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of us flew out of the cab at once. Shivering, I pulled on my coat; my mag
pouch with a few extra clips was dangling on my shoulder. In case of an
attack on the HQ, every officer and soldier knew his area of responsibility.
That's why without any extra fuss we sprinted for our little foxhole, dug
about by Pahka a few days ago.
Somebody was discharging long bursts, meaning that the contact was a
close one. Someone was yelling from the dark:
- North-east, white five-story house. Discovered an infantry
detachment, about ten men in all, could be a diversion of some kind.
Not much could be seen in the settling dark, except a few blurred
silhouettes. Somebody started launching flares. Pashka too launched a
couple. Then, in about thirty yards, I noticed rag-heads, crawling toward
us. They were all dressed in nice Turkish camouflage of significantly better
pattern and quality than ours. If I catch a "spook" of my size - definitely
strip him. Back in Prednistrovie, we caught a "policeman" once, in May's
excruciating heat. My feet were boiling and this guy was wearing these
really cool boots. Back then they were a rarity, light afghan type with the
reinforced base, especially for mountaineering. So I got them off him. Back
then we didn't kill prisoners; they were kind of the same as us, fighting
because of morons politicians. Now I have been wearing them for three years,
although they lost their attractive looks but nobody makes them anymore.
Maybe, someone will pull them off me just like I did, perhaps alive or maybe
dead. God alone knows.
I touched Pashka's elbow and showed him the rag-heads.
- Let's go, - I whispered.
We opened up in short bursts. In flares' light we could see the little
geysers of mud and snow. The rag-heads realised that they have been
discovered and fired back at us. They were definitely in a worse situation
and thus were letting off long bursts, crawling backwards. Someone opened up
from his under barrel launcher cutting them off. Suddenly a machinegun fired
from behind us. Did they plan to encircle us?
No freaking way, assholes! I felt my fatigue beginning to disappear and
again, intoxicating rush of the gunfight was consuming me, the flow of blood
thrusting into my head forcing out remainders of the grogginess.
- Pashka, cover me, I'll do them from my launcher, - I yelled with
excitement, getting the weapon ready.
- Come-on my darling, don't let me down, - I muttered, shoving grenade
into its black trunk.
"Bang", said my launcher, spitting the grenade towards the rag-heads.
Too high, I noted correcting. Another one. Gotcha. The grenade burst right
in the middle of the group of crawling "spooks". Two of them whirled around,
obviously wounded; the third got up on his knees holding his head and then
dropped face down in the mud.
- That one's cooked, - I yelled in intoxication, meanwhile spotting
another target. But the rest of the reg-heads managed to hide behind the
rubble and began to gush at us from their rifles. Now, the flares worked
against us, clearly giving away our positions.
A grenade exploded right behind us. Looks like they too have the
launchers. "Issued from the same warehouse?" I thought, bitterly grinning at
my sad idea.
I switched to automatic now, trying to spot where the enemy fire was
coming from. Somebody was running at us from behind, heavily treading. We
turned around sticking our rifle barrels into the dark, ready to open up at
any moment. That was Yurka Ryzhov.
- Shit, man, you scared the devil out of us, - said I getting back to
business.
- Yep, it's definitely more fun over here than with that Moscow creep.
Ragging and ragging constantly. This is not right; that document is not
correctly filled in. Do not write down that the man was captured prisoner;
indicate that he is being unlawfully detained by the illegitimate armed
formations. He also recommended that we speed up the hotel "Kavkaz" assault,
ourselves, take it in the shortest possible time and then proceed toward the
Minutka Square and storm it on the march, - he stopped for a second and then
added: - head on.
- Stuff that. They can storm it themselves if need it so much. As for
us, we need more air support, - I yelled angrily, firing back into the
night. After the Yurka's news I went frantic and was hammering with long
bursts, - you see, I just took one out, the other two are over there
whirling, probably wounded.
Judging from the shooting, we figured the reg-heads were not leaving
just like that. Somewhere from behind our backs we heard "Shilka" talking,
the one that was set up this morning. Well, now it'll chop them up like
salad with its rapid fire and calibre. Yurka together with us, was, with
excitement, picking at the rag-heads with long bursts, keeping the bastards
from raising their heads.
- Slava, the Moscow shithead says he saw you before in Kishineov.
All of a sudden, it became crystal clear. Now I remembered everything.
When back in Kishineov, without any ID papers, we were transferred over the
front line back and forward; this degenerate was there in the Staff Office.
Then his Office was reassigned to the Moldova Republic. Although he stayed
there in the same department and rank. Our personal folders then fell into
the Moldovans' hands. At the end, all of us were pronounced war criminals. I
came to him asking to return my folder, but he bluntly refused, motivating
that I am, in fact, a war criminal and he wouldn't want to be my accomplice.
Then he suggested I leave immediately or he'd call the guards and arrest me
on the spot. The son of a bitch changed colours quickly, but apparently,
eventually had to run for his life too. In a few months, they declared an
amnesty and I am, for now, not a criminal anymore.
The rag-heads started hammering our positions with renewed energy.
Somebody screamed from behind us after the next burst. Shit, someone was
hit. We saw a flash in the dark and redirected our fire over there. In a
couple of minutes somebody in there screamed and something made a noise.
For a few more minutes, in excitement, we kept going in the enemy's
direction, but there was no response. Apparently the rag-heads retreated
having got enough. We had no particular desire to go and check the area.
We'll find out when the sun rises.
- Apparently the original owner came for his liquor, - jested Yura.
- The moron must've forgotten what Karl Marks wrote in his "Capital" on
the second page first paragraph.
- What did he write, Vechaslav Nikolaevich? - Pashka enquired from the
dark.
- A very simple phrase - was yours, now is ours. Expropriation of the
expropriators. If they hadn't screwed around, we wouldn't have come here in
the first place.
- Anything left to drink? - Ryzhov wondered.
- Sure, don't you worry; haven't you had a drink with the faceless
shit? - I replied.
- We have, but he is too fussy. We didn't offer him any cognac but
rather had Vodka. The son of a bitch wondered if we, by any chance, had any
spoils left.
- Moscow motherfucker, - I spewed into the mud, meanwhile, in complete
darkness, filling up empty magazines, feeling the rounds with my fingers. -
All seems quiet. Let's go back. I still have my report to finish and San
Sanych's meeting to attend.
- OK. Pashka you stay here and guard, if you spot anything - call out,
we'll come and rescue you form the evil Chechen, - Yura jested.
We got out of the foxhole and, shaking off the dirt from our BDUs,
started for the cab. Around us in the darkness, officers were walking, to
their trucks to prepare for the meeting.
- Hey people, who was shot? - I yelled into the night.
- The comms driver, Larionov. He's OK though. The shrapnel only
punctured the skin but the bones are fine. He is in the sickbay now. He'll
live, - a voice answered me from the dark, sounded like the Arms XO
Cherepkov Pavel Nikolaevich.
- Soon, there won't any more room in the sickbay to put the wounded. We
should try to break out the blockade and ship them all out, or we'll lose
them, - said loudly Yura, returning to the cab.
- We should look into it and discuss with our COs, - I picked up his
idea.
- Let's have a drink and then go listen to the rant of the Moscow pimp,
- said Yurka, casting his rifle in the corner, - for I am sick of doing it
alone. According to their perception, we can't fight for shit; we have to
inspire men, make them imagine that all this is the Berlin assault and the
Dudaev's Palace is the Reichstag. Bloody paranoia. If it were up to them,
these bastards would lay us down like rails for their cheap glorious
speeches, - Yurka was heating up more and more, that however didn't keep him
from pouring out Vodka and opening sardines cans.
- Alright, Yurok, stop it. Let's drink up and later on the meeting,
we'll bonk the asskisser. Don't worry too much. Whatever they cook up, we
are the ones who will be carrying it out. With the present air support and
artillery back up, we're stuffed anyway. He can go and screw himself. OK, -
I lifted the glass to my eye level and looked at the colours play, - let's
go, to us, the good guys, and death to the morons.
- Yeah right, start holding your breath, - Yurka just wouldn't cool
down and, it seemed, was boiling even more. - Fight them all you want
they'll win anyway. It looks like they are intentionally working for the
Chechens, to kill as many our men as possible.
- OK, Yura, stop yelling, we have to think of the way to get the
wounded out of here. They won't give us a break until we step out anyway.
And during the assault we'll take in more casualties for sure, now you do
the maths. If you ask me, tomorrow morning we have to fetch the recon guys
from the third battalion with whatever they still have that we can ride on,
and break out. Otherwise we'll lose shitload of men. Drink up, - I raised my
glass and toped it without cheers. Yurka too drunk his.
Since we were under our full strength during the departure, we were
complemented by one more battalion from Novosibirsk. According to the
initial plan, we had to complete all preparations by autumn and depart for
Tadzhikistan for integrating into the 201[st] division or some
peacekeeping force; anyhow, to fight for God knows what or who. So this
battalion arrived on new, experimental BMP-3s. The machine looked great,
everything seemed thought of, - however, turned out total shit. Stuffed with
electronics like your Lexus, but made in mother Russia. Thus, at first, we
coped so much shit from it. It couldn't fire its weapons on the run:
equipment failed from vibration. All its sighting systems were electronic,
thus totally useless garbage. When it did fire, it couldn't move: something
again to do with the damned computer. Well, all in one word, - very crude
system and thus terrible. In the third battalion, twenty-four men died in
the first quarter of January because of this buggered APC. Terrible
statistics, isn't it? All because this unrefined machinery was shipped to
the Army, furthermore, to the war zone. About five of them we've lost
already. We've moved them off to a safe place and, for now, use as
machinegun nests. Although the cannon jams after it fires its first shot. Or
as taxi charter in the more or less safe neighbourhoods. I wish those snakes
that accepted this weaponry dropped dead.
Having my second drink I listened to Yura telling me about my Moscow
namesake. He was on fire after I left - at war, he said, some officers let
themselves loose and do not exercise proper behaviour code towards their
superiors; the discipline is lax and so on and on. Then, having sent all
this Moscow bullshit artists to hell, we finished off the bottle and in good
mood left for the meeting. We felt like teaching the Moscow rep a lesson in
gallantry and military science, in front of all the brigade's officers. At
war, feelings towards all representatives are always the same - nobody can
send you any further than these tranches, and their official warnings are
not like clap, they'll hang out there for a while and then fall off at some
stage. By the way, my honourable reader, - clap (gonorrhoea), is "the
officers' heyfever". Back in their college years, half of the officers'
corps managed to catch it. In the Army, compared to civilian life, this
disease is not considered shameful. Shit happens.
At the meeting, every officer knew his spot. Like all HQ officers, we
were sitting close to the Chief of Staff. The meeting room was situated in
the former children's basketball court, which had become a lounge room at
the Chechen owner's villa, where he built in a beautiful fireplace, which
we, in turn, were feeding with his own furniture. By the way, red timber
burns badly, a lot of smoke and not much heat.
Our com-brig was sitting at the head of the big dinner table. As we
could see he didn't even wash up since his return. Judging from his mood, we
figured second battalion was in deep shit. Somebody was talking behind us; I
turned around - it was our Recon CO. His face was just as dirty as the
com-brig's. I figured they went together and thus asked him:
- How did you two go? How is the second battalion?
- Totally stuffed. On the way back we drove into an ambush, one APC was
hit. Driver wounded, Gusarov, you know him? First, busted the track then
wasted us at close range. Barely escaped with our lives.
- No, I don't know him. - I shook my head. - Bad wound?
- His wrists are badly burnt, shrapnel cut his shoulder and part of his
ear is gone. If they keep his hands, he'll be fine. It's a petty though, he
is a smart fellow and I wanted to make him a sergeant.
- Listen, I'll be suggesting now that before we go out and help the
second battalion, we should ship our wounded off, or they're all goners,
your driver too, by the way. For that we have to contract the third
battalion and your lads. What do you reckon?
- Sure, count me in. While we were offloading the wounded, I remembered
that there is a republican drug warehouse here near by and our corpsemen
have nothing besides aspirin and their enthusiasm.
- OK, go on, make a suggestion. We'll work on that and snatch the drugs
from the rag-heads. Otherwise addicts and marauders would bag them anyway.
- Attention please! - Chief of Staff spoke out.
The humming in the room stopped and everyone was now looking at the
COs.
- During yesterday, our brigade was participating in the following
assaults: central train station, hotel "Kavkaz" and here. Also, while
proceeding to locations of the brigade's detachments, several HQ Groups were
fired upon and became involved in short skirmishes. As a result, our brigade
has lost, - there was absolute silence in the room, - two KIA, private
Azarov - tank battalion, sergeant Harlapidi - engineering battalion. There
have been four wounded: Chief of Staff of the second battalion, senior
lieutenant Pahomenko, first battalion company commander lieutenant Krasnov,
Private Gusarov - recon company and private Larionov - communication
battalion. Also, we found a body of private Semeonov - engineering
battalion, who was earlier declared missing in action. The man died a
terrible death, - here San Sanych looked up, faced everybody in the room and
continued without the bulletin, - his was tortured, then nailed to the cross
and his penis cut off and placed into his mouth. Horrible image, I have to
tell you, gentlemen.
The room went buzzing. Officers, despite the presence of their COs and
the representative from Moscow were loudly and resentfully discussing death
of the soldier.
- Calm down, gentlemen, - Bilich resumed his speech after pausing for a
moment, - I'll continue, I am no less disturbed by this, but let us dedicate
our emotions and rancour to the enemy, right now, there is nothing we can do
about it. Next, first battalion captured a sniper, from his own words our
compatriot, from Novosibirsk. Captain Mironov was not able to bring him
over, from his words, the latter died from his wounds and heart condition.
And again the room went buzzing with noise, this time with approval.
Those, whose eyes I met, were nodding and winking to me, approving, as I was
the one who wasted the sniper. Someone from the back of the room declared:
"his guilty conscience killed him". Officers cackled with approval. The room
was scarcely lit, actually, only the table with the Com-brig, Chief of Staff
and Karpov was illuminated, the rest was all covered in darkness. That's why
those at the back were making all sorts of comments without the fear of
being recognised. Lucky bastards.
Again San Sanych had to call for order. Slowly the buzz settled. I
inwardly was watching the faces of our Com-brig and the Moscow major. If our
CO's lips were touched by a smile after the "conscience" remark, the
representative kept cheerless expression on his face with his thin lips,
displaying his negative impression of the matter. A rat is always a rat. It
would be interesting to know if he was ever a platoon leader or a company
commander. Or straight after the college he popped up on the HQ parquetry?
I've gone through all the necessary stages, neither was I ever elevated in
rank before the right time, kissing commanding asses along the way. That's
probably why I travelled all over our country's hot spots. I have no desire
for my son to serve in the military, although my father, my uncle, father in
law and myself went to the same damned military college. If I had ever
learnt English language, wouldn't have ended up in this shithole.
Now San Sanych was telling us about our future objective, which Karpov
brought with him. The latter was erupting with self-importance; it seemed
all this was his idea and we owe him everything. The officers were listening
carefully, quietly exchanging their comments at times.
Then Karpov made his speech:
- Gentlemen! Our Allied Force Head Quarters has set up an honourable
task for you: amongst the first troops, you are to spearhead the attack on
the lair of the savage and then destroy him. The Commander in Chief himself
is keeping this operation under his control. You have proven yourselves in
the past battles and therefore, as the Commander's representative, I am
confident that the Siberians will handle their challenge with honour.
And more of that boring rant, in the worst traditions of the soviet
cinematography. If he thought his listeners would explode applauding and
give him standing ovations, he was dead wrong. There was nothing in the room
besides quiet chuckles and calm remarks. Then someone from the back clearly
and loudly yelled out "Go to hell". From the construction of the phrase I
figured who that was. Only one person in the room could express himself like
that - our tank battalion commander, Mazur Sergei Mihailovich. When we came
here, we had forty-two tanks T-72, now we have twenty-six. In ten days we
have lost sixteen tanks, mostly with their crews. That's why major Mazur had
the right to send all smarty-pants from Moscow the farthest and most often.
Everyone was waiting for the response. It came swiftly:
- Who said that? I suppose it's not a smart and honourable officer and
unlikely that he would come out and say it to my face.
But Mazur rose, and pushing away officers in their chairs, came up to
the table.
- I said that, so what are you going to do? Because of fucks like you I
have lost forty-eight men and God knows how many more I will lose because of
your hallucinations. Why won't the air force and artillery beat the crap out
of this damned square with all that's still there? And the grunts would
block the approaches and take out everyone who would try to sneak off.
That's all. There won't be as many soldiers' blood spilt though and we'd
have to spend more time.
Now everyone was watching Karpov. He was obviously confused:
- The problem is that the whole world is watching what is happening
here. All major news agencies and television stations have been registered
at the Head Quarters. If we use air force and artillery on a square of this
kind, the world community might not take it well. As you correctly mentioned
that it would take more time, but our government needs this conflict to stop
as soon as possible. Local opposition, which is on our side, would also be
against using air force and artillery to solve this problem. Maybe somebody
would wish to surrender? Moreover, we had received authentic information
that a group of well-known human rights activists headed by the Duma
politician Krylov is in one of the Dudaev's basements. Krylov is the
guarantor of Dudaev's personal safety. As a result of a massive air strike
they might get hurt.
- Screw them!
- I'll become an artillery spotter, so that the lads wouldn't miss!
- Hang the bitch!
The well-known human rights activist Krylov was called many
unflattering names. This madhouse would've gone on for a while, if the
Com-brig hadn't barked:
- That's enough! Please comment only on the subject. Orders are not to
be discussed - they are to be carried out. Other details like air and
artillery support, time frames and interactions with other units would be
discussed later on. I am listening. Please note that the hotel must be taken
within the next three days. Any suggestions?
I raised my hand.
- May I? Comrade Colonel, - the CO nodded to me and I went on, - If we
are to face an assault like that it is possible to expect that we will take
more casualties. Our wounded, however, are cramped in the sickbay as it is.
We are also running out of medicaments. Therefore, I suggest the following:
tomorrow, with the strength of the third battalion, support of the recon
company and chemical defence company we would break away to the "North"
airport and medivac all our wounded out of here. Then, in our immediate
proximity, we have the republican medical warehouse. Medicaments definitely
wouldn't hurt to have at this stage.
- This warehouse is for the local population only! - The moron moscvich
gave off a remark. - We must never do that, it would set the locals against
us!
- Keep quiet, major, - cut him off Com-brig, - we've already given you
an opportunity to speak up. This war has already set them against us. There
is no way back. Mironov, continue.
- I'm pretty much done here. If my plan is approved, I offer to
personally head the convoy. Other than that we have to notify the battalions
so that they ship their wounded over at the HQ as early as possible. We
should be under way at about 9.30 and if everything goes according to my
plan, we could be back by about 17.00, leaving us enough time to start on
the medical warehouse.
- What about the hotel "Kavkaz" and the Square?
- I suggest, that during evacuation of the wounded, myself, or someone
else, would contact our front command office and discuss all available
options. If somebody is willing to take over the train station from us, the
first and second battalions could easily bust the rag-heads out of the
hotel. We can also give them the third battalion for support and clean up
operations. If we could also move the self-propelled howitzers a bit closer,
we might be able to complete the task within the previously mentioned time
frame. Only if our friends from the "North" don't shell us again, as it has
happened many times before, - I couldn't help myself and again kicked the HQ
rep.
The discussion of all "for" and "against" arguments of my plan took a
while after that. In about half an hour, our CO approved it overall. He made
a decision to personally head the convoy to the "North". He was also taking
several officers with him: myself with Ryzhov, recon CO, medical CO, third
battalion CO and Supplies XO. After brief calculation, it turned out we had
one hundred and twenty-two wounded to transfer, including all from the
battalions. Many of them refused to medivac. It's strange though, for them
this war was over, they didn't chicken out or self-inflict their wounds,
many of them were even about to be awarded medals, some could be discharged
before their term after this. But even the badly wounded refused to be
shipped out. Their COs yelled at them, some ordering, some trying to
convince them to go.
A lot of grunts were broken down crying, like they were unjustly
punished or something. A few didn't want to go because of the soldiers'
brotherhood, the real one not the imaginary kind. Some were frankly saying
that their thirst for blood isn't quenched yet for their fallen comrades.
Looking at their faces and their madly blazing eyes, you begin to understand
that these men could easily give up their own lives for their comrades. No
looking back, no bargaining with death or enemy, just stand in the path
between the bullet and his comrade without making demands for rewards or
medals. I asked myself a question that I haven't yet been able to answer,
maybe that's what this superior spirit of the Russian Soldier is, that no
army could ever break? Despite the fact, that every government in Russia
hated and dreaded its own army, trying tirelessly to break its backbone,
something that no enemy could ever do. But the Russian mahor, regardless of
his superiors' scams, has always sunk his teeth into his enemy's throat, in
spite of his furious resistance, avenging the deaths of his brothers,
himself died but killing his foe. The death of one would cause desire for
vengeance in the others and this would go on to the last soldier. The
government, knowing this phenomena, periodically makes new opponents,
because when the obvious enemies are dead, you, having tasted their blood,
can't stop any more and start looking back.
And if you did look back, you'd understand, my reader, that while you
were fighting here, at someone's obscure order, life in your country calmly
went on. Somebody even made a little fortune from this war, someone else
transferred money overseas. But your comrade, whose mutilated body you were
dragging out of the killing zone, under fire, yourself soaking in blood and
sweat, he now receives a pension from the government, for both his legs that
he lost out there, 300 rubles.
When after the third toast, he'll grab your hand and, looking into your
eyes, ask you in breaking voice: "why the hell did you pull me out of there,
why?" You will feel sick and ashamed that you saved his life. This very act,
that you were so proud of and maybe even rewarded, - will be the most
shameful and bitter act of your life.
Because your government sent you into this butchery and then, chucked
you out, the still living ones as well as all the dead. It has bedamned and
forgotten you. There was nothing there. All this was your paranoid
hallucination caused by the posttraumatic syndrome and multiple concussions.
But don't you worry. We'll fix you up in the mental home in about five
years, come on in. Whatever remains of the army, we'll disperse and
downsize, so that they don't tell anybody anything and debate our actions.
Same as witnesses after a crime, they'll remove the military after each of
their "salvaging operations". Like they did after Afghanistan, Germany, and
so on. Because they knew for sure, the Army can turn around and see that the
real enemy is right here in Moscow.
Thus, when they throw you out or lock in a God forsaken garrison, you'd
look back at your life and realise that the brightest, most memorable
moments and impressions, the taste and price of life you experienced back
there at some war. Your whole life will be now divided in two parts:
"before" and "after" that war.
Here you will be put before the choice, the infinite Russian question:
"what do I do now?"
You can try and live you life like everyone else, but you know that you
won't get far. You can try and enter the police force. By the way, they are
not ecstatic to see us there, they say we are all psychos. We can become
contract killers, our familiar business and the money's good too. To kill,
not as many people, not for some principles or vengeance but for money.
Would you do it? Does it make you sick? Some go for it.
There is a third path however - mercenary. It's true though you'd be
fighting side by side with those you were shooting at not so long ago, but
that's OK. Money doesn't smell and who knows, you might even like it and
take vengeance on the locals for your fallen friend who used to be your
enemy.
All our wounded grunts knew it only too well. Some knew; some sensed it
with their skins that all this is what a man lives for, and if they leave
now, they would never again experience it. That's why they hung in to every
opportunity to stay. To some their COs plainly lied, telling them that they
are only going out there to accompany the column and would then come back
here again. Some of them believed it while others wanted to believe, hoping
that the convoy won't be able to break out and would have to return. Some
grunts anticipated that before the medivac they would, for one last time,
fight and send a few more true believers to see their Allah for themselves.
They do like squalling "Allah akbar, Allah akbar", - so what? We too
know that he's "akbar", but they, for some reason, don't rush to meet him.
That's no good. Moreover, they are promised a heaven for the holy war with
the kafirs. Therefore, we are actually doing them a favour, sending them to
paradise, but they are resisting it like blind puppies.
This night at the HQ was pretty much sleepless. All of us, Yurka,
myself, Chief of Staff, recon CO and other officers were working on the
details for the medivac convoy. We talked to all the neighbouring units,
arranging the safe passage through their territory and interaction in case
of an ambush. Mechanics were busy getting their vehicles ready for the
transit and gunsmiths tried to adjust BMP-3s. There was enough work to go
around for everybody.
When all arrangements were made and all questions answered, only the HQ
officers were left in the room. Now the head of the Operational Department
initiated the meeting. We now were discussing our options for the Minutka
Square complex assault. At first we said everything we had on our minds
about the Allied Command and Moscow smart asses, but gradually we cooled
down and the meeting went along a calm path.
All of us came to the conclusion, that a head-on assault of the square
would be a sure suicide. But first, we had to take the bridge over the
Sunzha River overlooking the square. There, marching our men under the
deadly close range fire, we could lose them all. This bridge was right in
our path and could not possibly be avoided, unless we took a detour over
half of the city.
Suddenly, chief of the guards barged into the room.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, - he started anxiously, addressing our
Chief of Staff, - the Moscow rep just left.
- What? - San Sanych couldn't grasp it at first.
- Got on to his BRDM, said that he was called in and left.
- When?
- About fifteen minutes ago. I called him on the radio, he says that he
must be at the "North" before the sunrise.
- What a moron? He'll die himself and lose his men. He should've been
riding with the convoy tomorrow morning. Idiot, nutcase, - the head of the
operational department, major Ozerov was furious.
We all knew too well what that meant - riding alone, in the dark,
through a besieged town on a light armoured APC. The end result is almost
always same - be captured by the rag-heads or catch a bullet from your own.
Every soldier knew that, not mentioning the officers. It can't be that this
screwed in the head even considered that his rank would save him!
Martial law in Grozny was in full swing, which meant that sometimes we
couldn't even medivac our worst wounded to the better-equipped hospital at
the "North".
And now this bonehead, this pimple on our asses, endangering the lives
of the grunts escorting him, just vanished into the night.
Immediately we called on the "North" and told them about their
knucklehead. It's likely he did it on impulse, trying to get to the Command
HQ before any news from here could reach them, and report that we dared to
openly debate orders of our superiors. He actually had the poor Semeonov's
body with him too. There is just no peace for him. Forgive us, private.
In the "North" they all went nuts. I can only imagine - an officer has
gone missing. An officer, who knew about, maybe only parts of, but still,
plans of the General Command. Moreover, the allied HQ staff member. Looks
like Karpov actually knew quite a bit, because a search party was organised
to look for him in the middle of the night. The radio traffic was red hot.
All detachments were reporting that the BRDM with the rep has not yet passed
through their roadblocks. Down here, we were prepared to face the music of
future allegations that we deliberately sent him away in the middle of the
night. Thus, instead of catching at least a tiny bit of sleep, we were busy
making up reports that we were never here and there or never did this and
that, and all that bullshit. God forbid for you to be accused of sabotage
towards your superiors. You can make a wooden souvenir out of your opponent,
but don't you dare giving looks to your COs. Well, there are many morons for
us to face in this life. Although, we do, feel petty for the bastard. He's
our blood, Russian. So could the grunts in his escort, get hurt for nothing.
For some reason everyone was convinced that, if the units along his route
keep silent, he is a goner. Probably a captive now, in the rag-heads' hands.
God, let him be captured dead, otherwise, a lot of our plans would have to
be changed.
Sometime about eight in the morning we received information that the
BRDM with Karpov drove into one of the OMON roadblocks that was set up right
before the dusk. As we have predicted he tried to wave his rank into their
faces. The OMON lads, of coarse, didn't give a shit about some General
Command HQ together with their major Karpov. At first, they really mistook
him for a spy. For the rest of the night they kept kicking the crap out of
him and the grunts. Before the sunrise they put him before the firing squad
a few times, hoping he makes a confession. A couple of times they even fired
a few shots over his head. In the morning everything became clear. Airborne
fellows arrived, threw a few punches around for their grunts, picked up
knocked out Karpov and the remains of Semeonov's body and left for the
"North". Karpov went back to Mozdok with the first available flight and from
there probably to Moscow. It's likely he'll be awarded a medal of some sort
and later would be, on TV or in his memoirs, recounting how he, alone, rode
through half of the whole Chechnya, or something like that. Well, good luck
to him.
At 8.00 in the morning we began loading our wounded onto cars and
lining up the convoy. Earlier, clashing along the way, armoured vehicles
from the first and second battalions broke through to us with their dead and
wounded. Since there was not enough room in the yard for everyone, only the
worst ones were loaded up there. The rest, who were relatively OK: in clear
mind, were squashed into armoured trucks using stretchers, crutches and
whatever else could be utilised. All who could fire weapons rode on top of
APCs. Everyone knew well, that those inside armoured carriers would
inevitably die in case of a direct grenade hit or a mine explosion. Thus,
responsibility for them rested heavily on shoulders of those riding atop of
the "armour". The convoy turned out bigger than expected. In all:
fifteen APCs. Wheeled trucks were dropped in favour of the armoured APCs
since even a rifle bullet could easily penetrate their cabs, not mentioning
cumulative grenades and mines.
Luckily (or may be not), a heavy fog came down on the city. The winter
here sucks. It's cold but there is no snow; the mud is not even mud, but
rather a thick layer of muck that just swallows your boots. To free them you
have to apply loads of pressure and they come out with huge pieces of filthy
sludge on them. Vehicles had the same problem. What will it be like here in
spring? During the night, surface has been covered with a little crust of
ice and thus, we thought we could try and slip away quietly and quickly,
using the fog and frozen soil. Comms operators radioed every one of our
neighbours and the "North" that our convoy is about to leave.
One paradox was that all army units, regardless of the kind, have been
using the same radio frequencies and call signs that they did when they came
into Grozny. All of which meant that if you try to scan the radio traffic
within the range of 3 to 30 MHz, during the day, you could easily find out
where each unit is located and what exactly it is doing there. Moreover you
would know the names of the unit's leader, radio operator and all sorts of
other useful and not so useful information. By the way, our opponents were
not much smarter, keeping their frequencies and call signs unchanged for
weeks at a time. Well, we kind of, matched each other over there. Services
of the radio traffic interception and disinformation of both sides were on
top at all times. However, chechens had one unquestionable advantage - they
could speak Russian and therefore deceive us; we, on the other hand, could
not speak Chechen and thus were helpless trying to fool them.
More often than not, during clashes as well as during the breaks
between them, aborigines, having set up radio contact with our units, tried
to make propaganda conversations and of coarse threats. Since the first
clashes they started calling us "dogs". Another example would be
the Train Station assault. Back then, "spooks" fooled our
neighbouring artillery regiment, and the lads, thinking they had spoken to
us, for about 30 minutes, were thoroughly shelling us. Unfortunately these
cases were not unique. With time, through the system of codes and passwords,
we slowly stopped walking into chechen traps. After many of our men have
already been killed or injured. And no matter what, our brigade, and those
units that worked together with us, kept using old frequencies and call
signs, right to the very time of our withdrawal. Army stupidity. What can
you do? Unfortunately it was everywhere. Any suggestions from the lower
levels of the power pyramid were met with resentment.
Considering all this, we knew for sure, that our convoy's departure was
not only known to the General Command in the "North", but also
wasn't a secret to half of the rebels in town. Nevertheless, even if it was
a probable suicide, we stood by our decision. Without the proper medical
attention, men could simply die out here; moreover, they tied everybody
else's hands with their presence. They have become a burden and an extra
target. Besides, considering our next objective, we had to free up room for
future casualties. Thus, after a short hesitation, we turned our faiths over
to the good fortune and started our journey. Our path lied along the streets
of a demolished city that, with its ruins, rather depicted the old
chronicles of Stalingrad half a century ago. Death watched us from every
basement and every window. A sniper could be hiding in there or an RPG
launcher. He could've gone to the same military college as us. Or may be
fought with us side-by-side in Afghanistan, Angola or here in one of our
country's hot spots.
According to the well-developed tactics, the first and the last
vehicles in the convoy are destroyed first. Then, the rest of the column is
methodically eliminated. Reliable tactics. Very few ever escape.
- Let's move! - The instruction came from our Com-brig. He rode on the
second APC.
Recon guys were riding on their two carriers in front of the convoy.
For ten minutes everything was fine. In a couple of days after we arrived in
Grozny, our General Command ordered us to clearly mark our vehicles. For
example, our cars had letter "S" painted on their sides, meaning
Sebirian Military District.
A bitter taste suddenly appeared in my mouth, although, there was no
nervous rush as yet. That will come later. I knew that, all of us did. We
all experienced the same feelings all over again. Suddenly a popular song
motive played in my mind: "I want so much to crash into this
town!" Yep, that's right, I really do want that. Or better crash into
Mozdok, where our General Command is, which in turn, was heading our
directional command. Nobody really knew why the hell we needed them in the
first place. They always wanted to control separate detachments, over their
COs' heads, which always ended up badly for the latter.The most interesting
part was that they, in Mozdok, enjoyed the same allowances as we had over
here. There weren't many of them, but still, at least we earned them. For
instance, one day here counted as three and we'd get paid double time when
we came home; that's pretty much it. And you, my reader, thought that we
would be enjoying all the privileges of soldiers in a war zone. Yeah, right!
There is no war in Chechnya. All this is the fruit of your TV's rich
imagination.
Although occupied by these thoughts, I didn't forget to constantly look
around. So much we've destroyed here and we'll destroy yet even more.
Demolishing is not the same as building. I carefully looked at my grunts'
faces. All covered in dust, burnt by local winds, parched by the gunpowder
from frequent shooting and grenade explosions. I noticed a grunt, sitting at
the back, in his burnt through tank crew uniform and patched up head. I
looked at him again more carefully this time. Wow, this guy is one hell of a
lucky bustard. He was a driver-mechanic with the surname of German or Jewish
origin - Goldstein.
We had people of all sorts of nationalities in our brigade including
even uzbeks and tadzhiks. This tanker was driving his tank through the
Grozny entrance and the infantry were taking cover behind it. Back then, no
one of the grunts knew that you must walk <i>in front</i> of the
tank and only then it will save you. Now they know. It was a very expensive
learning curve. Since they were entering the town at night, this guy was
driving in the position "on manoeuvre", sticking his head out of
the hatchway.God knows why some sniper didn't snatch him. Others they picked
on the fly, this one was just plain lucky. He was lucky again when a rocket
slammed into his tank's right side. Goldstein was propelled out of the tank
like a cork, about fifteen meters up high and landed on a tree branch. I
thought he was gone. But he's alive, only patched up a little meaning
everything else is intact. Probably had a bad concussion. I wouldn't worry:
They'll fix him up quickly in his historical homeland. I can remember when
the conscripts arrived six months ago, he was begging not to be assigned
anywhere to do with secrets*. If it weren't for the Army, he'd be with his
relatives by now. His parents have left already, but he was still finishing
up his graduate university diploma and didn't complete it in time. In any
case he'll be discharged now and would be treated like a human being for
once.
* AD. Until recently, Jews in Russia (or anybody else) could be refused
travelling visa to leave the country if they served in the military units
that looked after classified technology. It was of particular importance to
Jews, rather that to any other nationality, as this was the time of their
mass migration to Israel. In this case, the man was drafted in the Army,
while his parents have already immigrated. Serving in the strategic forces,
for example, could've held him back in Russia for three or more years after
his discharge. End of comment. AD
That artist, who was stuck with the second battalion, is also here with
us, riding on the fifth carrier. He came over with the wounded Chief of
Staff and their three injured grunts. Some snappy fellow he turned out to
be. Everyone expected him to be untouchable and star-like, but he is
actually an easygoing chap, having been stuck in the basement for three
days, under constant fire and counterattacks, according to the witnesses, he
pouch with a few extra clips was dangling on my shoulder. In case of an
attack on the HQ, every officer and soldier knew his area of responsibility.
That's why without any extra fuss we sprinted for our little foxhole, dug
about by Pahka a few days ago.
Somebody was discharging long bursts, meaning that the contact was a
close one. Someone was yelling from the dark:
- North-east, white five-story house. Discovered an infantry
detachment, about ten men in all, could be a diversion of some kind.
Not much could be seen in the settling dark, except a few blurred
silhouettes. Somebody started launching flares. Pashka too launched a
couple. Then, in about thirty yards, I noticed rag-heads, crawling toward
us. They were all dressed in nice Turkish camouflage of significantly better
pattern and quality than ours. If I catch a "spook" of my size - definitely
strip him. Back in Prednistrovie, we caught a "policeman" once, in May's
excruciating heat. My feet were boiling and this guy was wearing these
really cool boots. Back then they were a rarity, light afghan type with the
reinforced base, especially for mountaineering. So I got them off him. Back
then we didn't kill prisoners; they were kind of the same as us, fighting
because of morons politicians. Now I have been wearing them for three years,
although they lost their attractive looks but nobody makes them anymore.
Maybe, someone will pull them off me just like I did, perhaps alive or maybe
dead. God alone knows.
I touched Pashka's elbow and showed him the rag-heads.
- Let's go, - I whispered.
We opened up in short bursts. In flares' light we could see the little
geysers of mud and snow. The rag-heads realised that they have been
discovered and fired back at us. They were definitely in a worse situation
and thus were letting off long bursts, crawling backwards. Someone opened up
from his under barrel launcher cutting them off. Suddenly a machinegun fired
from behind us. Did they plan to encircle us?
No freaking way, assholes! I felt my fatigue beginning to disappear and
again, intoxicating rush of the gunfight was consuming me, the flow of blood
thrusting into my head forcing out remainders of the grogginess.
- Pashka, cover me, I'll do them from my launcher, - I yelled with
excitement, getting the weapon ready.
- Come-on my darling, don't let me down, - I muttered, shoving grenade
into its black trunk.
"Bang", said my launcher, spitting the grenade towards the rag-heads.
Too high, I noted correcting. Another one. Gotcha. The grenade burst right
in the middle of the group of crawling "spooks". Two of them whirled around,
obviously wounded; the third got up on his knees holding his head and then
dropped face down in the mud.
- That one's cooked, - I yelled in intoxication, meanwhile spotting
another target. But the rest of the reg-heads managed to hide behind the
rubble and began to gush at us from their rifles. Now, the flares worked
against us, clearly giving away our positions.
A grenade exploded right behind us. Looks like they too have the
launchers. "Issued from the same warehouse?" I thought, bitterly grinning at
my sad idea.
I switched to automatic now, trying to spot where the enemy fire was
coming from. Somebody was running at us from behind, heavily treading. We
turned around sticking our rifle barrels into the dark, ready to open up at
any moment. That was Yurka Ryzhov.
- Shit, man, you scared the devil out of us, - said I getting back to
business.
- Yep, it's definitely more fun over here than with that Moscow creep.
Ragging and ragging constantly. This is not right; that document is not
correctly filled in. Do not write down that the man was captured prisoner;
indicate that he is being unlawfully detained by the illegitimate armed
formations. He also recommended that we speed up the hotel "Kavkaz" assault,
ourselves, take it in the shortest possible time and then proceed toward the
Minutka Square and storm it on the march, - he stopped for a second and then
added: - head on.
- Stuff that. They can storm it themselves if need it so much. As for
us, we need more air support, - I yelled angrily, firing back into the
night. After the Yurka's news I went frantic and was hammering with long
bursts, - you see, I just took one out, the other two are over there
whirling, probably wounded.
Judging from the shooting, we figured the reg-heads were not leaving
just like that. Somewhere from behind our backs we heard "Shilka" talking,
the one that was set up this morning. Well, now it'll chop them up like
salad with its rapid fire and calibre. Yurka together with us, was, with
excitement, picking at the rag-heads with long bursts, keeping the bastards
from raising their heads.
- Slava, the Moscow shithead says he saw you before in Kishineov.
All of a sudden, it became crystal clear. Now I remembered everything.
When back in Kishineov, without any ID papers, we were transferred over the
front line back and forward; this degenerate was there in the Staff Office.
Then his Office was reassigned to the Moldova Republic. Although he stayed
there in the same department and rank. Our personal folders then fell into
the Moldovans' hands. At the end, all of us were pronounced war criminals. I
came to him asking to return my folder, but he bluntly refused, motivating
that I am, in fact, a war criminal and he wouldn't want to be my accomplice.
Then he suggested I leave immediately or he'd call the guards and arrest me
on the spot. The son of a bitch changed colours quickly, but apparently,
eventually had to run for his life too. In a few months, they declared an
amnesty and I am, for now, not a criminal anymore.
The rag-heads started hammering our positions with renewed energy.
Somebody screamed from behind us after the next burst. Shit, someone was
hit. We saw a flash in the dark and redirected our fire over there. In a
couple of minutes somebody in there screamed and something made a noise.
For a few more minutes, in excitement, we kept going in the enemy's
direction, but there was no response. Apparently the rag-heads retreated
having got enough. We had no particular desire to go and check the area.
We'll find out when the sun rises.
- Apparently the original owner came for his liquor, - jested Yura.
- The moron must've forgotten what Karl Marks wrote in his "Capital" on
the second page first paragraph.
- What did he write, Vechaslav Nikolaevich? - Pashka enquired from the
dark.
- A very simple phrase - was yours, now is ours. Expropriation of the
expropriators. If they hadn't screwed around, we wouldn't have come here in
the first place.
- Anything left to drink? - Ryzhov wondered.
- Sure, don't you worry; haven't you had a drink with the faceless
shit? - I replied.
- We have, but he is too fussy. We didn't offer him any cognac but
rather had Vodka. The son of a bitch wondered if we, by any chance, had any
spoils left.
- Moscow motherfucker, - I spewed into the mud, meanwhile, in complete
darkness, filling up empty magazines, feeling the rounds with my fingers. -
All seems quiet. Let's go back. I still have my report to finish and San
Sanych's meeting to attend.
- OK. Pashka you stay here and guard, if you spot anything - call out,
we'll come and rescue you form the evil Chechen, - Yura jested.
We got out of the foxhole and, shaking off the dirt from our BDUs,
started for the cab. Around us in the darkness, officers were walking, to
their trucks to prepare for the meeting.
- Hey people, who was shot? - I yelled into the night.
- The comms driver, Larionov. He's OK though. The shrapnel only
punctured the skin but the bones are fine. He is in the sickbay now. He'll
live, - a voice answered me from the dark, sounded like the Arms XO
Cherepkov Pavel Nikolaevich.
- Soon, there won't any more room in the sickbay to put the wounded. We
should try to break out the blockade and ship them all out, or we'll lose
them, - said loudly Yura, returning to the cab.
- We should look into it and discuss with our COs, - I picked up his
idea.
- Let's have a drink and then go listen to the rant of the Moscow pimp,
- said Yurka, casting his rifle in the corner, - for I am sick of doing it
alone. According to their perception, we can't fight for shit; we have to
inspire men, make them imagine that all this is the Berlin assault and the
Dudaev's Palace is the Reichstag. Bloody paranoia. If it were up to them,
these bastards would lay us down like rails for their cheap glorious
speeches, - Yurka was heating up more and more, that however didn't keep him
from pouring out Vodka and opening sardines cans.
- Alright, Yurok, stop it. Let's drink up and later on the meeting,
we'll bonk the asskisser. Don't worry too much. Whatever they cook up, we
are the ones who will be carrying it out. With the present air support and
artillery back up, we're stuffed anyway. He can go and screw himself. OK, -
I lifted the glass to my eye level and looked at the colours play, - let's
go, to us, the good guys, and death to the morons.
- Yeah right, start holding your breath, - Yurka just wouldn't cool
down and, it seemed, was boiling even more. - Fight them all you want
they'll win anyway. It looks like they are intentionally working for the
Chechens, to kill as many our men as possible.
- OK, Yura, stop yelling, we have to think of the way to get the
wounded out of here. They won't give us a break until we step out anyway.
And during the assault we'll take in more casualties for sure, now you do
the maths. If you ask me, tomorrow morning we have to fetch the recon guys
from the third battalion with whatever they still have that we can ride on,
and break out. Otherwise we'll lose shitload of men. Drink up, - I raised my
glass and toped it without cheers. Yurka too drunk his.
Since we were under our full strength during the departure, we were
complemented by one more battalion from Novosibirsk. According to the
initial plan, we had to complete all preparations by autumn and depart for
Tadzhikistan for integrating into the 201[st] division or some
peacekeeping force; anyhow, to fight for God knows what or who. So this
battalion arrived on new, experimental BMP-3s. The machine looked great,
everything seemed thought of, - however, turned out total shit. Stuffed with
electronics like your Lexus, but made in mother Russia. Thus, at first, we
coped so much shit from it. It couldn't fire its weapons on the run:
equipment failed from vibration. All its sighting systems were electronic,
thus totally useless garbage. When it did fire, it couldn't move: something
again to do with the damned computer. Well, all in one word, - very crude
system and thus terrible. In the third battalion, twenty-four men died in
the first quarter of January because of this buggered APC. Terrible
statistics, isn't it? All because this unrefined machinery was shipped to
the Army, furthermore, to the war zone. About five of them we've lost
already. We've moved them off to a safe place and, for now, use as
machinegun nests. Although the cannon jams after it fires its first shot. Or
as taxi charter in the more or less safe neighbourhoods. I wish those snakes
that accepted this weaponry dropped dead.
Having my second drink I listened to Yura telling me about my Moscow
namesake. He was on fire after I left - at war, he said, some officers let
themselves loose and do not exercise proper behaviour code towards their
superiors; the discipline is lax and so on and on. Then, having sent all
this Moscow bullshit artists to hell, we finished off the bottle and in good
mood left for the meeting. We felt like teaching the Moscow rep a lesson in
gallantry and military science, in front of all the brigade's officers. At
war, feelings towards all representatives are always the same - nobody can
send you any further than these tranches, and their official warnings are
not like clap, they'll hang out there for a while and then fall off at some
stage. By the way, my honourable reader, - clap (gonorrhoea), is "the
officers' heyfever". Back in their college years, half of the officers'
corps managed to catch it. In the Army, compared to civilian life, this
disease is not considered shameful. Shit happens.
At the meeting, every officer knew his spot. Like all HQ officers, we
were sitting close to the Chief of Staff. The meeting room was situated in
the former children's basketball court, which had become a lounge room at
the Chechen owner's villa, where he built in a beautiful fireplace, which
we, in turn, were feeding with his own furniture. By the way, red timber
burns badly, a lot of smoke and not much heat.
Our com-brig was sitting at the head of the big dinner table. As we
could see he didn't even wash up since his return. Judging from his mood, we
figured second battalion was in deep shit. Somebody was talking behind us; I
turned around - it was our Recon CO. His face was just as dirty as the
com-brig's. I figured they went together and thus asked him:
- How did you two go? How is the second battalion?
- Totally stuffed. On the way back we drove into an ambush, one APC was
hit. Driver wounded, Gusarov, you know him? First, busted the track then
wasted us at close range. Barely escaped with our lives.
- No, I don't know him. - I shook my head. - Bad wound?
- His wrists are badly burnt, shrapnel cut his shoulder and part of his
ear is gone. If they keep his hands, he'll be fine. It's a petty though, he
is a smart fellow and I wanted to make him a sergeant.
- Listen, I'll be suggesting now that before we go out and help the
second battalion, we should ship our wounded off, or they're all goners,
your driver too, by the way. For that we have to contract the third
battalion and your lads. What do you reckon?
- Sure, count me in. While we were offloading the wounded, I remembered
that there is a republican drug warehouse here near by and our corpsemen
have nothing besides aspirin and their enthusiasm.
- OK, go on, make a suggestion. We'll work on that and snatch the drugs
from the rag-heads. Otherwise addicts and marauders would bag them anyway.
- Attention please! - Chief of Staff spoke out.
The humming in the room stopped and everyone was now looking at the
COs.
- During yesterday, our brigade was participating in the following
assaults: central train station, hotel "Kavkaz" and here. Also, while
proceeding to locations of the brigade's detachments, several HQ Groups were
fired upon and became involved in short skirmishes. As a result, our brigade
has lost, - there was absolute silence in the room, - two KIA, private
Azarov - tank battalion, sergeant Harlapidi - engineering battalion. There
have been four wounded: Chief of Staff of the second battalion, senior
lieutenant Pahomenko, first battalion company commander lieutenant Krasnov,
Private Gusarov - recon company and private Larionov - communication
battalion. Also, we found a body of private Semeonov - engineering
battalion, who was earlier declared missing in action. The man died a
terrible death, - here San Sanych looked up, faced everybody in the room and
continued without the bulletin, - his was tortured, then nailed to the cross
and his penis cut off and placed into his mouth. Horrible image, I have to
tell you, gentlemen.
The room went buzzing. Officers, despite the presence of their COs and
the representative from Moscow were loudly and resentfully discussing death
of the soldier.
- Calm down, gentlemen, - Bilich resumed his speech after pausing for a
moment, - I'll continue, I am no less disturbed by this, but let us dedicate
our emotions and rancour to the enemy, right now, there is nothing we can do
about it. Next, first battalion captured a sniper, from his own words our
compatriot, from Novosibirsk. Captain Mironov was not able to bring him
over, from his words, the latter died from his wounds and heart condition.
And again the room went buzzing with noise, this time with approval.
Those, whose eyes I met, were nodding and winking to me, approving, as I was
the one who wasted the sniper. Someone from the back of the room declared:
"his guilty conscience killed him". Officers cackled with approval. The room
was scarcely lit, actually, only the table with the Com-brig, Chief of Staff
and Karpov was illuminated, the rest was all covered in darkness. That's why
those at the back were making all sorts of comments without the fear of
being recognised. Lucky bastards.
Again San Sanych had to call for order. Slowly the buzz settled. I
inwardly was watching the faces of our Com-brig and the Moscow major. If our
CO's lips were touched by a smile after the "conscience" remark, the
representative kept cheerless expression on his face with his thin lips,
displaying his negative impression of the matter. A rat is always a rat. It
would be interesting to know if he was ever a platoon leader or a company
commander. Or straight after the college he popped up on the HQ parquetry?
I've gone through all the necessary stages, neither was I ever elevated in
rank before the right time, kissing commanding asses along the way. That's
probably why I travelled all over our country's hot spots. I have no desire
for my son to serve in the military, although my father, my uncle, father in
law and myself went to the same damned military college. If I had ever
learnt English language, wouldn't have ended up in this shithole.
Now San Sanych was telling us about our future objective, which Karpov
brought with him. The latter was erupting with self-importance; it seemed
all this was his idea and we owe him everything. The officers were listening
carefully, quietly exchanging their comments at times.
Then Karpov made his speech:
- Gentlemen! Our Allied Force Head Quarters has set up an honourable
task for you: amongst the first troops, you are to spearhead the attack on
the lair of the savage and then destroy him. The Commander in Chief himself
is keeping this operation under his control. You have proven yourselves in
the past battles and therefore, as the Commander's representative, I am
confident that the Siberians will handle their challenge with honour.
And more of that boring rant, in the worst traditions of the soviet
cinematography. If he thought his listeners would explode applauding and
give him standing ovations, he was dead wrong. There was nothing in the room
besides quiet chuckles and calm remarks. Then someone from the back clearly
and loudly yelled out "Go to hell". From the construction of the phrase I
figured who that was. Only one person in the room could express himself like
that - our tank battalion commander, Mazur Sergei Mihailovich. When we came
here, we had forty-two tanks T-72, now we have twenty-six. In ten days we
have lost sixteen tanks, mostly with their crews. That's why major Mazur had
the right to send all smarty-pants from Moscow the farthest and most often.
Everyone was waiting for the response. It came swiftly:
- Who said that? I suppose it's not a smart and honourable officer and
unlikely that he would come out and say it to my face.
But Mazur rose, and pushing away officers in their chairs, came up to
the table.
- I said that, so what are you going to do? Because of fucks like you I
have lost forty-eight men and God knows how many more I will lose because of
your hallucinations. Why won't the air force and artillery beat the crap out
of this damned square with all that's still there? And the grunts would
block the approaches and take out everyone who would try to sneak off.
That's all. There won't be as many soldiers' blood spilt though and we'd
have to spend more time.
Now everyone was watching Karpov. He was obviously confused:
- The problem is that the whole world is watching what is happening
here. All major news agencies and television stations have been registered
at the Head Quarters. If we use air force and artillery on a square of this
kind, the world community might not take it well. As you correctly mentioned
that it would take more time, but our government needs this conflict to stop
as soon as possible. Local opposition, which is on our side, would also be
against using air force and artillery to solve this problem. Maybe somebody
would wish to surrender? Moreover, we had received authentic information
that a group of well-known human rights activists headed by the Duma
politician Krylov is in one of the Dudaev's basements. Krylov is the
guarantor of Dudaev's personal safety. As a result of a massive air strike
they might get hurt.
- Screw them!
- I'll become an artillery spotter, so that the lads wouldn't miss!
- Hang the bitch!
The well-known human rights activist Krylov was called many
unflattering names. This madhouse would've gone on for a while, if the
Com-brig hadn't barked:
- That's enough! Please comment only on the subject. Orders are not to
be discussed - they are to be carried out. Other details like air and
artillery support, time frames and interactions with other units would be
discussed later on. I am listening. Please note that the hotel must be taken
within the next three days. Any suggestions?
I raised my hand.
- May I? Comrade Colonel, - the CO nodded to me and I went on, - If we
are to face an assault like that it is possible to expect that we will take
more casualties. Our wounded, however, are cramped in the sickbay as it is.
We are also running out of medicaments. Therefore, I suggest the following:
tomorrow, with the strength of the third battalion, support of the recon
company and chemical defence company we would break away to the "North"
airport and medivac all our wounded out of here. Then, in our immediate
proximity, we have the republican medical warehouse. Medicaments definitely
wouldn't hurt to have at this stage.
- This warehouse is for the local population only! - The moron moscvich
gave off a remark. - We must never do that, it would set the locals against
us!
- Keep quiet, major, - cut him off Com-brig, - we've already given you
an opportunity to speak up. This war has already set them against us. There
is no way back. Mironov, continue.
- I'm pretty much done here. If my plan is approved, I offer to
personally head the convoy. Other than that we have to notify the battalions
so that they ship their wounded over at the HQ as early as possible. We
should be under way at about 9.30 and if everything goes according to my
plan, we could be back by about 17.00, leaving us enough time to start on
the medical warehouse.
- What about the hotel "Kavkaz" and the Square?
- I suggest, that during evacuation of the wounded, myself, or someone
else, would contact our front command office and discuss all available
options. If somebody is willing to take over the train station from us, the
first and second battalions could easily bust the rag-heads out of the
hotel. We can also give them the third battalion for support and clean up
operations. If we could also move the self-propelled howitzers a bit closer,
we might be able to complete the task within the previously mentioned time
frame. Only if our friends from the "North" don't shell us again, as it has
happened many times before, - I couldn't help myself and again kicked the HQ
rep.
The discussion of all "for" and "against" arguments of my plan took a
while after that. In about half an hour, our CO approved it overall. He made
a decision to personally head the convoy to the "North". He was also taking
several officers with him: myself with Ryzhov, recon CO, medical CO, third
battalion CO and Supplies XO. After brief calculation, it turned out we had
one hundred and twenty-two wounded to transfer, including all from the
battalions. Many of them refused to medivac. It's strange though, for them
this war was over, they didn't chicken out or self-inflict their wounds,
many of them were even about to be awarded medals, some could be discharged
before their term after this. But even the badly wounded refused to be
shipped out. Their COs yelled at them, some ordering, some trying to
convince them to go.
A lot of grunts were broken down crying, like they were unjustly
punished or something. A few didn't want to go because of the soldiers'
brotherhood, the real one not the imaginary kind. Some were frankly saying
that their thirst for blood isn't quenched yet for their fallen comrades.
Looking at their faces and their madly blazing eyes, you begin to understand
that these men could easily give up their own lives for their comrades. No
looking back, no bargaining with death or enemy, just stand in the path
between the bullet and his comrade without making demands for rewards or
medals. I asked myself a question that I haven't yet been able to answer,
maybe that's what this superior spirit of the Russian Soldier is, that no
army could ever break? Despite the fact, that every government in Russia
hated and dreaded its own army, trying tirelessly to break its backbone,
something that no enemy could ever do. But the Russian mahor, regardless of
his superiors' scams, has always sunk his teeth into his enemy's throat, in
spite of his furious resistance, avenging the deaths of his brothers,
himself died but killing his foe. The death of one would cause desire for
vengeance in the others and this would go on to the last soldier. The
government, knowing this phenomena, periodically makes new opponents,
because when the obvious enemies are dead, you, having tasted their blood,
can't stop any more and start looking back.
And if you did look back, you'd understand, my reader, that while you
were fighting here, at someone's obscure order, life in your country calmly
went on. Somebody even made a little fortune from this war, someone else
transferred money overseas. But your comrade, whose mutilated body you were
dragging out of the killing zone, under fire, yourself soaking in blood and
sweat, he now receives a pension from the government, for both his legs that
he lost out there, 300 rubles.
When after the third toast, he'll grab your hand and, looking into your
eyes, ask you in breaking voice: "why the hell did you pull me out of there,
why?" You will feel sick and ashamed that you saved his life. This very act,
that you were so proud of and maybe even rewarded, - will be the most
shameful and bitter act of your life.
Because your government sent you into this butchery and then, chucked
you out, the still living ones as well as all the dead. It has bedamned and
forgotten you. There was nothing there. All this was your paranoid
hallucination caused by the posttraumatic syndrome and multiple concussions.
But don't you worry. We'll fix you up in the mental home in about five
years, come on in. Whatever remains of the army, we'll disperse and
downsize, so that they don't tell anybody anything and debate our actions.
Same as witnesses after a crime, they'll remove the military after each of
their "salvaging operations". Like they did after Afghanistan, Germany, and
so on. Because they knew for sure, the Army can turn around and see that the
real enemy is right here in Moscow.
Thus, when they throw you out or lock in a God forsaken garrison, you'd
look back at your life and realise that the brightest, most memorable
moments and impressions, the taste and price of life you experienced back
there at some war. Your whole life will be now divided in two parts:
"before" and "after" that war.
Here you will be put before the choice, the infinite Russian question:
"what do I do now?"
You can try and live you life like everyone else, but you know that you
won't get far. You can try and enter the police force. By the way, they are
not ecstatic to see us there, they say we are all psychos. We can become
contract killers, our familiar business and the money's good too. To kill,
not as many people, not for some principles or vengeance but for money.
Would you do it? Does it make you sick? Some go for it.
There is a third path however - mercenary. It's true though you'd be
fighting side by side with those you were shooting at not so long ago, but
that's OK. Money doesn't smell and who knows, you might even like it and
take vengeance on the locals for your fallen friend who used to be your
enemy.
All our wounded grunts knew it only too well. Some knew; some sensed it
with their skins that all this is what a man lives for, and if they leave
now, they would never again experience it. That's why they hung in to every
opportunity to stay. To some their COs plainly lied, telling them that they
are only going out there to accompany the column and would then come back
here again. Some of them believed it while others wanted to believe, hoping
that the convoy won't be able to break out and would have to return. Some
grunts anticipated that before the medivac they would, for one last time,
fight and send a few more true believers to see their Allah for themselves.
They do like squalling "Allah akbar, Allah akbar", - so what? We too
know that he's "akbar", but they, for some reason, don't rush to meet him.
That's no good. Moreover, they are promised a heaven for the holy war with
the kafirs. Therefore, we are actually doing them a favour, sending them to
paradise, but they are resisting it like blind puppies.
This night at the HQ was pretty much sleepless. All of us, Yurka,
myself, Chief of Staff, recon CO and other officers were working on the
details for the medivac convoy. We talked to all the neighbouring units,
arranging the safe passage through their territory and interaction in case
of an ambush. Mechanics were busy getting their vehicles ready for the
transit and gunsmiths tried to adjust BMP-3s. There was enough work to go
around for everybody.
When all arrangements were made and all questions answered, only the HQ
officers were left in the room. Now the head of the Operational Department
initiated the meeting. We now were discussing our options for the Minutka
Square complex assault. At first we said everything we had on our minds
about the Allied Command and Moscow smart asses, but gradually we cooled
down and the meeting went along a calm path.
All of us came to the conclusion, that a head-on assault of the square
would be a sure suicide. But first, we had to take the bridge over the
Sunzha River overlooking the square. There, marching our men under the
deadly close range fire, we could lose them all. This bridge was right in
our path and could not possibly be avoided, unless we took a detour over
half of the city.
Suddenly, chief of the guards barged into the room.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, - he started anxiously, addressing our
Chief of Staff, - the Moscow rep just left.
- What? - San Sanych couldn't grasp it at first.
- Got on to his BRDM, said that he was called in and left.
- When?
- About fifteen minutes ago. I called him on the radio, he says that he
must be at the "North" before the sunrise.
- What a moron? He'll die himself and lose his men. He should've been
riding with the convoy tomorrow morning. Idiot, nutcase, - the head of the
operational department, major Ozerov was furious.
We all knew too well what that meant - riding alone, in the dark,
through a besieged town on a light armoured APC. The end result is almost
always same - be captured by the rag-heads or catch a bullet from your own.
Every soldier knew that, not mentioning the officers. It can't be that this
screwed in the head even considered that his rank would save him!
Martial law in Grozny was in full swing, which meant that sometimes we
couldn't even medivac our worst wounded to the better-equipped hospital at
the "North".
And now this bonehead, this pimple on our asses, endangering the lives
of the grunts escorting him, just vanished into the night.
Immediately we called on the "North" and told them about their
knucklehead. It's likely he did it on impulse, trying to get to the Command
HQ before any news from here could reach them, and report that we dared to
openly debate orders of our superiors. He actually had the poor Semeonov's
body with him too. There is just no peace for him. Forgive us, private.
In the "North" they all went nuts. I can only imagine - an officer has
gone missing. An officer, who knew about, maybe only parts of, but still,
plans of the General Command. Moreover, the allied HQ staff member. Looks
like Karpov actually knew quite a bit, because a search party was organised
to look for him in the middle of the night. The radio traffic was red hot.
All detachments were reporting that the BRDM with the rep has not yet passed
through their roadblocks. Down here, we were prepared to face the music of
future allegations that we deliberately sent him away in the middle of the
night. Thus, instead of catching at least a tiny bit of sleep, we were busy
making up reports that we were never here and there or never did this and
that, and all that bullshit. God forbid for you to be accused of sabotage
towards your superiors. You can make a wooden souvenir out of your opponent,
but don't you dare giving looks to your COs. Well, there are many morons for
us to face in this life. Although, we do, feel petty for the bastard. He's
our blood, Russian. So could the grunts in his escort, get hurt for nothing.
For some reason everyone was convinced that, if the units along his route
keep silent, he is a goner. Probably a captive now, in the rag-heads' hands.
God, let him be captured dead, otherwise, a lot of our plans would have to
be changed.
Sometime about eight in the morning we received information that the
BRDM with Karpov drove into one of the OMON roadblocks that was set up right
before the dusk. As we have predicted he tried to wave his rank into their
faces. The OMON lads, of coarse, didn't give a shit about some General
Command HQ together with their major Karpov. At first, they really mistook
him for a spy. For the rest of the night they kept kicking the crap out of
him and the grunts. Before the sunrise they put him before the firing squad
a few times, hoping he makes a confession. A couple of times they even fired
a few shots over his head. In the morning everything became clear. Airborne
fellows arrived, threw a few punches around for their grunts, picked up
knocked out Karpov and the remains of Semeonov's body and left for the
"North". Karpov went back to Mozdok with the first available flight and from
there probably to Moscow. It's likely he'll be awarded a medal of some sort
and later would be, on TV or in his memoirs, recounting how he, alone, rode
through half of the whole Chechnya, or something like that. Well, good luck
to him.
At 8.00 in the morning we began loading our wounded onto cars and
lining up the convoy. Earlier, clashing along the way, armoured vehicles
from the first and second battalions broke through to us with their dead and
wounded. Since there was not enough room in the yard for everyone, only the
worst ones were loaded up there. The rest, who were relatively OK: in clear
mind, were squashed into armoured trucks using stretchers, crutches and
whatever else could be utilised. All who could fire weapons rode on top of
APCs. Everyone knew well, that those inside armoured carriers would
inevitably die in case of a direct grenade hit or a mine explosion. Thus,
responsibility for them rested heavily on shoulders of those riding atop of
the "armour". The convoy turned out bigger than expected. In all:
fifteen APCs. Wheeled trucks were dropped in favour of the armoured APCs
since even a rifle bullet could easily penetrate their cabs, not mentioning
cumulative grenades and mines.
Luckily (or may be not), a heavy fog came down on the city. The winter
here sucks. It's cold but there is no snow; the mud is not even mud, but
rather a thick layer of muck that just swallows your boots. To free them you
have to apply loads of pressure and they come out with huge pieces of filthy
sludge on them. Vehicles had the same problem. What will it be like here in
spring? During the night, surface has been covered with a little crust of
ice and thus, we thought we could try and slip away quietly and quickly,
using the fog and frozen soil. Comms operators radioed every one of our
neighbours and the "North" that our convoy is about to leave.
One paradox was that all army units, regardless of the kind, have been
using the same radio frequencies and call signs that they did when they came
into Grozny. All of which meant that if you try to scan the radio traffic
within the range of 3 to 30 MHz, during the day, you could easily find out
where each unit is located and what exactly it is doing there. Moreover you
would know the names of the unit's leader, radio operator and all sorts of
other useful and not so useful information. By the way, our opponents were
not much smarter, keeping their frequencies and call signs unchanged for
weeks at a time. Well, we kind of, matched each other over there. Services
of the radio traffic interception and disinformation of both sides were on
top at all times. However, chechens had one unquestionable advantage - they
could speak Russian and therefore deceive us; we, on the other hand, could
not speak Chechen and thus were helpless trying to fool them.
More often than not, during clashes as well as during the breaks
between them, aborigines, having set up radio contact with our units, tried
to make propaganda conversations and of coarse threats. Since the first
clashes they started calling us "dogs". Another example would be
the Train Station assault. Back then, "spooks" fooled our
neighbouring artillery regiment, and the lads, thinking they had spoken to
us, for about 30 minutes, were thoroughly shelling us. Unfortunately these
cases were not unique. With time, through the system of codes and passwords,
we slowly stopped walking into chechen traps. After many of our men have
already been killed or injured. And no matter what, our brigade, and those
units that worked together with us, kept using old frequencies and call
signs, right to the very time of our withdrawal. Army stupidity. What can
you do? Unfortunately it was everywhere. Any suggestions from the lower
levels of the power pyramid were met with resentment.
Considering all this, we knew for sure, that our convoy's departure was
not only known to the General Command in the "North", but also
wasn't a secret to half of the rebels in town. Nevertheless, even if it was
a probable suicide, we stood by our decision. Without the proper medical
attention, men could simply die out here; moreover, they tied everybody
else's hands with their presence. They have become a burden and an extra
target. Besides, considering our next objective, we had to free up room for
future casualties. Thus, after a short hesitation, we turned our faiths over
to the good fortune and started our journey. Our path lied along the streets
of a demolished city that, with its ruins, rather depicted the old
chronicles of Stalingrad half a century ago. Death watched us from every
basement and every window. A sniper could be hiding in there or an RPG
launcher. He could've gone to the same military college as us. Or may be
fought with us side-by-side in Afghanistan, Angola or here in one of our
country's hot spots.
According to the well-developed tactics, the first and the last
vehicles in the convoy are destroyed first. Then, the rest of the column is
methodically eliminated. Reliable tactics. Very few ever escape.
- Let's move! - The instruction came from our Com-brig. He rode on the
second APC.
Recon guys were riding on their two carriers in front of the convoy.
For ten minutes everything was fine. In a couple of days after we arrived in
Grozny, our General Command ordered us to clearly mark our vehicles. For
example, our cars had letter "S" painted on their sides, meaning
Sebirian Military District.
A bitter taste suddenly appeared in my mouth, although, there was no
nervous rush as yet. That will come later. I knew that, all of us did. We
all experienced the same feelings all over again. Suddenly a popular song
motive played in my mind: "I want so much to crash into this
town!" Yep, that's right, I really do want that. Or better crash into
Mozdok, where our General Command is, which in turn, was heading our
directional command. Nobody really knew why the hell we needed them in the
first place. They always wanted to control separate detachments, over their
COs' heads, which always ended up badly for the latter.The most interesting
part was that they, in Mozdok, enjoyed the same allowances as we had over
here. There weren't many of them, but still, at least we earned them. For
instance, one day here counted as three and we'd get paid double time when
we came home; that's pretty much it. And you, my reader, thought that we
would be enjoying all the privileges of soldiers in a war zone. Yeah, right!
There is no war in Chechnya. All this is the fruit of your TV's rich
imagination.
Although occupied by these thoughts, I didn't forget to constantly look
around. So much we've destroyed here and we'll destroy yet even more.
Demolishing is not the same as building. I carefully looked at my grunts'
faces. All covered in dust, burnt by local winds, parched by the gunpowder
from frequent shooting and grenade explosions. I noticed a grunt, sitting at
the back, in his burnt through tank crew uniform and patched up head. I
looked at him again more carefully this time. Wow, this guy is one hell of a
lucky bustard. He was a driver-mechanic with the surname of German or Jewish
origin - Goldstein.
We had people of all sorts of nationalities in our brigade including
even uzbeks and tadzhiks. This tanker was driving his tank through the
Grozny entrance and the infantry were taking cover behind it. Back then, no
one of the grunts knew that you must walk <i>in front</i> of the
tank and only then it will save you. Now they know. It was a very expensive
learning curve. Since they were entering the town at night, this guy was
driving in the position "on manoeuvre", sticking his head out of
the hatchway.God knows why some sniper didn't snatch him. Others they picked
on the fly, this one was just plain lucky. He was lucky again when a rocket
slammed into his tank's right side. Goldstein was propelled out of the tank
like a cork, about fifteen meters up high and landed on a tree branch. I
thought he was gone. But he's alive, only patched up a little meaning
everything else is intact. Probably had a bad concussion. I wouldn't worry:
They'll fix him up quickly in his historical homeland. I can remember when
the conscripts arrived six months ago, he was begging not to be assigned
anywhere to do with secrets*. If it weren't for the Army, he'd be with his
relatives by now. His parents have left already, but he was still finishing
up his graduate university diploma and didn't complete it in time. In any
case he'll be discharged now and would be treated like a human being for
once.
* AD. Until recently, Jews in Russia (or anybody else) could be refused
travelling visa to leave the country if they served in the military units
that looked after classified technology. It was of particular importance to
Jews, rather that to any other nationality, as this was the time of their
mass migration to Israel. In this case, the man was drafted in the Army,
while his parents have already immigrated. Serving in the strategic forces,
for example, could've held him back in Russia for three or more years after
his discharge. End of comment. AD
That artist, who was stuck with the second battalion, is also here with
us, riding on the fifth carrier. He came over with the wounded Chief of
Staff and their three injured grunts. Some snappy fellow he turned out to
be. Everyone expected him to be untouchable and star-like, but he is
actually an easygoing chap, having been stuck in the basement for three
days, under constant fire and counterattacks, according to the witnesses, he