ready  made  things  and  the  coming  assault  of the
Dudajev's  Palace. The assault of  the bank  was in the mind as already made
thing. Many  ones  were joking  that  they  will  part the gold and  dollars
hiddden in the basement.
     Suddenly the tellible crash  comes. As  if the  ceiling is  dropping on
you. And now  the men's wails. In  a couple  seconds one  more explosion and
crashing. Nothing  can be seen. The wall of the dust is hanging in the  air.
And only the shouts  and  the groans of the injured  ones. In  the  seiling,
where  the  left corner  was  situated, there  was a void  yawning. What has
happened? The  rinning hangs in the ears. The Chechen wails are heard louder
and louder. Teh shooting is more hard. Somebody has caused the wall to fall.
May be some tankee has shot? That's scarcely. The shell could not creat such
thing. That means,  the "dukhs" have sowd  mines. They wanted to make a mass
grave for us.  Have waited to let more of us  to crowd  in the room and made
the  explosion. Such monsters,  bastards,  fucking  bitches!  They and their
perverted psychology  have really got to me! I've come to the fallen corner.
Dust and smoke are penetrating into the lungs. Everybody's coughing.
     All  the stairwell has fallen. About ten men  were under the heap. Many
ones were absolutely smashed. Teh heads, stomaches  are broken.  The insides
are smashed out. Many meters of the white-blue guts were being moved through
the dirt, dust following their owners, who were taken  form under the ruins.
Someones have lost the  extremities.  The smashed hands, arms, feet with the
boots on were  liing just near me. The alive ones were walking as the sleepy
ones  because of  the  view's  mpression, kicked  the  torn  parts of  their
friends.  Some fighter was bound to the corpse and  tried to make the fallen
out insides back. No success. As a dough  insides went out. And he was tired
of it and  took  the knife and cut  off the  spare ones. He pressed the ends
into the broken body. When he had taken the hands off, they got dirty with a
blood, bile and  with something slimy and mushy. The fighter had squeamishly
wiped up  the hands with the jacket of the corpse.  I  was able to  stop the
sickniss urges.
     The injured ones  were sitting near. They were being bandaged. The torn
off hands' stumps of  two of them were being bandaged. The injured was being
smoking with the healthy hand and  was  being asking  excitedly  the  others
around him: "Will they sew on my hand? Well, men, don't keep silent, really,
they'll sow it on?"  The  others around him  turned away bashfully and  kept
silent.
     One  got his  leg  being bandaged and tighten. He was unconscious.  The
shiny white bone  was being protruding and over it the black-red  blood  was
streaming out continuously.  The leg was already tighten with tourniquets in
some places but the blood was being gushing unendly.
     Someones were being shouting blood-curdling,  others  were being  dirty
swearing.  Someone spoke loudly  something like a prayer. Three or four men,
all  in the  dust and  unrecognizable,  were shouting  in  their  radio sets
disturbing esch other:
     -- We're blocked up!
     -- Have gotten the dead and injured!
     -- Fuck  you  with your "twohundreds"  - "threehundreds"! I've told  --
dead and injured!
     -- Don't know how many ours. There are all of 'em ours!
     -- Don't know!
     -- The docktors!
     -- Immediately docktors!
     -- We've the heavy ones! Cannot bring 'em with the hands!
     -- Yes! Send the technique!
     -- To beat off the "dukhs"?
     It has passed  not a minute from the moment of the explosion and almost
all the  victims  were already taken from  under the ruins. There  were some
more ones but it wsa  impossible to take  them  without  crane.  There  were
nobody alive under this terrible concret flag-stone.
     Everybody realized that due to the "dukhs" on the roof and on the first
floor we can't become  the technique to  evacuate the injured and dead ones.
We must beat 'em out. And now the shouts were made:
     -- Attack 'em!
     -- Let's beat the bastards!
     -- I'll cut off a hundred for this explosion!
     -- Hurrah! Assault!
     -- Forward!
     -- Upwards!
     There were niether commander nor commands. All were runnung to the only
stairsway leading to the first floor. There were the swears and  wails heard
over there. What  were  the shouts of the "dukhs", it was unclear. The first
ones have started to shoot with the  launchers uowards. The grenades' busrts
sound was waving through the  rooms, painly whipping the ear  membranes. The
others, due to the narrow way, had to stand waiting for the possibility. And
now the forward  fighters and officeres have  made one more launches'  salvo
and steppt  upwards. Step -- salvo, after  that two  more steps and again  a
salvo.  And now the're running shooting with the subguns forward. All others
are also running upwards. Jostling each other pushing the forwards with  the
magazines,  pushing  out with the hands everybody was  dashing on the second
floor. The remains of the  second floor and a part if the  roof.  There were
more  then six  hundred  men  downwards, as i guess. I was  afraid that  the
stairs would not bear such a heavyness and falls down completely. It had not
fallen.
     I'm  running in the thick crowd. Am pushing the forward  one badly with
the subgun. I'm also pushed. After that someone kicked me into the bottom to
force me forward. There were already the bursts of the  grenades and subgund
upwards  heard. Forward! Forward! Oh, god, why is this large bottom ahead me
moving  so slowly?! Go ahead, you!  Quicker,  quicker! Aren't  you, monster,
able to move your feet? Can  keep myself  hardly not to prick him  with  the
knife.
     Now  we've left  the  first  stairs platform. Upwards. Upwards! There's
something mild  under the feet. I look down -- the remains od  a "dukh".  At
least hundred  men  have  steppt  over 'em. The  feet are  sliding aside  in
something slippery and sticky. I must not think that it  was a man somewhen.
Forward! Upwards! Was it really a man? That was a "dukh".  And that explains
everything! Do not start any discussions. Forward! This bottom ahead has got
to me so much! Go quicker! Can't you? Push the on before  you. You're making
it badly. Force him surely! Bastards' traibe! All the "dukhs" will be killed
when we come.
     The spite, the furious are catching my throut. Am listening  to nobody.
Everybody's  talking only about the quiqest reaching upper floor. The  spite
against the  thick bottom, that  can not move ahead quicker, the spite about
the idiot, who pushes  me into  my back always.  Can't  he see that I am not
able to go fast due to some fat guy. I know that i'm not a slimy, but if you
could look at this one before me, then i would be a walking-stick.
     Now  we  can see  a the  roof. The  tempo is  accelerating.  Everbody's
running through the  stairs overload with the  rubbish. The feet seem almost
to break away so  that i could fall. Fuck You! I will not fall. I've set the
teeth and bend the body. Forward! Am forcing onto  the roof,  running on the
right. There are the fighters liing and aren't able to beat off some "dukhs"
staying on the second floor. The first floor has remained almsot all intact,
but the  second  floor has remained as  only  one corner. And  the  roof has
remained almost all. It is as a portico hanging over us on the seven  meters
height. The  "dukhs" are partly hidden partly on the remained corner  of the
second floor. And partly they are have climbed on the roof. All of them were
higher then we were and sparing no bullets and grenades sent them at us. The
killed and injured ours were already  pulled back. Hier a body of the "dukh"
has  droppt from  upwards.  It was  not touched,  only kicked with the  feet
further as a disturbing thing.
     The  positions  of  "dukhs"  and  our  ones  were  practically the same
invulnerable for both  the enemies. We were sending  the lead  our enemy the
best of  us  but  there  was  no  any  sense.  All  my  nature  strived  for
retribution. I've come to the fighters:
     -- Who has explosive?
     -- Don't know.
     -- Who has explosive?! - I shouted trying to overtake the combat nois.
     They have brought about 50  gramm  of  plastit. Too little. Icalled for
the rado operator of our brigade:
     -- Call for ours, say  that they bring us about kilogram of plastit and
electro-fuses. Got it?
     -- Got it. - the fightrer noddid his head and happily bered his teeth.
     -- Don't dry the teeth, call!
     -- Yes, sir!
     The spite was still  inside, demanded some exit. I saw in  the mind the
picture with the smashed bodies. I've cast up my  subgun and made up a burst
with  all my heart. We had to force them a  bit back, they didn't let  us to
sow the explosive.  I've explained the next ones shortly my plan. They  have
understood  and we started shooting at the "dukhs".  Have tried to throw the
grenades and to hollow  'em with  the launchers and  "flys". It seemed to be
effective. They've steppt back, rolled back. Gold may be easily told!
     And at  once our  brigade miner have come. They've  brought  the  large
piece of the yellow plastit and the fuses with the wire. We'll have fun now!
     - Men! Make, plese, not too much, not to ruin all the building with us!
     -- Don't worry!
     -- There's not much hier. We'll pich up the "dukhs"  now  as the apples
under the tree.
     -- Let's fry these cattle!
     -- It's pity that we've no flame gun!
     -- Once more, men, let's force the "dukhs" back!
     -- Come on! Fire!
     And everybody started shooting the sitting on the higher  floor "dukhs"
in  the  furious tempo. The  bullets were  bouncing, going upwards. The hand
grenade,  thrown  upwards, hit and came off back. It  droppt on the  square.
Nobody of ours was injured.
     -- What are you doing, fucking bonehead?
     -- It was not on a purpose!
     -- Fuck you, on a purpose or not. Almost wrecked me. Idiot!
     -- Take the  grenade  for the  launcher,  hit  it to  the heel and then
throw.
     -- Won't it explode in the hand?
     -- Don't worry, try it!
     That  one  tried. Was able to make  it. The others also began  to shoot
"their" "dukhs"  using our idea and  forcing them  further back. Our  miners
were working quickly. They have tied with the wide black electrical tape the
blocks  of the eplosive to  the remained columns,  stuck  the  fuses in, for
every one more spare for  any case, and  ran back. And the moment  has come.
The Judgement  Day  has come. Pray  your Allah, bastard tribe. The miner has
fixed the ends  of the wires  in  his "infernal machine" and started to roll
the handle. And after that he pushed quickly the small black button.
     The deqfening explosion resounded and the brick laying has fallen down.
We could hear the short absolutely horrible human shouts when  the explosion
resounded. Under these bricks the "dukhs" have found their death. So must it
be.  Eye for eye! There  were the  "dukhs" in the  remains of  the roof. The
miners worked also  about it. And now they've draged their "machine" to that
corner.
     -- Won't the roof fall?
     -- Don't know.
     -- Let's get far away
     The commands were heard and the  crown flooded back and let the  corner
be clear. Teh miners have also  steppt  away. Again they have rolled quickly
the handle, pushed the button and explosion crashed out. Now the roof bended
and was falling not on the first floor  but on the street. Teh  "dukhs" were
the first ones dropping from the roof and after  them the roof  fell, having
covered  them. The  heit  of the dropping was  about  twelwe meters  and the
concrete ceilings were over it also... That's  good, i have even not come to
the edge to look it. But the people have come.
     -- Can't see anything!
     -- Now the dust will subside.
     -- Don't shoot, it's enough a hanging dust.
     -- And what if there is somebody alive?
     -- Are you out of your wits? So high...
     -- And abotu ten tons over. No, scarcely.
     -- Look, the same as downstairs the ours were covered.
     -- Aha, nad  the guts are the same rolled out. They  had not to explode
the ceiling over us, then they would die as the men.
     -- TfuiA dog's death for a dog!
     -- Let's go!
     -- Let's go to part the money!
     -- Everybody gets the equal part!
     -- Keep dreaming! Equal! He-he!
     -- All who have taken this shitty bank, become the prize.
     -- But nobody else!
     -- Fuck 'em! Let 'em go feet first!
     -- Downstairs! In the basement! Quickly! Everybody has a hard breathing
feeling the possibility to be reach. It's  strangeful bit the ones, who have
stayed down, did not go  to  look and to rob  the basements. Although  there
were  about fifty people  with the injured ones.  They were staying shooting
down.  And downstairs  in the basements it  was dark as in the soul  of  the
siiner. We made of the  jackets left by the  dead and injured something like
the flares, dipped  them  into the diesel  fuel of the come  infantry combat
vehicle and started the fire.
     On the stairs leading in the  dungeon the  disfigured with the tortures
corpses of our  soldiers and offisers were liing. Of the ones who injured or
shell-shocked were captured by  the "dukhs"  during  the first assault. Many
ones had in the open mouthes packs of the money. Some ones had the stomaches
cut and instead the insides there were the money.  Much money. But the money
were old. These ones were changed in Russia  in the year 93, but in the free
Ichkeria  they were  in the use up to our entrance. It  was  clever of  you,
bastards. The people, population teh funny money were given, the money which
had no any meaning anywhere but in this chitty hole, and you got dollars for
the oil, weapons, narcotics. Fucking bastards. Although they acted according
to  the  principle of the  unforgetable kommunist  party.  When our "wooden"
roubles would nowhere but in the  Soviet Union  accepted. I'm not  sure that
they would be now somewhere accepted.
     Everybody got at ones the gold fever off. The corpses were brought away
on  the street. Teh  paratroopers and  strange  "makhra" have  gone to their
units. We've stayed at the place, went into the basements.
     The basements  of the  State bank of the independent Republik  Ichkeria
were  situated under all the building. At one place the basement was of "two
floors". Lighting up our way with the selfmade flares we  went down. We were
going slowly. The "dukhs" could have left any surprize for us, any meanness.
They  are able. Man can see everywhere the traces of the  hasty fleeing. The
left broken drawers, boxes, where from the money of the year 1991 model were
halfspilled. The empty and  the fulfilled bill collector's bags. The forward
going shouted happily and started rummaging in a box. Everybody has  come to
him. The packs of the dollars, re-tied with the paper and elastic bands were
sticking  out  of  two partly  torn  boxes. In the dull unsure light of  the
flares these two boxes seemed something as an unbelievable fortune. Dollars,
dollars! This is comfort life, thiare the  apartaments, the  cars,  the good
university for the children. Dollars, dollars!
     Instantly  it was crowdy  near the boxes. Jostling each other sverybody
has  come running to these boxes and started seizing  on. They took  on, two
packs.  Pulled out the banknotes, tried to  watch them  exactly  in  the bad
light the  clear space, worked them up, pressed  and  smeled them.  Dollars!
That's  why the one should be  on the war! This is as s prize for every born
thing. The prize was  deserved. And we need niether any rewards  nor medals.
Hier  is our reward. Everybody was excited.  Hier oer  heward! Everybody was
excites. But now one fo the soldierd shouted:
     -- Men, but they stain!
     -- Coo? What a fantasy!
     -- Indeed, stain! My fingers are green!
     -- You have 'em for real dirty!
     -- You've dirty! Spit at the banknote and rub it!
     -- Really stain! Phew, heh..
     --  Good  gravy! So, I've  open my mouth too  wide. I thought that  now
there  is  a fortune and  I'll  live as a man. Fack!  Phew! Facking chechens
could have left a couple boxes aith the real bucks!
     -- Monsters!
     -- What shall we do with it?
     -- I know, we'll use it in WC.
     -- Bottom will be green.
     -- So, we'll burn 'em. Bugger 'em!
     --  But  may be we  can  something make with  'em?  - some  timid voice
resounded in the darkness.
     -- Yes, you can, but for five years in prison.
     -- So, well, burning?
     -- Let's make it, homy, burning!
     -- Let's check, may be there are some real bucks?
     -- Let's check!
     And we've begun to  tear the boxes,  to break the packs, to  touch,  to
slabber the banknotes.
     The only thing, that we did  not make,  was to lick them. If it were of
some sense,  then we would bite them as it  was made earlier to  check.  The
checked  fals packs  flew in  the common pile.  And now this  pile  of  fals
dollars started with the  flare to  burn slowly.  Slowly, with the fumes and
crackle,  spreading the stench of the burniing  papier and paints, the  pile
cought wit fire. There was no one real dollar in these boxs.
     It was strangeful really, only seven-ten years ago i trained myself for
the war against the country, where at the dollars are the national currency,
and now I'm ready to  get  them joyfully. So, what for do  I fight hier? For
some dollars? For the idea? For the Motherland? Do not know. But it's a real
fact that we've lost the third world war. We've lost it without any combats.
We were  won with  the  help of exact this  dollar.  It is our God, our Main
Commander, and  due to  it this  war has  started. And no any  tank could us
help, they  can cover the area equal the territory of may be all France. The
rockets with  the nuclear  heads  did not help us  also.  Our  governors are
trying  to  move just this dollar abroad. And  this means  that  Russia, the
great, the mighty, the indivisible  one is  of no sense for them. Having got
their part of the "greeny" they are ready to leave.  Their kinder  are being
also taught abroad,  ant we drop on  the earth in this cold,  damp with  the
shooting and wind everywhere Chechnya! What for, my Lord! What for?
     While looking at  the burning  down  pack of the false dollars as if at
the  burning  down  our hopes the  fighters  brought  the six sacks with the
fifty-thousand banknotes.  And again with the  hope but now already  without
any former zeal we have started to watch them. But unfortunately even by the
first look  we  could see that  the paper, used o  print these false  notes,
could bear  no any  control-check. I had a feeling that the "dukhs" were not
able  to find any paper  but this wrapper to make  this money. And again the
next portion  of our hopes  and expectations comes into  the  fire. The fire
flares up and the fire is burning bright and shiny.
     -- Look, the ours are burning better then the bucks!
     -- But they are "wooden"!
     -- Exactly, wooden!
     -- Ok, let's go ahead.
     --  Let's go and see why  ours have  bombed down the local  Ministry of
finance and what a hell was about the bombing of the State bank.
     -- Don't you understand? To burn the documents about the machinations.
     -- Have you seen any document in this building?
     -- No. Only the clear blanks.
     --  That's why.  The "dukhs" have taken off all the documents,  i'm not
sure if  they were able to make such a  joke about  the Minfin, but  i guess
they  will further long blackmail our governors. And  we'll as the dogs beat
the "dukhs" off everywhere only to find these documents.
     -- It seems to be so. And what should we do?
     -- And who lives now good?
     -- What is this?
     -- Money. What did you want to find in the State bank?
     -- Sure. Money.  But the  old money.  The ones of the ninety first year
emission. What shall we do with them?
     -- What?! Let's gather and use to bake the ovens. We must further sleep
in  this  building.  So, we'll warm  ourselves near the  fire  made  of  the
millions!  Have  you ever  warmed  yourselves  near  the fire  made  of  the
millions?
     -- No.
     -- And me too. So, we'll warm ourselves!
     -- I'd like it.
     -- Of course!
     All the present liked this  idea. We carried the sacks with the invalid
money  to  the  exit.  Now  everybody  will be  not  the  real but the  sham
millionaires. We could let us to warm ourselves near the fire of the burning
money. By the way the one can dream, get away from the realities.
     And  realities were the next ones: during the assault of the State bank
we've lost about fifty  men. The  killed ones, the injured and  missed ones.
Together  with  the  first  assault  of  "Minutka",  with  the   unfortunate
transition and taking of the bank  it gave a figure  of about  three hundred
men.  A very  expansive  price. Many  unclear  things. The place of the  new
commander was unknown, he  had left off us.  Many fighters  were missed  and
nobody tried to search for them. There were no forces, no means. The furious
tiredness covered  us. There were no wishes. There was one wish - to eat and
to fall asleep.
     If  the  meal  was brought  for  us,  then  the  second  question was a
difficulty. The battallion of the food provision sent  us the meal ration of
NATO. It  was a kind of a cardboard rectangular box. There were the soldered
tins with the meal inside, the largest one - with the meat  and  vegetables,
the next one - with a kind of jelly,  chocolate, soluble coffee, the tablets
to disinfect the water, the hygienic napkins, the chewing tablets. They were
of double  function. On one side they served  for the cleaning  of the mouth
cavity after the meal, on the other side there was a kind of the caffeine in
them  and  when  the  one  was  tired,  fatigue  they  were  refreshing  and
reinforcing.
     We've began  to warn the tinned  meat  with the  vegetables on the fire
made of the money and the furniture fragments. It  turned that  it could  be
eaten also not warmed. The  meat was  not fat. The vegetables were tasty. We
concluded that our injured fighter would not be able to open the tin of meat
and  would  die because of the hunger.  There  were  the  fighters  and  the
officers of the battalion of the material provision turning about us.
     -- Where from have you got such a luxury, men?
     --  It  was  sent  to Russia as  a humane  assistence.  It is  from the
Germans. The remains of the "humanitarka" were sent to you.
     -- Our enemeys are fed good!
     -- No doubts!
     -- Better not to talk about that.
     -- Yes. Have the rearsoldiers brought any spirit?
     -- There is a bit. About fifty gramm per head.
     -- A bit really. They could have given for the State bank some more.
     -- Wait a bit, tomorrow we're going  on the  fucking palace, and you'll
drink a bit more.
     -- What's the news, by the way?
     -- Nothing new. Ours are running hier and there. That's all.
     -- Must again something take.
     -- And you'd like something other on the war?
     -- I'm sick of it!
     -- You can hang yourself.
     -- Fuck you.
     -- Fuck you!
     In  four  hours after the  taking of the State bank the euphoria of the
victory  was  changed  to be  the  deep tiredness.  We  could see  from  the
building's  roof as our troops tried to force to the Palace, but the massive
fireing made them again to step back. The troops were  sent to assault again
and again with the dull stubbornness of the doomed ones, but every time they
steppt back from the covered  with the smoke building  leaving on the square
the killed ones. Everybody was aware of the fact that  tomorrow we will also
in the same way  go  forward under  the mighty shooting. The aircrafts  were
flying  somewhere high in the sky  shooting sometimes eith  the guns  to the
building. Not numerous tanks tried the best of them but it was no result. My
throat  was dry because  of the view: the  uselessness and futility  of  the
assault  attemts.  The  wish  to become  deep  drunk  has  come.  Annoyance,
indignation against the senseless butchery changed to be the deep tiredness.
It was  everything  indifferently. And even the  fact that  just  near to us
under the ruins  our comrads are liing brought  already no any emotions  up.
Everything was absolutly indifferent. "To hell  with it!"  - that mind about
the  events was  prevailing. The thoughts  were  rolling in the head  as the
heavy large stiones. Yura  had come. His inflamed  eyes and tired appearance
proved that it was not good with him. He set near me.  To say  correctly, he
did not set, he fell down, his back partly coming down by the wall.
     - How are you? - i've asked him.
     -- I don't give a damn. - he waved the hand tiredly.
     -- Have you a drink?
     -- A bit. Let's jolt the rearguys.
     -- Have no power.  It would be  better  that they bring us  a drink, so
could it be. I haven't any idea...
     -- What are the men making now in the cellar?
     -- Are  pillaging the shelvings with the old money. Would you like also
some?
     -- What for?
     -- And i say the  same.  For the baking, for the playing cards -- we'll
find something ourselves.
     -- What make we tomorrow? - I've asked getting a light.
     -- Have no demned idea. I'm somehow tired in the last time.
     --  We're  old,  Yurka,  alreadt  for   these   games.  It's  absolutly
indifferent now for  me. The one can come and take  me only with the  hands.
It's all the same at all.
     -- The same about me. Shall we sleep?
     -- Of course. But where?
     -- Let's go to the cellar, it's cold hier. It will be cold in the night
and the draughts will bother us.
     -- Ok. let's go.
     We had rose slowly, lazy, dragged ourselves smoking  meanwhile. When we
were near the  stairs leading to the cellar, we could meet the  rearguys and
the signallers carriing the fulfilled sacks of the money.
     -- Why do you need this rubbish, men?
     -- We'll use it somehow! - answered us someone cheerfully.
     -- They will  use everything, -  commented i tiredly and started  to go
down into the cellar, holding on the wall.
     -- The battlefield after  the  battle  is  in  the  competence  of  the
pillagers, - answered Yura philosophicaly.
     He was already not seen in  the  darkness  and only the  light  of  his
cigarette showed the lacation. There were the flares lighting ahead.
     -- Let's go to the light. We'll set there.
     -- Yes, they'll have pillaged enough and get away.
     -- They have no time. They need ten lorries to take the money.
     -- I can't understand  what for do they carry this  rubbish themselves?
It would be better to  organiz a couple  of  cranes and to take the men form
under the ruins.
     -- Aha, don't be so naive. These bastards will never do that!
     -- There is an old military anecdote about  that thems. The two ones --
Ivan-fighter  and Abraham-rearguy --  are  meeting after the war. Ivan has a
lot of  injures,  dragging himself on  foot, but Abraham  is halting on  the
splendid car near him. Ivan says,  where from has you,  Abrasha, so splendid
"wheelbarrow"? And Abaraham answers -- do not envy, i have  been enviing you
all the war that you have your tank.
     --  Yes,  these  ones  will  later  on TV  talk  as  they  fought  just
first-class. Fucking militamnts. Phew!
     --  You  should only see,  they can manage it  so good.  The  ones  are
raking, the others  are carriing to the exit, the third ones are bringing to
the lorries. Hard workers!
     -- Fuck 'em.
     -- Yes, fuck 'em.
     -- Let's go and find the dry and the silent corner and sleep.
     -- Let's do  that. But we'd  better to inform that bastards' tribe that
they arouse us when there wil be something to eat and to drink.
     -- Hey, pillagers! We'll be sleeping hier.  You  must awake us when the
food comes! See?
     -- See. Ok.  - was the answer of the "money manpower", packing the next
sack with the banknotes.
     -- Look, it's tough to sleep, - we were fidgetting triing to squeeze us
on the concrete cellar floor. Cold, tough, uncosy.
     -- Let's gather the sacks and sleep on 'em.
     --  A good idea. Let's go, - we came  to  the shelvings and started  to
grab silently the fulfilled with the money sacks.
     -- Are you demnd crasy? - the men were nervose.
     --  Who has  told? -  Yura  and me  were  looking  at  these  nonentity
scoundrels  as  two  experienced hungery tired  wolves were  looking  at the
sheeps' herd, daring to bleat something.
     The  rats! The very real rats.  The oblique set flares  made the uneven
ghosts and the dirty  face features of all of them were distorted. The pause
hanged  in  the air. The  matte  was really  that for  Yura  and  me it  was
absolutly indifferent. We, namely we, were the ones  who were  running risks
with  our hindquarters  a couple hours ago  knocking the  "dukhs"  out.  And
looking now at  these  fresh made splended  guys  a felt not them  to be the
humans,  to be my brothers-Slavs,  to be  my regimentmates,  to be "makhra".
They were even lower then the "dukhs'" level. Those ones fought and died for
some idea at least. For the mythical independence, for the illusory freedom,
even let it be the freedom to follow the criminal lifestyle. These ones, the
bitches' tribe,  staying  now before us,  they  even were not fighting, they
were present at the war. I could see no any reason to let them alive.  There
was no any inducing motive to avoid the shooting at them. We needed only the
occasion. A tiny occasion to catch the  subgun hanging on  the shoulder with
the  barrel down, to  release the safety device and to send  the magazine in
this swines' herd. My hands  were even trembling when i imagined  this sweet
oicture.  The  silence  was  hanging  in  the  air.  Evidently  feeling  our
superiority and the circumstance, that their subguns were standing  near the
wall -- the subguns were of course disturbing their resultative work -- they
were  keeping silance. The couple of them had the holsters with the pistols.
Heh,  dupes!  As  he is  convulsively  with  the  trembling  hands break the
fastenings, I can  five times to shoot him. We had taken two more sacks  and
went slowly into the darkness. I  was going  and listening  whether  someone
says any filth in our backs. But they were keeping quiet. Pity! I feel hurt.
The rats! Pfew!


        Chapter 15

---------------------------------------------------------------
     (c) Copyright 2011 translation by Oleg Abramov
     Date: Jul 2011
---------------------------------------------------------------


     In some  time i noticed about me that comparing  the "dukhs" with these
nobodies  --  pillagers  --  i started to respect the  "dukhs".  I hate them
sometimes and sometimes i respect them. Yeah, i can beome ma by this way!
     Meanwhile we had silently come  to the nice corner and begun to  settle
down. We've drop  the sacks with the oney. Some  of them as  the mattresses,
some  of them a sthe pillows. Having nestled us todether up we put the other
sacks over us. The smell of the money was going from  them. The smell of the
paint, of the sweat, of the fat, of the oil and of something more else.
     -- You know, Yura, it's  indifferent for me at all now to know how much
money have i under my back.
     --  The same about me.  Good night! But  wait a second. I'll unlace the
boots. Would you also?
     -- I've already made that.  Don't disturb my sleeping. Good night.  How
do you think will these pillagers make some filth against us?
     -- But they're cowards. The worst thing  from their  side can be only a
whispering  in  the corneres. And  they can also "forget"  to wake us up for
thegetting the food. That's all, we can sleep.
     -- Ring off for the communication troops.
     -- So, one more day is over, - started Yura an old military joke.
     -- Forget that damned day, - finished I.
     And we've  fallen  asleep. I  fell  asleep  somehow  inctantly, without
turning, have  only closed  the eyes  and  was  sleeping. There were  no any
dreams.  No war, no combat, only the darkness. I've opened the eyes  because
somebody was shaking my shoulder. Again darkness. There ia a combat going on
somewhere.  Being  sleepy  i  could  not  realize  at  once  where am I, and
inctantly i've cought the subgun. And now the voic from the darkness:
     -- Quiet, quiet. Ours. You asked to awake you for the dinner.
     -- Yura!  - I have jostled Yurka in the flank unceremoniously. -  Let's
go to eat.
     -- What eat? We've just started to sleep.
     -- What time is it now?
     -- It's already one o'clock p. m. The dinner is already hier.
     -- Hey, fighter, are you crazy? What a dinner. We've eaten recently.
     -- No, you've slept 24 hours.
     -- Twenty four?
     -- Yes.  I had twice come to wake you up, but you did not wake up. I've
reported.  I've thought that your were dead. The doctor had  come and looked
at you. Had told that you were sleeeping.
     -- You're telling lie! What a doctor?
     -- I don't know his name. Looks to be not a Rosenbaum.
     -- Certainly, Eugeny.
     -- Ok. let's go to dinner.
     We followed by touch the  fighter. Was it  possible  indeed to contrive
twenty four  hours  sleeping? It was somehow  unbelievable but  the  stomach
hunger  cramps  prooved  the  truth. An  interesting cinema! But may be it's
drawn game? On the exit form the cellar the bright light sharply beat at the
eyes.  The  combat  din  was growing.  There  were the soldiers and officers
sitting  on  the  ground  floor  of the  bank and  eating.  They greeted  us
joyfully:
     -- Hello, sleeping kingdom!
     -- You are able to sleep well, men!
     -- You can oversleep all the war.
     And now we realized that we had slept really all the twenty four hours.
We've coem to  ensign, who was giving out the NATO-portions, took for us and
went aside.
     -- So, what do you think, Slava?
     -- What can i  think, we have overslept, that's so. The  nerves  are at
the border,  we're at the border. It's  good that  we were not forgotten  at
all. In this case we could have been counted as the lost ones, as the missed
ones, that's all.
     -- That could have been really, - accepted Yura. - They are so ones.
     -- And where is San Snaych? - i asked the officer from the battalion of
communicatoins.
     -- San Sanych will be in an hour. We were sent to assist the assaulting
ones but  we've  sent 'em far away. Have no commander. No headquarters chef,
without 'em we can not go assaulting.
     -- That's also correct,  - I've nodded.  - And is there any news  about
the new commaner?
     -- He  was a  couple times on the radioset contact. Told us  that could
not force through,  the "dukhs" were too active in the city. The troops were
not let to the square direction.
     -- It means that we're surrounded.
     -- Surrounded, - accepted the officer.
     -- We're not surrounded, we're in the anus, - summarized Yura.
     --  Yura,  we've  been being there since  the beginning of the military
college.
     -- That's truth, - nodded Yura.
     -- What else do they tell about the assault?
     -- We're going assaulting. There were no yet any attacks from our side.
From the other three sides there  were already  the attaempts  but they have
last  the  teeth  and  steppt  back. The recons  have  already  checked  the
building, we've a gloomy  situation. The  "dukhs"  have set  in  the windows
ourd,  the  dead  and the  injured  ones. Many  oones are  still  alive, are
attached to the windows' frames. The "dukhs" use 'em to hide behind.
     -- I see. "Alive" shield. Bastards. - Yurka was changing angry.
     -- That means no any "tank merry-go-round" can be used.
     -- What "merry-go-round". Only to attack. And they, swines, prematures,
will slaughter ours.
     -- They will not slaughter 'em, they are  as the guarantee for 'em. The
last insurance.
     -- We'll see. When is assault, what do they say?
     -- We're going as soon as San Sanych comes. Khankala has already killed
all the nerves with the orders to go on the Palace.  At first we had refused
'em and now we don't answer 'em.
     -- Correct. We're waiting for the lord to be judjed.
     -- And is the territory shot through?
     --  Everything is as on  the plate. The  technique  can  not  be  sent.
Hundred fifty meters of the square, the open area.
     -- Phew! Shit.
     -- We'll lay down the men again.
     -- We'll spit the blood, we'll spit.
     -- Are the men taken from under the flag-stone?
     -- No. Nobody tried.
     -- How many men are there under it?
     --  We've  defined.  There  should  be  two  fightera  from  the  first
battalion.
     -- Listen  to  me,  yesterday  the  pillagers  from  the  battalion  of
communications and from the rear  were carriing  the money.  Where are these
sacks with the treasures?
     -- They are in the rear. It  was hier a real  funny thing. Meanwhile we
were  breaking hier our navels and taking the  State  bank,  these militants
were  smashing the private garages.  They  were shooting, bursting the cars.
They have gathered as many spare details for their personal cars, as the the
mushrooms in the forest. And Kulebiakins, the father and the son have made a
real trick.  They have taken  a mink  fur  coat from one woman, so  she  was
running following the APC  through  three  blocks. She was asking to give it
back.
     -- Have they given back?
     -- No, of corse.
     -- Phew! Fucking militants. To fight against the woman!
     -- By  the  war some  ones fail the health, but the other ones bail the
wealth.
     -- They  have also gathered the hunting guns. Not  so many carabins but
about twenty guns.
     -- How will they register them?
     -- No fucking idea. They're planning something.
     -- The rats are the rats even in Africa.
     -- We could  let them before us when we go  on the Palace, and we'll be
the block  detachment. And as in the  year forty  first -- no any step back.
We'll se as they are tossing and turning betweenn the two fires.
     -- You're  dreamer. They will be rather the block detachment behind our
backs.
     -- Yes Motherland knows her heros.
     -- Man, have you something to drink?
     -- Spirit.
     -- Entertain.
     -- Hold, - he sent us a flask with spirit.  Approximately full of it, a
heavy flask.
     -- Not bad. I'll look for the mugs and water.
     Yura  went  and brought  three  glasses and some  water. We poured  the
spirit in and diluted it with the water. The water was muddy.  We decided to
wait when the mud subsides but it ws senseless. Eh, the eyes do not see, the
stomach  does  not  suffer. We clinked  the  galasses  and  drank. The  sand
squeaked  on the teeth. The taste was  as if the rotten thing was mixed with
the spirit.  But nevertheless  it was warm in  the stomach. All'right.  We'd
poured  the  second drink.  The same effect.  Nonsense. The  red eyes do not
become the yellow ones. The most terrible  possible result of it can be only
some  diarrhoea. We poured  some spirit  in  our  flasks. Have gathered  the
cartriges  and  filled into  our  half-empty  magazines.  We took  also  the
grenades for the launcher and  the hand ones. My "cherish" one were liing in
my pocket. Such a peculiar talisman. Lord, let me not to use it! The roaring
of the engine  and the clang of  the caterpillars on the asphalt were heard.
Somebody had come.
     The   boots  tramp   and  the  familiar  voice  resounded.  San  Sanych
accomponied  by  the  officers  appiared. There was  almost  nothing  of his
foppish  view.  The undercollar  was  black  as if it was  used to brash the
shoes. As everybody he was smoked  through,  not  shaved.  All the face  was
covered with the  small cuts and the scratches. It seemed to be  injured  by
the small  stonies  and  the glass fragments. The uniform  was  torn in many
places. It ws seen that he had a hard time also.
     The  officers  of  the  headquarter and  of the  brigade administration
followed  him.  Everybody greeted each other. The  brigade  is  still alive.
There was also Serega Kazartsev  among the arrived ones. He came  to  us. We
embraced us.
     -- Hey, men!
     -- Hello, Sereja, hello, dear.
     -- How are you there?
     -- Bullshit, full bullshit.
     -- They say, Khankala  sends  us to  assault the Palace.  And we  don't
hurry up.
     -- We've scarcely forced through from this fuckin Khankaa. "Dukhs" make
everywhere the ambushes.  Almost  all the  ways  to the square are  cut off.
There  are  as lot of the "dukhs", as slash in the autumn. They don't let us
to the square and we don't let 'em also. A flaky cake, in a word.
     -- What are the news about the commander?
     -- The new one or the old one?
     -- About both of 'em.
     -- About the old one is the only news that he's in Moscow,  in hospital
by name  of Burdenko, there were two operations. Say, Ok. Phew,  phew, phew.
Not to put the evel eye on. And about the new one the news is that he was on
Khankala and after that was lost. Was  on  the radio  a couple times. That's
all. Nd what's about you?
     -- No  news. Have  taken this fucking Sstate bank. There were no money.
No  gold.  The currency was  false.  But there was  much  money of  the  old
emission.  Paper. The rearguys and the  signalers have pillaged  and brought
somewhere.
     -- What for was this rubbish?
     -- No demned answer, Sereja, what for was this rubbish.
     -- The pillagers have  thier own psychology.  The normal humans can not
understand.
     -- Rats
     -- We  told the same thigs. Yura and me had laid us yesterday to sleep.
And were sleeping twenty four hours.
     -- No problem, men, you had the hard work. Are the losses large?
     -- Fucking large. There are still two guys  liing under the flag-stone.
Nobody knows when can we 'em take off.
     --  Yeah,  we've  only  the  remains   of  the  brigade.  Without   the
paratroopers and "makhra" we would stay hier for ever.
     -- Now we're going to help 'em.
     --  We've got the order  from Khankala to go on assaulting. And how can
we go through the square?
     -- There  are still  our fighters  staying in  the windows. Some of 'em
alive,  some of 'em  dead. The tanks  and  artillery can not be used, and no
aircrafts. So  it will be the  toil  for us. That's not good. Absolutely not
good!
     -- And can they take it without us?
     --  They tried  it. As in  the First World war -- racing hier and there
and they steppt back.
     -- Now it our turn to race. What will be the remain of our brigade?
     -- Nobody has demned interest.
     -- Exaclty. Nobody but we has any troubles.
     -- Have you seen Pashka?
     -- I have. He's  alive,  parasite.  Is  sitting by the rearguys. I told
that  he  should  drink  no  cognac and  no  vodka and  should  not  eat our
portionen. He  had  not to  touch the  cigarettes  also.  I've  brought  the
cigarttes for you by the way. Not many but something.
     -- Thanks, dear. What's more spoken in Khankala?
     --  Moscow  is pressing  'em to  take the  Palace as soon as  possible.
Dudaev is announced to be a criminal. It's allowed to take him not alive.
     -- They want to hide their business. The accomplises should be dead.
     -- Quarreling, simple quarreling.
     -- Will they help us?
     -- No.  No real plan.  Manage  that thing  at once. Connect to the next
units,  mean the  situation. Our general  was almost fighting against Rolin.
They were able to  part 'em at the last moment. Otherwise  there could  have
been a battle.
     -- Crazy hous.
     -- I would bet on our general. He  is higher,  the arms are longer, the
weight is heavyer.
     -- Look, we're invited to the consulting.
     -- Let's go.
     All  the  officers around were  collected.  The ones  were staying, the
others sitting on the  boxes, the others were settled on the floor. Someones
were  sitting on the sacks with  the  money. We, three of  us, were staying.
Wanted not into  the  first ranks. Everything was already clear earlier yet.
Now they will contact the next units and we'll go forward. The best they can
make --  to  set  the smokes.  And if  they make it not,  we'll have to gnaw
asphalt nd lose the men. There are already not many of us.
     -- Well, men, - San  Sanych had startedd,  - the  bank  is  oures, well
done! It cost much our  blood. We've left there many our good fellows. We're
demanded also  to help  in taking of the Palace. Palace of  the  Government.
We're  given no  plan  as usual. There's the only order -- forward! We've no
reserves.  I've ordered that the rearmen and the  signallers gave us the men
and  we're  going forward. Now we  connect  to  the side units, arrange  the
moment of  the offensive  beginning and are  to go. If there is  good  wind,
we'll  set the smoke  veil. If  there's no good wind, the God will  help us.
Have you the questions?
     The officers started to ask the  questions. Yurka, Serega and me had no
questions. But the only one -- how can we use the tanks and APC?
     --  Comrad  colonel, what  about  the tanks and  APCs?  - somebody  was
quicker then me.
     -- Allowed to  use according to the opportunities. Everybody knows that
there are our fighters, officers, chained to the windows' frames. We'd  like
to rescue them. At least would not be guilty at their death.
     I na  word  the desision  to  attack  was made. To  attack in  spite of
anything.  Everything was the same as  usual. Toi  execute the order and  to
survive if  possible. The order is for the Motherland, party and government,
to survive is for ourselves. My God, I'm so tired!  But to  relax must not a
man.  If  although  anyone could  explain me, convince  me  that this war is
necessary,  that i'm defending my familly. Or that there were the guarantees
that on  the case of my death my son, my wife will become enough  guaranteed
provision. That the son  has guaratee to get the higher  education, the wife
will  be  engaged.  And up  to  their  lives end  they will  become the good
pension. And  now  I  know  that  they  have guarantee to  get  the beggarly
existence.  Nobody will help them and they will have to turn. On one  sie to
measure my hatred and the wish  to execute the order, to cconfirming to your
familly not  to die because of the  hunger becoming the beggarly benefit  on
the  lose of the bread-winner.  And  it was no  illusion about the hard work
going   on.  The  situation   was   complicate   also  because   the   "tank
merry-go-round" was not possible. I'm depressed deeply. Am  depressed and am
longing. Am not afraid, but namely am longing. I can understand that i can't
get off from this hell work, i wish to save the men, not to lose my head, in
a word, to get the pleasure and to be innocent. I wish i could be drunken up
to  the green  snot!May  be  the same  feeling  had  Jesus,  when was  being
announced   about   his  fate.  He  was  being  at  least  awaited   by  the
high-magisterial  daddy, and we're awaited by nobody there. Although the one
cannot die twice and if the one has no destiny to  die in this swiny combat,
then  anyway the one will get his lead portion in his mortal  body.  Forgive
me,  Lord, if i have hurt  You anyhow by my reasoning! You should understand
me: the fear, the spite, the offence, the longing. So, help me.
     Yurka, serega and me have gone aside to smoke. Have gone  up to look at
the square, where  through we should  now jump as  the injured  ape. Hundred
fifty  meters of the  flat, clear, perfectly shot through space. The asphalt
of the square was dug up by the craters of  the bombs and shells. To hide in
them was  impossible. They are  shot through perfectly from  the  Palace. So
that means we'll make it not. The only hope  is  the speed. The ones  can of
course to take  attantion and the others would  attack, but  as it is spoken
this tactics is not for thi situation. The  "dukhs" are now already  trained
to wage. And they are thinking the same, unfortunately.
     Such a distance can be crossed by five-six men secretly. But when about
four  hundred  men are  running and stamping,  only  the blind  one will not
notice it.  And a man can not hide  or shelter in  the  craters. That's  not
good, not good.
     Some of  the fighters will not run, will be afraid, and that  means the
one  should to  pull them out with the kicks. By the  way,  i've no armoured
jacket. I should to search the one. I've asked Serega:
     -- Politmate, have you to take care about the staff?
     -- What do you want, scoundrel? - Serega pricked up his ears.
     -- You know, I need an armoured jacket! Where can i get it?
     -- The fools are  fortunate. There was one on the  floor of the APC, by
which we were going.
     -- I guess, it had holes?
     --  I've not  checked. Let  it be with the holes, that's not absolutely
nothing.
     -- We'll keep together?
     -- We have to.
     -- You, Serega,  makes always the promises that you  will  be together,
but at the ast moment you're bsent.
     -- That happens somehow.
     -- Aha, somehow. You step side probably.
     -- I?! Step aside?!
     --  But who  then?  - we started  to anger Serega. A good fellow and in
spite of the age difference we took him as an our friend.
     --  But  i...  - Sergey  started  to  rage.  -  can  you  remember  the
"Severniy"?!
     -- We can remember, Sergey, of course. We're joking. Don't cockwork.
     --  We're joking,  Serega, Let's better looke for the "armory". Or I'll
attack again "naked", don't want  that. Although  it does not rescue  but it
warms somehow the soul and it will protect against the incidental splinters.
     -- It will protect against the splinters, but hardly against the direct
bullet.
     --  I know, we've tested it  so many  times. Per  five-seven plates the
only one can repulse, the others are crashed.
     And  in  this manner,  discussing the pluses  of some armoured  jackets
against  the others, we had  come to the three APCs, y which  San sanych and
his  team  have  come.  Serega  knocked with the barrel of the subgun at the
armour. A  head of the fighter appiared. His  crumpled  physiognomy  prooved
that he had been sleeping.
     --  You'll  oversleep  all  the  God  Kingdom,  warrior!  - greeted him
Sserega. - There was the armoured jacket liing in the landing force section,
i put it on the armour under the hindquarters. Whose is it?
     -- Nobody's, - the fighter started to wake up.
     - Give it to capitain. He wants not to go "naked" on the Palace.
     -- Just a moment, -  the fighter jumpt on the earth, opened the landing
section and having rummaged a bit took from the darkness the jacket.
     -- It was dirty, greasy, burnt through  in some places, with  the brown
patches like the ones from the blood. But as i saw it was intact.
     -- Where from is it? - i asked the soldier.
     --  We carried  the injured one during the  assault of the  "Severniy",
that was his one.
     -- Where at was he injured?
     -- At  the  head. The patches are  from  that injure.  But it's intact.
Dirty, yeah, but intact. I  used it myself  a couple times. I've lost my one
somewhere. So i used it  untill i was able  to find  the cevlar  one, -  the
fighter  showd  us the  cevlar  armoured jacket  proudly.  That looked to be
import one.
     -- Where from?
     -- Trophy.
     -- Well done! - we were watching, admired, at the fine light thing.
     -- Have you got something in it?
     -- Only splinters.
     -- And how was it?
     -- Ok, it bears 'em.
     -- And the bullets?
     -- The god let no one at me.
     -- They say the ribs would be broken.
     -- Shall we change?
     -- No. The thing is trophy. I've got it personnaly.
     -- Well done. Thanks for this one,  - I started to set the "armoury" to
my jacket, Serega and Yura were assisting me.
     I could  not order the fighter to give me his trophy. I  could not also
simply  take it  away. It was his  thing. He  ran his life  risks to get it.
That's  his  proud. The object to be silently wished by  the friends.  And I
will not be impudent. That has no sense.
     I've put the armoured jacket on. It set down good. It did not protrude,
did not hang down,  did not hinder while going, did not inhibit the motions.
We  began to smoke again. It's strangeful, there was  only  some building of
the State  bank between us and the Palace, but it seemed to be the  distance
of more then a thousand kilometers.
     -- Do you know what's the name for us at Khankala? - asked Sergey.
     -- For whom concretly?
     -- For us all. The whole grouping.
     -- What?
     -- The  angels-destroyers. A kind of  printing stamp to make the divine
halo for our devilish mission.
     -- We should be better named the idiots-kamikadzes.
     -- Sure.
     -- That's said good.
     -- Do the fighters still fly by the catapults?
     --  They do. There are still enough idiots.  They sit in the aeroplane,
pull  the lever  of the  catapult, the powder accelerators are atarting. And
that's all. Someone was too cuuning, tried to  pull the lever having not set
in the chair. The arm was torn off.
     -- We've already heard all these stories many times, was there anything
new?
     -- No. I've heard nothing about the new things.
     -- Look, they're waving to us.
     --  Do they want to attack? And why you, the headquarter's officers  do
not participate in the wirking out of the operation?
     -- What an operation, Sergey?
     -- That's only suiside.
     --  No planning. As in the Civil war.  Forward and  that's all. That is
all the operation.  The one  should  not graduate from the academy for  such
thing. As Gaidar. To capture as many enemies asa possible. And to force  'em
under the ice. Haven't you read the book of Soloukhin "The saulty lake"?
     -- No.
     --  I  recommend  you.  Read  about  the grandfather  of  our  nowadays
vice-prime  forced  his enemies  under  the ice. If  you get not crazy, then
that's Ok. That would mean that you have already become crazy.
     -- I guess that after such  hell-fire, if we can get out, then i can be
not amased at all and not frighten at all.
     -- You're right probably. Let's go and listen to.
     -- Let's go.
     -- Look, there's a red flag set up by somebody on the roof of the State
bank, - wundered I, there was a red width flapping there.
     -- But haven't you seen?
     -- No. We've explained you that we'd slept all the twenty four hours.
     -- You're strong, men.
     -- Sure! The flag is just as the one on the Reichstag.
     -- Yes.
     -- I'm interested why didn't they take the Russian flag?
     -- First, we've no  one.  Secondly,  the  nowadays  Russian flag in the
eyes, in the mind  of the  fighters is still not blowd by the great military
victories, thierdly, the laddies, brought up in the childhood on the heroism
of   The  Great  Ptriotic   War,  want  to  touch  the  victories  of  their
grandfathers. They fought however under the red banner.
     -- You're right. The communist ideas are not the reasons.
     -- Ok, let's go and listen what shall we do.
     -- No good thing, have no gramm of any doubts abut that.
     -- You're right as always. Let's go.
     We'd entered  the building  again. There were  the  officers around San
Sanych,  he explained  them something. The sense of the attack was the same.
The side units, having  been already beaten, offered us to act first to take
attantion on us. And  after that they go  on. San Sanych told them that will
not be so. He offered them the next idea:
     -- The sense is that  in an hour we start  the attacking. Everybody, no
exclusions, are going. All the ones who can fight. All the  rearmen, miners,
signallers,  repaires,  the  tank  crews.  I'll  go  personally. If we  stay
there... - San Sanych  kept silent a bit,  - then no any signallers,  no any
rearmen will be  necessary. Just as in  the song of the communists:  "That's
our last and decisive combat..." Have you the questions?
     - How shall we go -- billow, one torrent?
     -- Yes, to reak the forces is of no sense. We've to little forces.
     -- May be in the night?
     -- Then  they  make the lighting  rockets and  it will be worse for us,
they will be in the darkness.
     -- And the smokes?
     -- Now the wind goes into our  face.  If it  changes, we'll  try  to do
that. And now it's of no sense. And remember,  please, that there are in the
windows our guys.
     -- That's bad.  Otherwise we could ruin the "duhs" with their building,
but we must now to be careful!
     --  They  will  die anyway! - someone of the young platoon's  commander
shouted. The usual thing -- hysterics before the combat.
     -- And were you in their situation, what would it be? - asked Serega.
     -- I would shoot myself.
     -- Aha, with the chained hands. You're hero. Would you be able  to live
after that realizing the death of the fellows were due to you?
     --  Well, you'll quarrel in the  other place,  - San  Sanych stoppt the
discussion. - There is about one hour for the preparing, after that forward.
Everybody can have the free time.
     We dispersed to the corners of the building, somebody went on the  roof
to look once  more  on the  square, through which we'll  have to race in  an
hour. Somebody  got a  hysterics, he had  psychosis,  was being nerved,  the
others  started to wright convulsively the letters to  home. They sweared in
love to the  wives and odered the children to  be good in these letters. Who
knows may  be  this letter will come with the one who had  written it. In  a
complex.
     Many ones discussed rapidly where and which unit will go. Nobody wanted
to go himself with  his  men through the craters of  the  bombs and  shells,
these one  could  not shelter from  the shooting of the "dukhs".  Finally we
decided to lot the fate. The matches have decided who goes to the real death
and  who becomes the deferment. The  chance and  the God have  steered these
matches. The fate. "Kysmet" (?). Everybody gets his own destiny.
     Neither me,  nor Yurka had any mood to discuss,  to wright the letters.
We wanted simple to order the thoughts, to abate. To rest morally. May be to
drink about fifty gramm but  when we remembered  the disgusting taste of the
watered spirit, the wish disappeared. And reaction  can  let down as well as
the stomach also. Yura and me went out in the street, laid on the stones and
were silently smoking watching the clouds. How devilish little need a man to
be  happy. The normal family, the work, this  sky, the  nature. A man should
not  race following the illusory good fortune  of the bank  notes. There are
only the problems due to them. And  sometimes to watch  this eternal nature.
If you comes to  a prison, phew, phew, phew, due to soem idiot or due to the
money, then  you'll be deprived of  this beauty this  happiness during  some
time.  But  if  you're killed in some hours, minutes. Meters,  you  will  be
deprived forever of this pleasure to watch the nature. You'll change to be a
pert of the nature.
     The  clouds  were sailing  in  the  blue  winter  sky,  were majesticly
bringing  their splendid bodies to the North. To Russia. To  the Motherland.
And a thousand years ago they were flying the  same splendid forward, and in
one  thousand years they will be  flying the same. And nobody will remember.
The  interesting was  that I was not feeling sorry for myself, i was feeling
sorry for  the  thing  that i had not made  so many things.  Although on the
other side I have made my small sign on the earth. I've executed my  mission
partly. The  mainist was my  son. My son.  My continuer of the  kin,  of the
surname.  The only thing was to bring  him up as a human. But that  can come
true due to the  will  of the only  God. Even if I  die, my  son will be not
ashamed for his father. He would have died  but was not a coward. He did not
make off. Save him, God, and me too by the opportunity.
     A  fighter  ran out  from the building and shouted that  we  should  be
ready. We  went  to the subdivisions. We've  already decided to go  with the
remains  of the second battalion. If they had  taken us from that hell-fire,
then we would  go together further. The first  battalion was settled down on
the right side. The headquarter's cheif, Vania Il'in waved me with the hand.
I nswered him back.
     -- Slava, come to us!
     -- No, Ivan, the horses are not ot be changed on the ford.
     -- As you like it. Good luck!
     -- Thanks. Good luck to you also!
     The  nearer  the  square  comes,  the quicker flows the  blood,  that's
already hot. I've taken off the  gloves, put them under the armoured jacket.
Checked  the subgun. Released the safty device,  sent the cartridge into the
cartridge  load.  Checked whether the "lucky" grenade  on the place is.  Had
crossed myself watching  into the sky. The clouds were on the place and were
the same continuing their  slow  voyage.  It's  hot.  I'd  moved  the  black
underhelmet onto the  headback. The blood was  raging  in my body. There was
the smack of  the blood in the mouth. Adrenalin  had started its game again.
Now the  main thing was that  our  father-commanders would  not  overkeep us
hier,  otherwise adrenalin would burn all the  energy and we would be as the
squeezed out lemons. We know that, we've experienced that. And now the order
"555" came at the radio set.
     Assault. Assault. Assault. Go on, rabid dogs, go on! And we went on. We
rushed  out from the State bank's shelter. There are hundred fifty meters of
the square now just before us. Everything is as on the plate. A man can  not
find  a shelter,  can not hide. Only forward. The "dukhs"  started  shooting
almost  at  once.  The first seconds it was  slack,  but after some  moments
become thick,  got  the might and  strong.  Having run not  yet even fifteen
meters, we had to start somersaulting, rolling, the moving on with the short
crossings. Many ones were  being disturbing each  other by this movings.  We
clashed, dropt on the earth, sweared each other.
     By the irony of the fate namely the second battalion had to run through
the senter  of  the  square,  just  through  the plot where the  most of the
grooves and craters were situated and which was being shot through.
     We  can  see almost nothing, the  sweaat flows  over the eyes, corrodes
them.  Rolling, one more  rolling. Step far aside from the fountains raising
the dust near the head. The face breaks into the stones, into the slash. Not
a problem at all. Instinctively want to get into the crater. Is not allowed.
The holes from  the bullets say that they have shot them good.  The bag with
the grenades for the launcher  disturbs. Is  dangaling. While rolling breaks
into asphalt and stones. Hopefully the grenades will not explode and tear me
in the  peaces.  It  would  be not  about me only, some more men could  have
accompony me by this case. I'll be more accurate.
     Apparently i have rolled enough  far away. Panting I  started to choose
the aims for shooting.

     I did not notice  from  the  State bank, but  having run,  rolled about
seventy meters, I was able to see clearly, that in the windows of the Palace
there  were ours standing, hanging, being tied, nailed to  the frames. Ours.
Russians. Slavs.The dead ones were disdressed  and their  yellow bodies were
hanging. The arms were upwards, the knees were bended. Some ones were on the
window-sill  so that the impression came,  that they were sitting and making
the mute prayer  on  the knees,  holding  the  arms upwards to the sky.  The
others were hanging as if in the air, the third ones  had their legs hanging
from the window-sill inside or outside. The hands were being nailed  or tied
and did not let the bodies to fall down.
     Many ones were being  still alive. Were crying,  weeping. Someones were
crying that  they should be killed to stop their torments. The others on the
contrary were  entreating to  rescue them. The  "dukhs",  hiding behind  the
bodies fo the alive and of the dead ones, were shooting at us. The rare ones
had no  shelter of  the russian soldier  or officer. I realized suddenly and
with the horror that i was not able to shoot. Was not sure that i hit no one
of the ours. The dead or alive one. WAS NOT ABLE!
     The snipera  were shielded behind  the bodies of our brothers. They did
not almost hide theselves. Their optical sights were blinking in the sun. It
was impossible to smash  these swines with  the laucher. Nothing could  have
been done! Nothing!
     Only forward, forward under the stormy shooting and there close to beat
off  the scoundrels. The Germans, the fascists during the assault  on Berlin
were not able  to imagine the taking of the captives from  the concentration
camps and the setting them  as the alive shield before themselves. But these
ones...
     They were alive, worn out, beaten up,  with the cracked on the wind and
frost dirty swellt  up  faces -- they  were  crying.  Someones  were  simple
mooing.  The other  ones  opened the  mouth with a mute  shouting.  All this
provoked the bouquet of the contradictory feelings. There was a lump rolling
up in my  throat.  I wished i  could  sob  full loudly as in  the  childhood
without shame  for the  tears. To weep because of the pity  to  the ones who
were suffering now innocently and because of  the realizing that I could not
assist them plainly. What for, Lord, what  for?  What for do they  get  such
sufferings? All of them were the putils just some monthes ago. One-two years
ago they  sat at  the  school  table, wrote the notes for  the girls, smoked
secretly in some corners. They are not guilty!
     Lord,  why don't You  punish  the ones  who  had sent  them to  die  so
brutally? Why? Answer me! What is their fault? Is it only the fact that they
were unfortunately born in Russia?
     Instead of the  racing forward now when there  was no shooting at  me I
let my  subgun down on my arm and  started straining  the  eyes to watch the
faces and bodies of the ones who were the alive shields for the "dukhs".
     Many  ones seemed me to  be acquainted, I didn't know  their  names and
origin but  i  saw them  in the subdivisions of the brigade. Because  of the
straining or because of  the other reason the  tears  were  dropping from my
eyes, it was difficult to breath. The lump was standing in my throat, it was
stuffy, i tore off my underhelmet. On the second floor of the  Palace  there
was a  fighter  who was liing  near me  under the bullets  during the  first
assault. He was disdressed over the  waist,  dead, the legs were hanging out
and the  hands were nailed to the  frames. As if somebody had thrown him out
from the window but he was able  to  catch the  window block  with  the last
effort. There was something  balck aside  him on the right. It was a face of
"dukh".



        18

---------------------------------------------------------------
     (c) Copyright 2001 translation by Oleg Petrov, siberiaforever[a]hotmail.com
     Editor: Dan Ray
---------------------------------------------------------------

     "Hey, easy, you sadistic moron! That hurts!"
     "Sure, and that's the good news."
     "Easy, you bastard, you can tear it off!"
     "Not to worry, I will sew it back."
     He checked each of my  ears twice with a metal pipe, and then inspected
the insides of my mouth and nose. Now what, Papa Doc?
     "The eardrums are OK, just some inflammation."
     "Say it again in Russian, and louder, please."
     "You will survive."
     "What about hearing?"
     "That will recover later. I'll give you some  eardrops. Stay  away from
cold. And-take care of yourself."
     "They keep you really busy here, don't they?"
     "You bet! It  has been slow for a while,  but all through the night and
morning  we  were getting  so  many  wounded  we almost  panicked.  A lot of
shrapnel wounds, broken bones, stomach wounds...Many died right in the hands
of paramedics, some on their way here. Overall, thirty men did not make it."
     "Oh, shit!"
     "Yeah, this sucks."
     "Do you have enough supplies?"
     "Well,  we got enough  for now, but my colleagues from  other units are
completely out  of medications. The  Ministry  of Emergencies  has some, but
they won't share their stock with  us or Interior Ministry  troops. They say
their supplies are for the local civilians."
     "What a bunch of dickheads! They would rather let their own kin die!"
     "Sorry, Slava,  but I got work  to do.  Come see  me,  if you  have any
problems."
     "I'd rather have you visiting me."
     "I'm too busy, and if I get a break, I just drop dead asleep. I have no
time even to take a shot  of  vodka, only  the cigarettes keep me going. The
<i>dukhi</i>  will keep us busy tonight for  sure, so I need to get ready for that.
What about you? A couple of days rest in the hospital won't hurt you."
     "Forget it. Remember our talk?"
     "You mean, the life and death stuff?"
     "Yes. If it comes to that, you will help me."
     "You're such a bloody fool, Slava."
     "Look, I feel really  dumb right now because I'm deaf, but I guess that
won't last for too long, and I'll get back in shape soon. But...if some  day
you find me passed out here, will you please  make sure that  I won't regain
my consciousness back, OK?"
     "No way and  I  don't even want to  talk about that." Zhenya rubbed his
eyes that were  -- red from fatigue  and constant lack of sleep.  "I will go
now. I  really have too much  work to do. And you  need some rest. You  guys
won't take that shithouse tonight anyway.  I am also tired of shouting  into
your ear at the top of my lungs. Take a good nap. Good luck to you, and here
are your eardrops."
     He took a plastic batch of some  tablets out of his pocket and held  it
out to me.
     "What's that?"
     "This  will  take  care of  fatigue  and  stimulate your cardiovascular
system. It's sort of  like doping.  They used to give this to athletes, like
marathon runners.  This will  keep you awake and you will stay cool when the
shit  hits the fan. I even take this stuff myself sometimes. But do not take
too  many  of them at once. Hey, take these  vitamins  too. Some vitamin  C,
don't forget to take it."
     "Thanks, Zhenya."
     "Good luck!"
     "Good luck to you too!"
     When he left, I felt how tired I was. The fatigue hit  me hard. Part of
the hard, dangerous job was done, but there was too much to be done yet, and
the  end was  nowhere to be seen. Only in the movies is everyone bright-eyed
and  bushy-tailed in between the  fighting, where  they take every chance to
start dancing.
     Well, maybe that's what it used to be, but now it looks very different.
Everyone is just dead tired. It gets you when you keep fighting non-stop for
too long. Your emotions, senses, even  instincts are silenced, your reaction
gets too slow. And that is bad for you. When your instincts become numb, you
are dead.  You will stick  your  head  out in  the wrong moment,  or  become
negligent with  your weapons. So, you better forget  your feelings.  On  one
hand, your numbed emotions won't let you  go crazy, on the other  hand,  you
need  to keep  your reaction fast and your  senses sharp. For that you  need
some  relaxation  and rest.  Vodka  can relax you,  and slumber is  the best
possible  rest.  Killing  a  couple  of <i>dukhi</i> is  also an  excellent way  of
relaxing, and  will relieve  your  stress  completely.  Those who  have hand
grenades or other explosives  at  hand, but no  <i>dukhi</i> around, can use a loud
explosion for the recovery. I used to do that too, it helps. But a couple of
<i>dukhi</i> would  work much better. The  chopper pilots, as I've been  told, have
dropped   some   <i>dukhi</i>  down   over  enemy's  territory,  with  an   awesome
psychological effect. The <i>dukhi</i>  got  their will paralyzed,  and the chopper
pilots got  some stress relief in turn. I won't bet that this  was for real,
but I  liked  the idea.  I heard this tale  even  before the troops  entered
Grozny;  of how 2-3 <i>dukhi</i> were taken up into the skies in a chopper.  One of
them knew some important stuff,  but,  being  an idiot or just a  tough SOB,
won't  talk. And for some obscure reason  torture was  out  of question. So,
they put some psychological pressure on him, by throwing  his friends out of
the chopper. He saw that, and when they kicked him to  the door,  he started
talking. Here, everything goes.
     That is why I felt so tired, not depressed, just tired. I took a couple
of vitamin tablets and put  the unknown  stimulant into my pocket. I got the
whole night ahead of me  to experiment  with  those.  I  took a good look at
myself: I was as dirty,  as a pig. My overcoat  and pants were  covered with
mud, clay, and blood, and got torn and holed in several spots. My boots were
also  covered with  mud. I sighed. Luckily, major Zemtzov, my mentor  in the
Academy, could not see me in such poor condition!  When it came to uniforms,
he was a  perfectionist, and tried  to bring  us up the same way.  Any given
moment might look as the most brutal time of your  life  ever, but  when you
look back later, things that you took for hardship earlier can only make you
laugh. It would  actually be fun to recall your high school problems  later,
when you become a college student or an Academy cadet. Likewise, it would be
fun to tell  your kids of your hardships at the exams in the  Academy. Also,
you will  laugh with  your  friends  at a party at how being in charge  of a
platoon for the first time was really a big deal for you. After you had lost
some hair and your face got  all wrinkled, you would recall just how shy you
used  to be when it came to dating girls; how excited  you were when getting
ready for your first date, and romantic stuff like that. Yeah, if only  that
young cadet Slava Mironov had my experience! Now, when I meet a girl younger
than myself,  I do not  get as  excited as  I  used to.  I am getting old, I
guess, my blood is getting colder. This idea made me grin. Some dating right
now sure would be fun. Hey, how about Christmas,  did  it already pass? What
date is it today, anyway? Maybe, I should go and ask someone. Oh  well, just
forget  about it.  Who cares? Let's forget that my birthday is  coming up in
January, thinking of it won't do me any good. All I need to do is to fulfill
my duty and survive. That's it. The rest,  including those  who  remained on
the Big Land,  can  go to hell.  Me and my boys, we don't give a  shit about
you, just like you don't give a shit about us. But we will be back!
     I looked around.  Everyone seemed  tired and  moved slowly, their faces
dull, with sharp, pointed features; their deep-fallen eyes turned  into red,
like those of albinos. All signs of corpulence  in  these folks were gone by
now. That's a great diet, I thought. If anyone is interested in loosing some
weight, just come here and success is guaranteed.
     Previously, anticipation of a  fight would have caused some excitement;
now  everyone was just plain tired.  If we must fight, so be it and to  hell
with all that. Your nerves must have learned the trick  of self-preservation
by avoiding  unnecessary  waste  of  any emotional  energy  before the event
itself comes. But when it comes, the adrenalin will start rushing and I will
get my reaction back. The human organism is a pretty smart device...
     Yuri showed up, looking jumpy.
     "So, what's new?
     "Have you seen the Doc?"
     "Cut the crap, will you? I have asked you a question."
     "Well,  I've been  to the  HQ.  No  good  news. They are under  lots of
pressure  from Hankala. Our neighbors shat their pants,  so we will bear the
brunt. That's it."
     "That will be our last and decisive battle, right?"
     "Sure. You don't seem to be interested, are you?"
     "That's not the right word, Yuri. I don't give a fuck. Whatever."
     "You are just depressed."
     "I am  calm. I am so absolutely calm. I did not feel that  peaceful for
God knows how long. I'm totally cool, and nothing  else  matters anymore. No
regrets, no remorse. No  fear, nor vigilance, no other  feelings. Everything
looks parallel."
     "You look as if you  made some kind  of decision.  You  don't  have any
suicidal ideas, I hope? Like, assaulting  a machine-gun nest with  your  own
body?"
     "No, I am just  mortally tired  of this  madness.  So, let them  decide
anything they want. I will go anywhere, except for the hospital. I will just
stay here, the way I am, just doing my job."
     "Hey, you did not lose your appetite for life, did you?"
     "Don't worry about  that.  I'm fine. When  do  they plan  to attack, at
night?"
     "No, they changed the plan, as usual. We are to begin in two hours. The
neighbors will start, and we will join them in 20 minutes."
     "I wish there were 2 hours instead.
     "Oh, sure. Unlike the elite troops, Siberian <i>makhra</i> never complain.  We
just keep on fighting till we die, as usual."
     "Stop talking like  that. We are  just fine,  your highness! You better
help me."
     "Like what?"
     "I need a first aid kit  and body armor, if you can  find  any. If not,
that's OK too."
     "I'll see what I can do. Take it easy!"
     "I'm fine. I repeat: I am just cool, you moron. That's all."
     He  left  and  came back in about 20 minutes,  carrying brand  new body
armor.
     "Where did you get that?"
     "They just  got some in  Battalion  3,  and that's  their  gift. Zhenya
Ivanov asked  me to give you the eardrops. He said  that's  his  last batch.
Take it, and here is the first aid kit, too."
     "Thanks, Yuri. What am I going to do without you?"
     "Nothing.  You would just  spend  the night with no body  armor, that's
all."
     "Right. Can you help me adjusting it? Careful, my ear hurts."
     "What's the big deal? You are deaf anyway, right?"
     "Doesn't matter, it still hurts."
     "Patience, I'm loosening the belts."
     "This shit is so heavy. I've spent a half day without body armor, and I
felt like flying."
     "Get down to Earth. San Sanytch wants you to stay  at the HQ during the
assault."
     "Are you kidding me?"
     "Yeah, he knows about your ears."
     "Was it you who told him?"
     "No. The whole brigade already knows  that  you brought a  dead soldier
back. The same thing  happened in Battalion 1, and  their platoon leader had
just gone mad. That's why San Sanytch and Sergei Kazartsev are worried about
your mental health.  You better  stay, Slava. One just can't  go  into night
fighting in a state of mind like yours."
     "Back off, I'm fine. I'm just cool. I feel really good. Never felt this
good before. Well, maybe that's my reaction to the night before. But  I want
to go and I will go into this night fighting. And to hell with the orders, I
don't need any sympathy. So, guys, I do  respect you and I love you, but you
can go and screw yourselves."
     And even saying that, I  was calm as a python. No emotion, just a sober
mind.
     We spent the rest of the  break shooting alcohol, trying to stay low on
snacks. Yuri was tired of shouting  into my ears, so he did not  talk  much.
And I did not want to  turn the evening into a  one-actor performance. I had
no intention of pushing the fragile piece of my  soul off balance by talking
too much.
     So,  time passed in  silence. I was neither  thinking,  nor dreaming or
recollecting, I just kept my eye on what was going on around me. I picked up
some ammo, filled my canteen with water, and off I went.
     This time we went  along  with  the  remains  of  the  1<sup>[st]</sup>
Battalion.  Sergei Kazartzev was walking next to us. The  neighbors attacked
first and engaged with the enemy, but the  <i>dukhi</i> were not dumb and they were
waiting  for us. Ten minutes  after the  fighting  started  we  had received
Budalov's order to attack.
     The <i>dukhi</i>  opened up with tremendous fire. Some of the 2<sup>[nd]</sup>
Battalion troops could not hold on and turned back, searching for cover near
the State Bank building. For a moment, it seemed the whole Brigade was going
to retreat.  But something stopped  folks  from turning their  backs on  the
enemy. The troops hesitated, but they did not run back this time.
     Running made me sweat, but I stayed calm and collected. I tried to stay
away  from  corpses and to avoid  the  point where  I had  stayed the  night
before. My body armor  remained there, as was the corpse of that private who
rushed to help me out. It still lay  there in the same  pose. I  just caught
this picture with  the  corner  of my  eye, but I had  no intention of going
through all that again. I could not resurrect him, but  I  will remember him
until I die.
     The Brigade charged  ahead  like  an  avalanche.  The  <i>dukhi</i> were under
attack from all sides. Ahead, charge ahead! Soon we were  under the walls of
the Palace. The <i>dukhi</i>  blew up the  entrance into the Palace, so it  was not
easy to get inside. They were shooting  at us from above. Our tanks,  hiding
behind the Gosbank building, began  firing at their nests in the Palace. The
dukhi returned the fire, shooting back at the Gosbank area. A large piece of
the  Gosbank wall  collapsed, and some  soldiers,  who could  not  hold  the
enemy's  fire and have turned back in the first minutes of the battle,  were
now  crouching  behind  the  fallen  wall,  terrified.  They  were  shooting
chaotically at the Palace,  and that attracted more and more  of the dukhi's
fire. At that moment, Sergei Kazartzev did what later had became the subject
of  many discussions in  the Brigade. He  rushed toward them and, with kicks
and curses, he  managed to rise them up and lead them toward the  Palace. It
was sheer madness.
     We were just stunned by his courage, and tried  to cover him with fire.
But for  the <i>dukhi</i> this was just like sports hunting. They  were shooting at
him first, then at his group when they charged forward. My heart sank when I
watched this mad  racing. I  did not breath, all my feelings were with these
guys. Even when  I was  not  looking  their way and  was shooting  up at the
<i>dukhi</i>, I could sense with the back of my head where they were at the moment.
I tried to  distract  the enemy's attention by  keeping  up firing, and only
when I  changed  the mag  I  glanced at the running men.  They  seemed close
enough, but still had a  lot of space to  cover. I could not shoot a bomb up
into the <i>dukhi</i>'s nest because it was way too steep. So we just kept shooting
long bursts at them,  trying to  distract their attention or  draw them away
from the windows. And the <i>dukhi</i>  also began shooting wildly with long bursts
at the square. Run faster, guys!  Faster! Just fucking run!  I  know you can
make it! Come on, Sergei!
     The Gods must have been on  our side that night. The  guys had  made it
safely  through  the  wall of bullets  and joined us successfully. They just
could not believe their luck and looked around themselves in dizziness. They
shouted  something  and we patted them on their shoulders, saying some words
of encouragement. But Sergei, of course, was the  real hero. From now on, we
would respect  him  in a new way. He  was rather short and skinny, and I was
always  skeptical  of  the abilities of political officers, but occasionally
you could come across a  worthy officer even among  their big crowd. He  was
sweating, his warm  breath clouding, and he drank the whole canteen of water
that somebody gave him. Everyone was trying to greet him. Earlier, in Soviet
times, he  would get a Star of  a Hero for that, but now only the  soldier's
mothers  could appreciate his courage. He would never hear them, though. So,
pray,  you mothers,  for  Sergei Kazartzev, a man with a big soul. Wish  him
good health.
     Meanwhile, the <i>dukhi</i> started putting pressure on us, dropping down some
hand grenades. That did not cause us any damage and we managed to shoot down
a  couple of <i>dukhi</i>. One went down with a scream. Others,  already dead, fell
down  silently. The grunts did not  bother to search their dead bodies. Step
by step, we moved on, shooting up  at the <i>dukhi</i> above. My neck and shoulders
became stiff from looking up and  the gun smoke was getting into my eyes and
lungs. It would be  great to stop, bend down and cough this  crap out. So, I
had to breath slowly, through my nose. OK, we had reached the walls  of  the
Palace.
     The first group climbed the wall and got inside. I screamed to overcome
my fear, as I  tried to jump up  the wall. A  window nearby was blocked with
sandbags.  The  bags  were made of heavy-duty glossy  paper and  were packed
densely with sand and soil. My fingers slid on those sandbags, unable to cut
through the surface. My body  armor  and  the  AK were pulling  me down with
their weight. So I stuck to those sandbags, like snot on a mirror, listening
to the battle raging inside. I felt I could not hold on. In a second I would
have fallen down, but anger at my own clumsiness gave me some extra strength
and I managed to  climb up a little. I  found an  opening  between the bags,
with some dirt and some traces of recent  shooting.  This  must  have been a
good machine gun nest over here.
     When I felt I could  hold  on, I shifted my AK  forward to my chest and
peered inside. I was lucky to spot a small group of  the  enemy from behind.
Four  of the <i>dukhi</i>  with their backs  turned toward me were shooting  at the
grunts that were inside the building.
     Almost without aiming, I  gave a long burst at their backs. Two of them
fell down, howling; the other two ran  away. I saw some grunts bursting into
the room and cried  for  help.  They dragged me in and we ran. No words were
said between us.
     The   hall  at  the  first  floor  was  rather  typical  for  a   large
administrative  building.  The  ceiling  was  high and numerous  columns and
niches  provided the defenders with many opportunities to hide, to set up an
ambush or booby-trap the place. Darkness did not help us either. The air was
dense with smoke and dust. I  felt how the gunk that accumulated in my lungs
was trying to get out of there.
     Surprisingly enough, I was still calm, despite the adrenaline rush that
I just had. My mind was clear and worked like a calculator.
     The <i>dukhi</i> were fighting for every inch of the hall, and we kept pushing
them out. We kept shooting,  aiming  at muzzle flairs, at  noises, or simply
intuitively.  Some  furious  gunfire  erupted  to  my  left, followed  by  a
tremendous explosion.  Just  as it happened before, my hearing had  somewhat
improved after the concussion. It was great to hear all the sounds of battle
again. I felt  rage and a wild desire  to  live. My tranquility and numbness
were gone. Charge ahead and kill them all!
     The blast had opened a breach in  the wall and in rushed our neighbors,
who were also <i>makhra</i>, judging by their uniforms. They were eager to join us.
Some of the <i>dukhi</i>, who  made it to the upper floor, were now trying to throw
down hand grenades, but most of the enemy were cut off  and  cornered in the
end of the hall. They  were fighting vigorously, but we were too strong  for
them. We kept firing our grenade launchers, and the small fragments from the
bombs killed everything in the closed space.
     More  troops  came  in.  Siberian  <i>makhra</i>,  Volga  area  <i>makhra</i>,   some
paratroopers,  and even some Interior Ministry  troops  were  all mixed now.
Naturally, there  was  no one in command and  no plan.  There  was  just  an
overwhelming desire to destroy  the  enemy,  to dump these jackals down from
the Palace's roof. Charge ahead!
     I was out of  breath again. Nobody listened to anyone anymore. Shooting
at the  enemy,  everyone was shouting something of their  own, like names of
those  friends who were  killed in  action, pressing the trigger  with every
name. We were right in  the enemy's den! We lost too many of our comrades on
the damned Square. We cried  when we saw our comrades hanged  in the windows
of this building. Though now, at the turn of the century, there is a general
cry for kindness and  forgiveness  in our  world, there will be no mercy for
you, <i>dukhi</i>!  For  using  our boys as  human shields, death  to  you all! The
Judgment Day has come!
     I kept  shooting, excited by the battle again. I put  a long burst into
the  shadow  that  jerked ahead of me.  I was shouting something, too,  like
everybody else,  but I  don't  remember, what. So that is our  Reichstag, at
last! We  have finally done it! I will remember this moment  for the rest of
my life.
     Somebody pat me on the shoulder. Whoa,  this is it's Yuri! He  was also
very  excited, his  eyes  shining with joy. We smile  to each other: we  are
alive, and  if we had  survived all that,  we  will live forever. I tried to
tell him,  that I got my hearing back, but  the noise was just too terrible.
We moved on together.
     Part  of our ragtag force  went down into  the  basement.  There was no
shooting down there, so the basement must have been clean. In our direction,
it was  also clear, and all the surviving <i>dukhi</i> were pushed  upstairs. I had
no  intention of  going upstairs  at the moment. It  was getting really dark
now. The grunts were throwing some bloodied rags out through the windows. We
did not want to spend  the night  here with whatever was left of  the  first
floor defenders.
     There was  some excitement at  the basement entrance, and I saw a group
of <i>makhra</i> with burning torches carrying out corpses of our soldiers from the
basement. Some were carried on improvised stretchers, some were just carried
on hands. Some bodies  were still  dressed in uniforms, and some were naked.
Many  bodies were mutilated and clearly  had signs of torture. Many  corpses
had their throats slashed,  which was a  typical style of  execution by  the
<i>dukhi</i>.  Some had eyes poked out,  fingers  crashed into the bloody mess, and
two corpses had their feet cut off. We screamed in anger. From now on, there
will be no mercy for the enemy!
     In that same  basement, where the world-known blabber Korolev had spent
some time with his team, our soldiers were tortured to  death. They were his
countrymen,  his kin. So, what right did he have to talk about our "cruelty"
and "  civilian  abuse"? He  is the  same kind  of  pervert  as everyone who
defended this building!
     We kept watching, in silence  now. Those who had their helmets or  wool
caps  on, took them off, and watched in  great sorrow. Dear friends, forgive
us, for we were too late and failed to rescue you.
     They kept carrying the bodies out. No one kept count, but there were no
less than 50. When  the  sad line stretched outside the building,  the dukhi
opened fire. Someone screamed, as only a wounded can scream.
     We were suddenly overwhelmed with a thirst  for  revenge. Forward,  and
up!
     Nobody gave an  order,  but we  rushed  toward the two stairways to the
second floor.  The <i>dukhi</i>  tried to  stop us with  a hail  of bullets, but we
overpowered them with our grenade launchers. This time we fought in silence.
There were  no victorious shouts and that  sheer  delight of battle  we felt
earlier was gone.  Only one feeling  was left, Revenge! They cannot be  left
alive.
     Step by step,  we moved  upstairs.  Dead militants  were lying  on  the
steps. We walked right over them. These were not human beings any more, just
some stuff under  the feet. All attention was concentrated on aiming. I step
on something soft; it's a militant's corpse. My foot sinks  in some soft and
disgusting stuff. Without looking down, I  kick it  away. The visibility  is
very poor, only the wind blows through the shattered windows. It is too dark
to  see the  enemy.  Now  the game of  who's going to lose his  nerve  first
begins. Whoever makes the first  shot will reveal his position and die. None
of us  smoked or talked,  we  just kept walking  very carefully. One  of the
grunts picked up an empty can  and threw it ahead. At once, three bursts  of
automatic fire  erupted from different sites.  We  locked onto those  muzzle
flashes and fired back.  Those of us who used  the other stairway  opened up
too.  There were more flashes  in front  of us.  We  just kept  spraying the
second  floor with long bursts of fire. Bullets ricocheted  from the columns
with  terrible noise.  It was too dangerous  to  stay  where  we were, so we
dispersed.
     I shot from kneeling a position, then dodged forward, rolled  over  and
shot again, then rushed ahead. It was hard to breathe; I was sweating like a
pig  again.  My feet slipped on broken  glass and  spent  cases. But to stop
meant to die, so we kept moving on. I could hear  the  steps of the soldiers
behind my  back. The open area of the first floor was  easier  to take. Here
there  were  plenty  of  offices,  there  were pillars and  doorways  in the
corridor. Inch by inch, cutting the <i>dukhi</i>  away from  the exits and elevator
shafts we  kept moving inside. We reached the office  area and began mopping
up cleaning it: one or two hand grenades were thrown inside, then a spray of
gunfire. Most of the doors were gone, so we did not have to kick through the
doors down. Someone screamed to the left of me and cursed loudly in Russian.
I figured, the guy  was wounded by the fragments of his own  hand grenade. I
could tell from the noise that he  was taken downstairs. The <i>dukhi</i> were also
throwing  grenades and  shooting  bombs.  More  and  more  often the  fallen
soldiers were carried away.  Some would become "Cargo  200",  and some would
become "Cargo 300"...
     But that was not on my mind then: ahead, charge ahead! Again, I had the
salty taste of blood in my mouth; again, adrenaline rushed in my veins. Fear
and excitement  are the feelings that motivate men in the battle. When these
two  feelings mix, an  explosive is formed that can blast with  a tremendous
amount of energy.
     We got  to another office. A couple of hand grenades were thrown in and
we took cover  behind the  pillars.  As  two explosions thunder  inside  the
office, we heard more explosions echoing in  the far end of the corridor. We
jumped  through  the doorway  and sprayed the  inside  of  the  office  with
bullets. Looks like no one was inside. We turn our backs and at once a burst
of fire comes from the inside. Luckily, no one gets hurt. We throw  grenades
again, shoot bombs and the AK's. Altogether, about six bombs explode inside,
one by one. We keep shooting the automatics and move inside slowly, stumping
on  a  corpse  of  a militant, badly torn by explosions.  It's too  dark  to
inspect the body  and  we just check  his  pockets. When  we get out  of the
office  again, we  find that the rest of  our group had gone  far ahead. The
corridor  is  dark; only  some muzzle  flashes  and  grenade explosions,  so
deafening when inside the  building, light  the darkness. Slowly, everything
quiets down. The second floor is taken!
     I can feel my sympathy for the militants vanishing with every action. I
felt some remorse initially, that we had come here as conquerors, and I  was
tortured by guilt of being an occupant, maybe even a murderer. Now, I do not
give a shit. This is all just about revenge, and nothing else. Everything is
just black  and white.  We  are  the  good  guys,  they  are the  bad  guys.
Gradually, the delight  of the battle  is fading away, and  I felt tired and
drowsy. The  soldiers around me  were  chatting  in excitement, interrupting
each other, telling the most remembered moments  of  the fight. Two soldiers
came from the first floor. I figured, one of them had a shoulder wound.  The
medics kept operating heavily wounded in the basement.
     The  soldiers  pulled some  cotton out  from their padded coats to make
improvised  torches.  A  sympathetic crowd  gathered at  once.  The  wounded
soldier took  his coat off, and  we saw  that  his  shoulder was messed  up.
Someone gave him a canteen with  vodka, or maybe alcohol, and he took a good
drink of  it. Then  they began  cleaning his  wound. The wounded  clutched a
leather belt between his teeth.  And  just  bit it  harder with every touch,
that made  his body shiver.  He wiped sweat and drops of saliva rolling down
his chin with the back of his hand.  Others kept talking, trying to distract
him from pain. Someone offered him a shot of painkiller, but he refused.
     His friend  was working with his bayonet, and a stiletto,  widening the
wound, trying to get to the fragment. When he finally cleared his way to the
piece  of  metal,  he attached  the sheath  to  the bayonet, the  way  it is
normally done to turn the bayonet into scissors to cut the barbed wire. Only
this  time the device would be  used  as forceps. We already knew  that  the
fragment  must  be  pulled  out  quickly,  or  the  patient could  lose  his
conciousness, or even die from pain shock. The war had turned us into fairly
good  medics. Such  skills  are  always valuable here. The  helpers held him
tight now. He stiffened, shut his  eyes and bit the belt harder, waiting for
the  shock to  come.  His friend carefully  reached the fragment  inside the
wound with his improvised  forceps,  and then pulled  it  out abruptly.  The
wounded soldier groaned, jerked backward, then  forward. Blood streamed  out
of the wound. The soldiers  nearby opened the packs of bandages and tried to
stop  the  bleeding, but  it  did not  work.  The blood  quickly  soaked all
bandages and streamed down his back. Either an artery was cut, or this guy's
blood  did not clot fast  enough.  We realized he could eventually die  from
bleeding. Someone took  the mag  off his assault rifle and quickly took  out
several catridges. There was no other way to stop bleeding,  but to use this
barbaric approach. We often dusted small scratches with cigarette ashes, and
more serious wounds were treated with gunpowder.
     A soldier came forward with two  opened cases in his hand. The bandages
were removed at once and he quickly poured the gunpowder from the cases into
the wound. One of  the guys touched  it with his torch and the powder burned
with  a flash that blinded us for a second. The  wounded  soldier jumped up,
but we saw that the bleeding had stopped. Cries of relief roared through the
group. The shoulder was finally bandaged; the fragment was washed with vodka
and given  to the wounded as a  souvenir.  Then  he drank whatever vodka was
left  in the canteen. The operation  was over. We were facing another  long,
cold winter night in Chechnya.
     My partner took something out of his pocket and showed it to me. It was
too  dark to see  the  object, so I bent down and in the dim red light of my
cigarette I saw that he was holding a hand  grenade, and a fuse. So, he also
kept one in his pocket! Our time has not come yet.
     "I see, you did not use it."
     "Not yet. Where have you been? I was going to stay with you, but I lost
you somewhere."
     "Fuck knows where.  I  just ran with the  pack. I was hoping they  were
after some beer, but they had led me here instead."
     "There would be a line to get beer. So, how are you doing?"
     "Fine. Even my ears can hear something. Just fine."
     "Well, just fine?" His voice was skeptical.
     "Aren't  we  both  alive? Yes!  Unhurt? More or less so. We are on  the
second floor of their Reichstag. What else do you need?"
     "A shot of vodka and some chow."
     "Why don't you go upstairs and ask?"
     "Yeah, right. They  will give  me  some. How are we  going to spend the
night?"
     "I have no idea, Yuri. Let us figure out something. We can't go down to
the  basement,  cause  the medics  work down there. How can  they operate, I
can't even imagine."
     "Well, they got some torches, just like us here."
     "Shit! This is the end of the Twentieth Century, and they still operate
in torchlight. It's good  to know that the wounds are not treated with snake
oil and witchcraft."
     "When you fight  with your own people, you end up treating  wounds with
witchcraft. What did you expect?"
     "Nothing. Can we sneak out of the building?"
     "No way! No  one could break through, either here or back.  That is it,
we are sealed up!"
     "Bastards!"
     "Who?"
     "Not us. <i>Dukhi</i>, of course!"
     "Stop that. If you need some action, there are more stories above  you.
They will wear us down. We won't hold for long without food, water, ammo and
evacuation of the wounded. So, we have no choice but move up."
     "Just wait till  they  surprise us by blowing up a ceiling right  above
our heads, the way they did it in Gosbank. That will be really funny!"
     "They won't do that."
     "Why not?"
     "Cause the upper floors could collapse."
     "Big  deal.  When  Muslims  fight with  unbelievers, they can sacrifice
their lives."
     "Everybody wants to live."
     "True,  but there can always be  a  couple of  fanatics among them, who
don't give  a shit. And  these could light  the fuse. There are enough fools
everywhere."
     "I like  your optimism.  When  one needs to hear some encouragement, we
can always bet on you, Slava. You are always there to boost our morale!"
     "I am just being realistic.  Let's  go  and find  some place to take  a
nap."
     "We will need to build a fire. Maybe the <i>dukhi</i> left us some firewood."
     We slowly walked along the corridor, searching for some firewood in the
offices. We picked up whatever we could find:  pieces  of  broken furniture,
doors and window frames. We  carried all that into one of the offices, where
we built  a  fire  with the help of  some office paper we found  there.  The
office furniture was  not as good as firewood.  It  burned  slowly, with the
remnants of polish bub