veins on and around his nose.
The general was puffing on a cigarette and speaking in a slightly
hoarse voice, more to himself than the river:
"There's another road parallel to this one, a bit narrower, that leads
to the Institute of Polytechnics. .. ever driven down it?"
"Of course I know it, comrade general, " replied Sashka. "It's called
"the 'spooker'. We're not allowed to use it."
"-.'spooker,, hmmm-we almost got burned alive there in '80-"
They passed the fork where soldiers from the Tsarandoi, the Afghan
militia, stopped and searched vehicles. One soldier made a move to flag down
the "Volga", but noticed the uniformed Soviet driver behind the wheel just
in time.
They drove past villas, then the Soviet embassy with its two-meter high
walls. A lone ancient armored car with the hood up stood in a vacant lot
near the embassy - Afghan soldiers on guard duty.
There were some shops to the left of the embassy, and Sashka caught a
few glimpses of jeans hung out for sale.
They passed the bridge over the small Kabul River, which crossed the
capital in a murky, brownish-green stream. Local women washed clothing along
the banks of the half-dry riverbed, bathed children, rinsed dishes, people
cleaned cars and if the natives had refrained from urinating in the river,
it would certainly have dried completely by now.
At the end of the street, where it entered the city square, a huge
portrait-poster of the start of the century Afghan king, Amanullah Khan, was
prominently displayed. He had luxuriant whiskers, was dressed in a field
jacket with red tabs. Soviet military men and civilians working in Kabul
would argue as to who it was really - hero of the Russian civil war Blucher
or Beria, and were honestly puzzled why the Afghans had such a reverent
attitude to Soviet leaders of the Stalin era. By the end of the discussion
they usually agreed that the Afghan people, just like Soviet citizens,
respect strong personalities and an iron hand, and sadly miss those times
when order reigned supreme.
Sorokin smoked all the way to the airport, immersed in recollections
about the introduction of the armed forces, about a lieutenant-colonel's
life.
...They had been pushing a division down long wintry roads through the
tunnel towards the Salang pass, choking from diesel and petrol fumes. The
winding road was made even narrower by snowdrifts along its sides, the
vehicles skidded on the icy surface. The column of tanks and APCs got stuck.
They pushed a broken down truck off the road into the precipice.
Sorokin remembered how he had been driving through unfamiliar Kabul and
wanted nothing so much as to eat some mandarins. On every corner there were
rough wooden two-wheeled carts full of crates of mandarins. He told the
driver of the APC to stop, hopped out and approached one of the vendors. All
he had in his pocket were Soviet rubles. He offered the man five rubles. The
vendor turned the unknown blue note around in his hands, handed it back.
Sorokin offered ten rubles, with the same result. Damn you, he thought,
pulling out a twenty five ruble note from the bottom of his pocket. The
seller shook his head again .
Then there was that time when he had gone into town in a new UAZ jeep,
and was stopped by a crowd of girls, several hundred of them, near Kabul
University. They dragged him out of the jeep, smeared him and his driver
with some kind of paint and threw rotten tomatoes and eggs at them.
When you talked about it, everything was crystal clear: international
aid, defense of the southern borders. The party said one thing, but the
reality was quite different, and one had to live with this ambiguity.
Almost got burned alive- It was in February, on the eve of Soviet Army
Day. He was then a member of the Military Council and had been in
conference. They were returning late to the division, it was already dark,
and they decided to take a short cut along the 'spooker' as Sashka called
it: straight for the Institute of Polytechnics, then left to the grain silo
and down, along the fringes of Kabul and straight to the division, the
"Teply Stan" (Warm Haven) district as it had been named by the Soviets.
The 'spooker' was quite empty, not a single oncoming car. All the
streets were empty, the shops closed even though at that time they were
usually open, and shafts of light from kerosene lamps speared out into the
dark street.
Sorokin rode the armor, legs dangling down into the open hatch, eyes
half-shut against the bitter wind. The APC took a sharp bend and began to
brake - ahead of them, about a hundred meters away, a crowd of Afghans
blocked the road.
"Is it some holiday of theirs, or what?" called Sorokin down the hatch
to the lieutenant who sat in the command seat inside the APC. "Slow down as
much as possible, easy does it. They'll move!"
The crowd engulfed the APC and would not let it pass any further. What
an idiotic situation! For a few moments, Sorokin lost his composure. He
tried to smile in a friendly manner, waved his hand, but the response was
frankly hostile. Suddenly, the crowd boiled into motion, like a stormy sea,
roaring its hatred of the Soviet military.
"Allah akbar! Allah akbar!" screamed the crowd. Sorokin seized the
machine gun hanging on the open hatch, slipped off the safety catch, pulled
the breech and fired a shot in the air. Something struck him on the back of
the head, felt like a stick, just as well he was wearing a fur hat, it
absorbed the blow. Rocks flew. He fired a few more warning shots into the
air. The crowd continued to press in on the APC. Quickly and therefore
clumsily, Sorokin scrambled down into the vehicle - for a moment he
panicked, thinking he was stuck - to hide from the rocks and seal the hatch.
Noses pressed to the triplex, they waited tensely. Dull blows sounded all
around. The crowd was attacking the APC with stones, shovels, hoes. Someone
jumped on top of the vehicle, pounding his heel against the closed hatch.
The homogenous, infuriated mob, faces distorted with hate, ringed the APC on
all sides.
About five minutes went by. The lieutenant was first of the three to
break the silence:
"They're coming with torches!"
Someone from the mob threw a bottle of either kerosene or petrol at the
APC, then the flaming torch. The armor burst into flame on top, the fire
running swiftly along the streaks of inflammable liquid. The mob retreated
from the vehicle.
A smell of smoke penetrated the cabin. The lieutenant awaited orders.
Rivulets of sweat ran down the lieutenant-colonel's face.
"We'll burn, comrade colonel," warned the lieutenant finally
"Take your choice, son," said Sorokin to the driver mechanic. "Either
we roast alive, or we go forward."
Wisps of smoke appeared in the cabin. The lieutenant began to cough.
The engine roared into life and the APC lurched forward. There was a
shout, then another and another. The vehicle gathered speed and velocity,
bouncing over human bodies like ruts on a country road.
About two hundred meters further along they broke out and raced full
speed, banging into and overturning oncoming cars, through the dark city.
Once on the territory of the division, the soldier driver clambered out
of the cabin and made his way directly to the barracks, forgetting to switch
off the engine. It seemed to Sorokin that the young man had gone gray all of
a sudden-.
The "Volga" stopped on one of the central streets, making way for an
open-bodied "Toyota." The car was filled to the brim with chunks of
butchered camels. A Khazara boy aged about nine lay on the mountain of
bloody carcasses. He was incredibly dirty and clad in a much-mended blue
nylon jacket. The meat must have still been warm, and he laughed happily,
waving at passers-by and calling out something.
Choppers filled the air above the landing strip, affording cover to a
descending Il-76. The plane was spiraling down, weaving through the sky and
leaving a trail of curlicues behind it - trails of decoys, like the ones
being released from the choppers.
The guard on the gates of the airport looked questioningly at the
"Volga" with its Afghan number plates. One of the paratroopers remained
standing by the gates with their welded-on red star, the other approached
the car lazily and peered in from under his helmet.
"What's taking you so long?" barked Sashka.
'Where's the car from?"
" It's general Sorokin's car from army HQ. C'mon, open those gates-"
"I can't admit a car with Afghan plates."
"See this pass?" demanded Sashka, thrusting a cardboard square under
the guard's nose.
"Another one's needed for entry to the airdrome."
"Will you quit stalling?!"
"Wait a moment, I'll have to report -"
"Idiots!" muttered Sashka, who was accustomed to more respect from
guards.
"I'm sorry, comrade general," said the guard returning from his post,
"but I can't let the car through."
"Never mind." Sorokin got out of the car. "I'll