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didn't hide at all. He acted like a real man, even attending to the wounded.
They didn't give him a weapon though - he's pretty shortsighted, God forbid
for him to get hurt. Other than that, first class fellow. When the rag-heads
offered the battalion to surrender, the grunts told them that Shevchuk was
with them. The "spooks" didn't believe it at first. The grunts let
them listen to him on the radio and chechens offered to let him out, even
guaranteed his safe passage. He refused though. He also promised (and soon
we found out that he actually kept his promise) to send wounded grunts to a
hospital in Germany. Not only from our brigade but others too, paying for
that from his own pocket and his friends'. He was purchasing them wheel
chairs and artificial limbs without the usual hype. There was no reporters
or news conferences. He organised everything nicely and quietly, like a man.
The recon guys radioed that they were fired upon and are now full time
engaged in a skirmish. Estimated opponents' force - about 20 guns. Nobody
used "Shmels" so far, only personal launchers and rifles.
We made our decision - press forward. Because of the fog we couldn't
see our enemy, they too can't see us for sure, thus firing pretty much
blindly. The Com-brig ordered to put up the smoke covers and we added black
smoke to the fog, just like crude oil in a milk container.
Coming close, our trucks fired their cannons at the reported positions.
Then BMP-3s opened up from their machineguns. Finally, we too, like in a
well-schooled orchestra, lined up with our rifles and grenades. Great
panorama, I'd tell you. From the thick black cloud of smoke, about a
kilometre wide, the spirts of tracers were gushing everywhere, grenades were
flying, leaving smoking tails behind them. A scene, that could be worthy of
an artist's effort. Emotions were running hight too. We couldn't know if our
path was clear - may be a wall along the way collapsed by itself or somebody
helped it. Or may be an antitank mine is hidden somewhere in the piles of
trash. But there was no fear, in my mind or in the eyes of the grunts that
surrounded me here. We all knew that if we fail, our wounded comrades would
die. Our decision was to go to the end: to the death or victory.
So far we were definitely lucky, the engines roared on high revs,
adding their semi-processed fuel exhausts to the thick smoke cover. Although
the convoy stretched along a wide area, Com-brig decided not to break it
down into small mobile units but still carry on as one column.
Going past this neighbourhood, we kept our speed as high as we could
squeeze out of our darling APCs. Finally we cleared it, surprisingly enough,
without any friendly fire accidents. Maybe the rag-heads retreated or for
some other reason, but nobody was shooting at us any more or chasing us. But
all of us knew that it was still too early to relax. We had to keep going
and survive.
Recognisance party ahead of us, radioed in that they reached first of
our neighbouring roadblocks. That's better. Now the airborne units will walk
us through their territory. They are OK soldiers, but not persistent enough
and too cocky. They can't tenaciously assault the same target for a long
time. They push furiously at first, but gradually, run out of steam. They
act well as a supporting force, but on their own, of not much use. They have
been trained to storm a structure, destroy it and get out of there. They are
not prepared for these long and backbreaking battles. But our mahra is a
different thing all together. In excruciating heat, rain or snowstorm, we'll
carry on anywhere: in the arctic, deserts or swamps. We'll die but complete
the objective.
On the roadblock, airborne guys were waving us and smiled, showing
their teeth on the same parched faces as ours. It was a delight to see that
we are not alone here in this hostile land.
Their com-bat promised to send a party to sweep the area where we were
ambushed.
In case they'd find spooks there, he'll register them as his kills, we,
in turn, would write them down as ours, indicating the approximate number of
the enemy infantry destroyed. Some funny guy at the "North"
managed to calculate how many of the enemy we have knocked down here in
Chechnya. Turned out that during the 10 days of fighting we have wiped out
the entire Chechen population twice around. It's strange, it's only been 10
days, but seems like not less than six months. If you believe reports of the
Red Army commanders during the Second World War, the army of the Wermacht
was destroyed about 100 times. As for us, we don't have to free half of
Europe this time, but according to the reports we are ahead of any army.
Thus, my reader, listening to the news bulletins, multiply our losses by
three and divide enemy losses by two, then, you'd have a more or less clear
picture of what is going on.
The airborne lads tried to offload their wounded onto us, but we could
hardly squeeze our own asses on the "armour". Inside the vehicles
our own wounded were piled up like logs. If they wanted to come with us, no
problem, but they'd have to use their own trucks and their own escort. We
won't be waiting for them either as every second is counting. What are you
saying? We're bustards? Fine, we're bustards, but you still medivac your own
men. We have neither the time nor desire to argue with you. We understand
you perfectly. If we start arguing now, you might even convince us or
prepare your own cars. You should've thought about it beforehand. You had
all night for that. Cheers men, good-bye. No, don't bother trying. Where did
you send us? OK, stand still, we'll be coming back, talk to you then.
We watched our Com-brig talking to their com-bat. Of coarse we couldn't
hear anything, but we could observe the gestures they were using in their
conversation, thus reading who sent who and where. When they were done
myself and the grunts cackled simultaneously. But no one dared to yell
anything upsetting or make a gesture of that kind. We understood what
position they were in, but your wounded you medivac yourself. We're all a
bit foxy, like the Jews, enjoy solving our problems with somebody else's
help, but not the problems of this magnitude.
We cleared the airborne zone of responsibility and now entered the area
where for about ten blocks we would be moving along the zone for which the
spooks were responsible. And they were obviously controlling it. OK,
mutherfuckers, we'll medivac our wounded and take care of you. Let's
concentrate on the medivac for now. I raise my hand and the grunts start
carefully watching surrounding us rubble. Talking, screaming or instructing
makes no point - the roar, fumes and dust from the carriers in front of us
are making any attempt bound for failure. If you open your mouth trying,
it'll be crammed with turd. Another beauty of riding atop of APC is that it
is shaking violently as it moves and if you relax your jaws for a second you
can lose your teeth or bite your own tongue off. There was a gag that some
dumb ass, not from our garrison of coarse, bit his tongue's tip off like
that, but the corpsemen sewed it back. He was discharged afterwards. I've
heard so many of these gags during my commission that I can write a book
now. Especially I like that fact that nothing ever happens in our garrison,
but our neighbours - are a constant mess. But they are of the exact same
opinion about us.
The grunt next to me shouted something, pointing his finger at the top
floor of a building near by and firing his rifle in that direction. My
reflexes kicked in at once. My rifle let off a few bursts before I
consciously stopped and actually looked there. A pair of binoculars that lay
on the window frame was blasted to pieces. If you want to live, you shoot
first and then think and look. Everyone finds out this formula after his
first gunfight. I'm yelling out and waving to stop the shooting. Gradually
it fades out. I'm not angry at the grunt. In our line of business it's
better to overcook than undercook.
The carriers are speeding forward without slowing down. Recon party
radios in to report they are again taking fire. This time from three
directions simultaneously. Now, they are waiting for our approach, as they
can't handle the clash on their own. Com-brig called the neighbours for
assistance to try and hammer the rag-heads in the rear, meanwhile we are
speeding ahead to help out our scouts.
The last APCs in line have retarded a bit so that in case of an ambush
we don't become completely trapped. As we approached the intersection, the
avenue, where our recon party took their turn, was barricaded with bricks,
two neighbouring streets were also blocked, and thus we are either to break
through or to retreat. If we do decide to retreat, there is no insurance
that we wouldn't walk into another trap. Com-brig has made his decision:
break through. Ryzhov and myself both completely upheld his choice.
Those who could fire weapons leapt off the "armour" and the
carriers rolled back covering us. First, we wanted to push the spooks inside
the block and then, under fire, try and dismantle the barricade. Hiding
behind the piles of trash we shot back. Both sides exchanged fire furiously.
Suddenly a grenade exploded somewhere close to me - pieces of a blasted
grunt flipped into the air and landed 5 meters away from me with dull sound.
In a couple of seconds another soldier died the same terrible death. In the
heat of the gunfight I had no time to look who that was. Next to the second
body, three other grunts were whirling on the asphalt, screaming with pain
and pressing fingers against their wounds. Their coats were soaking in
blood. We thought at first that somebody was using a launcher, but then
another grunt shifted a brick and noticed an F-1 grenade, lying under a pile
of rubbish without its safety pin. Now everything was clear.
Smart sons of bitches the spooks turned out to be. They cleverly chose
the spot for their ambush and also considered that we would dismount and
confront them. Our future positions, imposed by them, they booby-trapped
with hand-grenades. In a gunfight you have to move around a lot: tumble,
spin and hide behind the rubble. That's where they placed these nice toys -
F-1 grenades without safety pins. You shift the brick on top of it, its
guard lever flies off and here you go, in 6 seconds it bursts. Shrapnel
cover an area of about 200 meters. No one mine will have the same effect.
Now we had to solve this dilemma -either pull back or try and
counterattack to bust the rag-heads out of the apartment block. Not much
choice. Neighbours radioed that they are on their way and called for air
support. That is exactly what we don't want. A soldier has many enemies at
war, but one of the biggest is his own air force. Doubtfully they'll ever
get the rag-heads, but to drop a few bombs on their own positions is a done
deal. That's why we asked our rushing reinforcements to call off the
"sky raiders". They'll stuff it up anyway. Instructions to storm
the building were passed along the chain. We also told the "boxes"
to open up from everything they have, keep going like that for 10 minutes
and then cease fire and wait for further instructions.
Every grunt and officer has his personal first aid kit, which contains
an ordinary set of medications, like painkillers, anti-radiation pills and
the likes. There are also drinking water tablets that can be used in any
water except the seawater. Drop it into a puddle if you like, it'll roil for
a second or two and you can drink it now without fear of catching some
disease. It'd have a chlorine stench though.
Every detachment has so called anti-fear tablets. When soldiers are
dog-tired and can't move their feet any more, not mentioning attacks, their
will is paralysed. Then their CO gives the order to hand out these tablets.
The grunts eat them, rest for a while and spring to their feet. No one knows
where the strength comes from and where the fear goes.
Now we didn't have those tablets as well as the need for them. After a
few gunfights, where the spooks were prevailing in every aspect and every
little thing we gained was paid for dearly in efforts and losses, now men
were experienced and confident and the rag-heads were getting a decent
response for once. They no longer bullied carelessly, doped and squalling
something about their Allah. First time it's actually quite scary, charging
like spellbound, unafraid of bullets.
At last our carriers opened up. Cracking salvos of their cannons and
machineguns, at first, muffled short barking bursts of BMP-3s, but they
caught up quickly with the old well-proven two-s. We also didn't fall behind
with our rifles and launchers.
APCs hit hard for ten minutes and then stopped as was agreed. The high
pitched ding from the shooting was still in our ears, but now we had to
attack. Our opponents had a lot more problems with their sense of dimension.
Our shells were bursting in their tight nests, causing them to go crazy with
terror. They were also still in awe from the air strikes. Now was the right
time for the final move.
This time nobody raised the grunts off the ground with his own example,
like it used to be here during the first days. Every one of them sprung up
by himself, some with the ancient "hoorah" other just yelling out
from fear and excess of adrenalin, all were running ahead like one. When you
plunge into attack like this, something medieval wakes up inside you. It
seems you are watching yourself from aside, observing the gunfight, noticing
every little thing. May be the common grudge and fear at this moment bear
this collective ability?
While we were clearing the open space of about 100 meters, we were met
with rare and disorganised gunfire. No one of our men was hit, but the
grunts, on the run and from the waist, were discharging long bursts at the
broken windows where the deadly gush of lead was coming from.
At last we crash into the doorway of this once apartment block, others
are storming the remaining four entrances of the "khruschevka".
Human reflexes are such that you always notice what's on your
right-hand side first and then move to the left. Spooks made a good use of
this fact and when we barged into a block they always stood to the left of
the entrance. While we were automatically checking out everything on the
right-hand side, they had a few seconds to shoot us in the back. Some time
has passed before we learnt to toss a hand-grenade before walking inside and
looked first to the left of the doorway.
The sunlight started to break through the fog but here inside the
building it was still dark from the shooting. Dust, mixed with gunpowder and
some other chemicals hung in the air, abstracting the view.
Together with some fifteen grunts we ran into the block. I glanced at
the grunts with my side-vision. Looks like there are no cowards amongst
them. All experienced. Two flats on the first floor, meaning that we should
expect the same structure further up. Three grunts took guard on the
staircase between the first and second floors, covering us from possible
attacks from above. The rest are fetching safety pins from their
hand-grenades. "Ready". Nocking down the door, it's not even
locked but blasted by explosions, barely hanging off the frame. Our boots
ram it down completely this time. I yell out: "Let's go!!!"
We move out from the doorways, hiding behind the concrete walls. In
three flats, grenades detonated almost simultaneously, probably about eight
of them. My head feels like a church bell, smoke and dust is coming out of
the blasted doorways. Move, move and don't stop now. Checking left, now
right. Tonnes of dust in the air, can't see shit. Squeezing off two long
bursts from the waist. We don't need no prisoners, not enough food for
ourselves. Move! Move! Kitchen: nobody there; bathroom: the door is slightly
open, screw it, another two bursts from the waist, the bathtub could be a
nice hide from the shrapnel. I node to the grunt next to me, covering my
rear. He jerks the door open and I pull the trigger slowly moving my rifle's
barrel sidewards. It is convulsing in my arms like a living organism and
flushing the bathtub with a deadly flow. The smashed off pieces from the tub
are flipping in the air. Meanwhile other grunts are firing into next rooms
dark with dust and smoke. Built-in wardrobes and shelves are also checked
thoroughly. That's all with this two bedroom flat. Let's move on to the
upper floors.
The grunts guarding the staircase, indicate that they have just spotted
some movement in one of the second floor apartments. Other grunts come out
of their flats and join us. Those who guarded the staircase move up one more
floor. I don't have to give out any instructions here, every grunt knows his
manoeuvre too well. No need to yell at anybody. All of us work together like
a well-tuned mechanism. Everyone covers everybody else's back.
We repeat the same process on the second floor. We barge into the room
tripping on a dead body ripped apart from a grenade explosion. That one's
cooked. Moving along. There's nobody here. Three more levels to go, rooftop
and the basement. Move! Move!
Grunts report they discovered two more stiffs in the neighbouring flat.
Screw them. Moving along. I look at my watch: it took us seven minutes to
check two floors, we have to speed this whole thing up.
On the third floor, when we knock the doors down, somebody inside the
flat yells out without accent: "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" I raise
my fist. Grunts hold back. I shout: "Come out slowly, hands behind your
head".
Wauling, a filthy chap is coming out, bristling with hand-grenades and
a chechen knife (dagger welded together with stiletto), looks Russian.
Smearing dirty tears on his face and weeping he's squalling that he was just
drafted, he's just an ordinary con and nothing else, never killed anyone of
ours. I notice some five personal dog-tags hanging around his neck. Earlier,
they were only given out to officers, now, since we arrived in Chechnya,
everyone gets a set. It looks like a little metal plate shaped like oval,
about five santimeters in length and three wide. Along its length the plate
is broken in two parts, upper part has "VS SSSR" stamped on it,
the lower one has a letter and a six-digit code. Every soldier has his own
code. The plate is cast from a stainless alloy. First they started using
these plates after an experimental rocket fell down onto some committee and
burnt it completely. At war every soldier wears it, jut like American GIs,
except they also have their names and blood type printed there.
I noticed that this "ordinary con" wore these dog-tags around
his neck. There were a lot of scumbags bumming around Chechnya, which were
surely due for jail time in Russia. Here they were like brothers to the
local bandits. As locals told us, to prove their loyalty they tortured
soldiers even worse than the chechens themselves. I grabbed him by the
dog-tag chains, coiled them onto my fist and twitched the shaking con
towards me. Grunts knew well what was going to follow. Some spooks collected
personal numbers of soldiers they have killed.
- What is this, asshole? - I asked him and kept pulling the chains.
- I found them, I swear. I didn't kill nobody. They forced me to, - he
squalled weeping.
I shoved my rifle in his chest and pulled the trigger. Bullets ripped
it open smearing my pants with his blood. The body jerked backwards, the
neck snapped but it was still hanging by the dog-tag chains. It seemed the
souls of the dead soldiers wouldn't let their murderer go free. Barrel still
stuck in the con's chest I asked the grunt next to me:
- Cut the chains, will you.
He stripped the knife from the dead con and sliced the chains with one
quick move. The no longer hanging body dropped to the ground with a thud.
Grunt reached his hand out with the dagger offering it to me. I shook my
head and he stashed it in his boot. I rose, put the dog-tags into one of my
pockets and gave an order:
- Get your hand-grenades ready and let's move.
Again explosions roared and we barged inside other flats. There we
found five more dead bodies. Without any further ado we squeezed off a few
bursts into each one of them just in case. One of the "deceased"
suddenly came alive and tried to draw his rifle - cross fire coming from
three directions simultaneously nearly chopped him to pieces.
All of a sudden we heard a grenade explosion and a rifle burst. We
quickly finished off checking the apartment and popped outside. The gunfight
there was in full swing. Rag-heads from the upper floors were attempting to
break through to downstairs. Three grunts were keeping them up there; two
more soldiers, covering the basement entrance, hustled up to help them. We
too quickly got into the skirmish. Here on the narrow staircases we were too
crowded. To add to the confusion, spooks started throwing hand-grenades
down. Huddled down here together we couldn't possibly hide from them. Thank
God, the morons threw them at the very moment they were pulling safety pins
out, thus giving us time to push them away onto the lower floors.
We also returned fire as best as we could. Two of the grunts were
blasting off grenades from their under-barrels, the other four spraying the
spooks from their rifles, keeping them at bay. Meanwhile something blew up
there with a terrible boom. Ceiling collapsed in one of the kitchens on the
third floor. Five grunts quickly dived into the breach and now the gunfight
shifted to the fourth level. Coming up, from the point blank range, we
wasted the rag-heads in the back. We were afraid of coarse to waist our own
grunts, but this time we were lucky. After the clean up, twelve more bodies
were left up on the fourth floor. Not bad at all, if according to the
Regulation the ratio should be one defender to three or four members of the
assaulting team. On the fifth floor nobody greeted us except for two dead
bodies. With caution with we came up the roof. There is nobody there too,
meaning that we are the first ones up here and have to help out other storm
groups in the neighbouring blocks. I split my men, myself choosing the block
Ryzhov went into. Walking on the roof we could here the gunfire in every
block.
Carefully we are opening the hatchway. Judging from the noise, the
shootout is in between the first and second floors. We are starting the
clean up from the fifth floor down. Voices and gunfire are coming from the
two-bedroom flat, apparently the shooting comes from the inside. OK,
assholes, let's roll. Hand-grenades at stand-by, at the nod of my head, the
door is smashed open, we throw the grenades in and take cover. Burst; move,
move; one of the grunts stays here guarding the staircase, I turn left:
burst into an empty corner and burst dead ahead. The grunt on my right
already checked the right hand side discharging a burst into the right
corner. We finish off two wounded by the window. Next to them lies an RPG-7
rocket grenade launcher, fine toy. We take the launcher and the seven
remaining rounds for it with us.
Downstairs, the spooks apparently realised what happened and doubled
their efforts attempting to fight their way out of the trap. Our grunts on
the other side also figured that the help is near and pressed with renewed
energy. We came down to the forth floor. Shooting off the doors and tossing
in grenades. In two flats we discover a few more of the rag-heads' stiffs.
No idea whose job that was, someone else's or ours, but what does it matter
anyway. Move, move, downstairs, tempo, tempo. Hold on fellows, we're close.
The spooks disparately tried to move upstairs and blow us off. No way,
I'm yelling out:
- Yurka, stay down, I'll meet them up here.
We hear the treading and fire from the RPG and the under-barrels,
ducking behind the concrete to cover from shrapnel. One of the grunts
screams with pain. A shrapnel piece ricocheted in his arm. Two men stayed
behind to give him first aid. The remaining grunts and myself fire into the
dense blur of smoke and dust after the explosion. No one is shooting back.
- Slava, don't shoot, we're coming up.
- Let's move, boys, slowly. May be some son of a bitch is still there,
- I yell to my grunts.
We're slowly moving downstairs, ready to open up at even a slightest
suspicion of movement. On the staircase between the forth and the third
floors we stumble on the torn apart bodies of our resent foe. The BDUs on
some are still burning. Nostrils are tingling from the stench of parched
human flesh, cotton and something else, terribly stinky. I'm labouring not
to vomit. Suddenly, from the dark, grunts' faces are emerging from the
downstairs. We're all happy and hugging.
- Still alive, demon? - We couldn't get enough of each other, like
lovers after a long break-up.
- How did we bust the shitheads, ha? Hammered the crap out of them! -
Yurka was wound up. Despite the cold, everybody was steaming hot.
- I grabbed some scumbag back in there. Squalled he was just a con, but
had dog-tags dangling round his neck. Here they are, - I pulled a bunch of
dog-tags out of my pocket, - I sent him off to meet his victims.
- You did the right thing. They dug in well in here. With machinegun
and all. Not even one approach. But thanks to you
- OK, let's go. You owe me a drink. - I fetched a packet of cigarettes,
my home ones, "TU-134", the sniper's smokes were long gone. It's a
petty, they were really nice, - have some, the NATO threat.
Happily chatting this way, though still in the heat of the gunfight, we
walked out on the street. Following us, grunts helped my wounded lad out. He
walks by himself though, his arm patched tightly, meaning that he'll live.
Out here, the clash was also over. Apparently, the spooks retreated
from their other positions, realising that we would've taken care of them
too if they hadn't. The barricade was also nearly dismantled. From that
direction our neighbours were coming up.
- Slava, look. What the hell is that? - The approaching grunts had some
tanks, they wore like backpacks, carrying metal pipes in their hands
attached to the tanks by rubber hoses.
- I think it's flame-throwers. I've never seen them live, but heard
that some units got them off the emergency reserves and dragged them over
here. Probably a marvellous tool.
Meanwhile all our grunts left the building and the newly arrived
soldiers, with jokes, approached the basement windows and having tossed a
pair of hand-grenades in there first, started pouring from their
backpack-type flamethrowers, which these devices did turn out to be. Bravo.
Streams of flame, human hand sized and about 10 meters in length, widening
as they left the pipes were flowing into the basements. At once we felt the
stench of burnt kerosene and something else of the kind.
- First class gadget. I wish we had more of them. We'd smoke the snakes
out for sure. We should throw the idea at our commander to ask for them in
the "North". Since they are sending us to storm "The
Minutka", might as well give us these, - I said, watching with
admiration as grunts having finished off our building are preparing to fry
some other structure.
- I've heard, in Afghan, there was a flame-throwing tank, but turned
out useless in the mountains and was taken off the production line, - Yura
said climbing our APC.
- Such morons, ha? They could've figured that we'd have to take towns
at some stage instead of clashing in the mountains or in the open all the
time. Bloody Moskovites; what can you possibly get from them, except a urine
sample, and that one will be hopeless too, - I spewed and tried to settle
comfortably on top of the "armour".
- Attention! All ready?- Then the order came through, - Move! On the
march!
As we set off, APC underneath me jerked sharply trying to shake us off
the "armour", but clinging to each other and to every extending
part on the APC's surface, we held on. Internal forces are lucky in that
respect: they have the BTR-80s. Very smooth piece of machinery, moving fast
and soft. We, on the other hand, have bulldozers.
As we approached the flame-throwers' roadblock, we again greeted each
other shouting.
The rest of the journey was pretty uneventful, although we were
prepared for any surprise. Now first outposts and roadblocks of the
"North" airport were coming into view along the way. Whole
regiment guarded the airport. When rumours came that spooks planned to
assault it, another airborne battalion was fetched to help the defences.
- One battle is over and another one begins, the longer and harder one
and more important too, - I said to Yura.
The mood was changing from the merry, since we came back all OK, to
more grim and serious. We had to attend the briefing with the High Command
representatives. The latter were itching to send us to our deaths.
- Regardless of the briefing's outcome I'll drink myself stupid
tonight, - my good mood was totally gone by now and I was grimly watching
the airport sentry. They have already managed to wash up and some even
changed into brand spanking new BDUs.
I looked at my blood-splattered pants, my filthy coat, burnt and even
twice shot through by shrapnel. In peace life, a first police patrol would
pick me up for sure dressed like this. A total tramp.
- I agree Slavian, we should get wasted today. Moreover, I owe you one,
- Yurka, on the contrary, was in a fabulous mood.
- Where are you planning to get the liqueur? From under the bench? - I
and Ryzhov, before the Grozny campaign, chipped in and bought three boxes of
Vodka as well as seven litres of pure ethanol that I swapped for a
camouflage set from the comms operators in commemoration of our old
friendship. Thus, I would be very surprised if he found alcohol in any other
place.
- Where else? Spooks closed their stashes and our Voentorg never comes
out beyond the "North"
- Listen, near the field hospital, there is a Voentorg trading spot.
Let's try to get some beer down there (fallen off the truck of coarse). What
do you think? - Beer was a terrible temptation. Right now, right here, I
even imagined its tight, bubbly, cool flow streaming down my throat and
heavily bumping against my stomach walls on its way down. And I would drink
it right from the bottle, no glasses, hate them. May be it's my unfit family
upbringing, but I just like it like that and there is nothing I can do about
it.
- Good idea. We've got about twenty minutes, while they are offloading
the wounded. The problem is if they actually have beer and if we've got
enough dough? - He said, dumping everything from his pockets, including the
useless here money and counted it.
- I've got some more, - said I, pulling out some crumpled paper nodes,
- get cigarettes too, preferably something nice.
- Like a rich life, don't you? - Ryzhov sneered.
- Yeah, rich life, sure. When right before your eyes people live like
moguls, - I looked at "the royal court" regiment's HQ with a sigh.
- Wait until we walk into the hospital with all its women, - Yurka was
clearly tormenting me.
- I'd either rape ten of them at once or put a bullet in my head.
The hospital was situated in the airport's left wing, in the
ex-restaurant building. Rumours had it that this restaurant used to belong
to some relative of Dudaev's. Along the way we met some doctors and actually
female nurses. At war, any woman is a goddess.It's not just about sexual
deprivation. Looking or simply talking to them you don't harden up as fast.
That thin wire that connects you back to the "normal" life doesn't
break as quickly. We have no women in our brigade, maybe that's probably why
we are so drawn to them. But first desire, of coarse, is purely sexual. Why
don't we have mobile brothels with us? In the past wars were gradual and
rigidly positioned. People had respect for their opponent. They had fine
moving canteens, mobile brothels, champagne and whites. How times have
changed? Not for the better, if you ask me, although, medical science is
definitely on top. So far none of the incoming wounded here has died.
- We're home! - Com-brig first leapt off his carrier.
Everybody else followed him, warming up their numb legs and bums.
Surgeons and nurses ran over and started offloading our wounded and dead.
The latter are to be placed in wooden and then in zinc coffins, soldered in,
meshed, to make it more comfortable to carry, and sent home to their parents
as "Cargo-200". With the coffins, parents will also receive death
notifications and thanking notes for their sons' wonderful upbringing.
That's about it. After the funerals they'll have commemorative salvo fired
into the air in their honour, with dummy rounds, by military college
students or young soldiers. Both types are potential candidates for the same
"elegant" burial in the nearest future. The God of War demands new
sacrifices and opposing sides supply them in full.
Then parents or wife of the dead soldier will be paid ten-year salary:
the whole five million rubles. During the next six-month they'll have
visitors and after that, as it is customary, they'll be left to themselves.
When mother or wife comes to the authorities for help (no matter which,
military or civilian), first, they'll nicely talk to her and then tell her
that there is no money or prospects for help at this stage. And if she
persists, they'd state the following: we, personally, did not send your son
(or husband) to this war. Go ask for help those who did and please do not
come here again because people who sent your son to his death must've
forgotten to allocate money for your pension, your licking roof, telephone
and so on. You can, my reader, complain all you want; there will be nothing
done. The power hungry would say about you: "This is that woman who
lost her son (or husband) in that war". That will be said jokingly, so
that you weep, my reader, and run away never to come back here again. Even
if they throw something at you for the New Years Eve or The Army Day. Now
think if it's worth sending your son into that butchery because of some sick
old Head Commander. Think well. By the way, during the Chechen campaign, he
had a grandson of the drafting age, but for some reason, I have never seen
him there, even on civilian visits.
Meanwhile our wounded were being offloaded and carried into the
hospital rooms. We followed them. Nobody was paying any attention to us.
Ryzhov and I were staring at the women. No point in flirting anyway, they
have already been shared and allocated long ago. Our appearances also didn't
help. We were searching for the semi-legal Voentorg trading spot or any
local crook that can sell us liqueur and cigarettes. History of the war
shows that there have always been some niggling criminals who make money
reselling small wanted goods. Nothing really law-breaking, on the contrary,
they are doing more good supplying men with those little things from the
"normal" life that they are deprived of. The problem is money. For
some it's war, for others it's their darling mother. May be that is what it
should be? No, I don't think so; my upbringing and poor life experience
wouldn't let me do this.
We were hanging around the hospital asking grunts where we could get
some beer and cigarettes. But since this was a medivac hospital, as a rule,
soldiers never stayed here for longer than a day and thus knew nothing. But
suddenly we noticed a corporal, with a mug, wider than two of ours put
together. He wore new camouflage fatigues and standing next to the window
was leisurely puffing a ciggi. That mug expressed vanity and
self-indulgence. It seemed nothing around concerned him. He did not look
wounded at all.
I pushed Yurka in the ribs when he was flat out staring at a nurse
rushing to attend to some matter and fortunate enough to walk past us.
Judging by the hungry expression on his face, he's already raped her about
ten times and kept going.
- OK, that's enough. We are here with a peacekeeping mission. Remember?
You better look at that panorama, - I showed him the mighty worrier, - I
think his body can be used to plug ten machinegun nests at the same time. It
seems he represents the whole might of Russia's armed forces. What do you
think Yura?
I deliberately talked in loud voice for the grunt to hear us. Yurka
read my plot and kept going.
- Yeah man. You're right. We lack lads like this one in the recon unit.
They need some kind of human shield. Or better yet in the storm group,
pulling wounded out of the killing zone.
The soldier slowly moved his eyes onto us without even turning his
head. We didn't wear any insignia, like many other officers. Snipers have
this bad habit of picking officers first. Some kind of sad hatred they have
for us. Well, everyone has his own thing and for them it's professional and
even well paid.
- Sonny, - politely and smoothly started Yura, - what would you say if
we invited you down for a visit, so that you, prick, could see the war for
yourself? Otherwise, you'll just come home with a metal thingy on your
chest, having actually never seen it.
All of this Yurka was telling quietly, thus passing surgeons didn't
even pay attention to us. Some fellow soldiers are standing here, chatting
peacefully, no trouble.
- Get stuffed, - the grunt mumbled leisurely without his head even
moving. There was so much scorn in his voice that it made me sick.
Momentarily the grudge inside me was alive. I know that in moments like this
I exercise very little control and can do a lot of stupid things, but the
thoughts come to me later.
- Turn around, scum, when a line officer is talking to you, and
apologise immediately, - I too tried to keep my voice down, but the words
were boiling inside. No one soldier ever dared to insult me, no matter what
state they were in. In my being a green lieutenant I had to calm down a
drunken sentry once. And here, this supply sergeant piece of shit dared to
offend two of us.
The fat skunk turned his head and jokingly stared at us in silence,
with his appearance obviously laughing at us. Both of us figured that words
here were useless and we had to act. There was a niche near by, where
hospital personnel kept their cleaning gear. From two sides simultaneously,
we fast picked up the young man under his arms and shoved him into the dark
and humid closet. At once I grabbed him by the throat to keep him from
screaming and Yurka thrust his rifle in the guy's belly and pressed it real
hard. Even in this meagre lighting we could see that the lad went pale. His
eyes were popping out and screams were bursting out of his throat, but I was
holding them tight in there, squeezing his throat stiffer, only allowing him
to breath. I leaned over to his ear and whispered:
- I will now let go my hand a little, if you, scumbag, promise to be a
good boy and give us your apologies quietly. Beer and cigarettes too, I'm
sure you've got some. If you agree, blink once, if not, I'll just strangle
you right here and my friend will shoot your balls off. I'm sure no one
would care, we'll write you off as a battle loss. And if you try to move a
muscle, we'll keep our promise with the neck and balls. Or we can load you
up on the truck and exchange with the rag-heads for beer and cigarettes.
Besides, you freak, we are offering you the same deal anyway. Get it,
asshole? - I squeezed his throat harder and Yurka pushed his AK a little
more in.
The grunt's eyelashes were flipping like butterflies near a light bulb:
- I'm sorry, please forgive me, sirs my mistake I promise won't happen
again, I'm giving you my word, - tears were falling down his face but I kept
my grip on his fat throat.
- What about the second part? - Asked Yurka, hinting at the beer and
cigarettes.
- No problem, right away, - The soldier hustled up and reached his
hands somewhere behind his head and produced a six-pack of
"Holsten" and a pack of "LM" or as we called it -
"Cop's love".
At last, we let the punk breath freely. I slapped him leniently on his
cheek, pulled crumpled five thousand rubles from my pocket and shoved it in
the weeping grunt's hand:
- Do not ever be rude, young men, and maybe you'll even live through
all this. There is the money for your goods, so that you don't tell anybody
that we are thugs. By the way, lend us a few bags for the groceries, will
you?
The grunt turned around and again in the dark started searching for
something in the buckets. Nice hide he's got here. Something banged inside
buckets, something metal, like a pistol. Is he really planning a trick? I
drew my rifle and pressed it hard against the junction of his scull and
backbone. There is pain spot there and if you hit it, a person can collapse
unconscious. In a moment Yurka too thrust his rifle against the man's
kidneys.
- Sonny, stop this, - I again spoke in a smooth voice, - or you,
scumbag, decided to die like a hero. If that's the case, then go ahead, try.
With my left hand I fetched my narrow stiletto and set it on his
throat. Cold blade, for some reason produced more result than my
Kalashnikov. Something metal banged in there again, he must've dropped it
back in the bucket. Removing the stiletto I jerked him towards me and
pressed the barrel under his chin. The grunt put his hands up, and his left
one he was holding a bag off some equipment. With my left hand I searched
behind his head and found a pistol. Wow! Makarov with a silencer! Bravo!
Probably swiped it from some wounded scout or a Special Forces guy. I
punched him in the nose with the pistol grip. He fell on the floor in a
rumpled heap. We left him there, picked up our bags and walked away.
Out on the street, the unloading was almost over and the Com-brig was
gathering up our officers to go to the briefing. We stashed the bags inside
our APC and told the driver that if we come back and they're gone he'll be
castrated and left out here to die. The grunt nodded and carried on
undressing passing women with his eyes. Walking behind our CO, we were
slowly puffing good cigarettes and discussing our arguments against the
head-on frontal assault of the bloody square.
- Let's do this: first - airforce, then artillery, tanks, rockets and
after they're all done, mahra goes in, what do you reckon? - Asked Yurka,
enjoying his cigarette and observing all the almost peaceful life around
here.
- And better yet: napalm bombs, so that everything would burn alive and
loud disco music for the spooks to sacrifice their lives to Allah with happy
thoughts, - I was experiencing peace of mind and almost sexual satisfaction
from the surrounding atmosphere and my cigarette. How little do we actually
need? Good smoke, tranquillity and women walking past.
Suddenly, we saw an officer whose face we instantly recognised. We were
taking the airport together. His regiment was then left here to guard it.
Lucky bustards.
- Yura, Slava, you're alive! What a delight! We've heard about your
deeds here and about Karpov too. We thought you guys wasted him, but all was
then cleared. He's surely an idiot. He is to receive The Order of Fortitude.
- So, you thought we killed the mother?
- No, not really, but here everybody knows he is a rat.
Yurka and I cackled loudly:
- Sasha, we saw him for the first time and gave him exactly that
nickname. Rat is rat. You better tell what the HQ has in store for the
Minutka Square and us.
- Fellows, listen to this: marines and some airborne units tried to
take it on the fly, then lost about thirty men and backed off. Now is your
turn.
- Get out of here!
- Yeah, that freaking peacemaker is there too. Radios to us all the
time with statements. Listen to the joke: he's up there, inside one of the
Dudaev's bunkers with his delegation committee and everybody has just
They didn't give him a weapon though - he's pretty shortsighted, God forbid
for him to get hurt. Other than that, first class fellow. When the rag-heads
offered the battalion to surrender, the grunts told them that Shevchuk was
with them. The "spooks" didn't believe it at first. The grunts let
them listen to him on the radio and chechens offered to let him out, even
guaranteed his safe passage. He refused though. He also promised (and soon
we found out that he actually kept his promise) to send wounded grunts to a
hospital in Germany. Not only from our brigade but others too, paying for
that from his own pocket and his friends'. He was purchasing them wheel
chairs and artificial limbs without the usual hype. There was no reporters
or news conferences. He organised everything nicely and quietly, like a man.
The recon guys radioed that they were fired upon and are now full time
engaged in a skirmish. Estimated opponents' force - about 20 guns. Nobody
used "Shmels" so far, only personal launchers and rifles.
We made our decision - press forward. Because of the fog we couldn't
see our enemy, they too can't see us for sure, thus firing pretty much
blindly. The Com-brig ordered to put up the smoke covers and we added black
smoke to the fog, just like crude oil in a milk container.
Coming close, our trucks fired their cannons at the reported positions.
Then BMP-3s opened up from their machineguns. Finally, we too, like in a
well-schooled orchestra, lined up with our rifles and grenades. Great
panorama, I'd tell you. From the thick black cloud of smoke, about a
kilometre wide, the spirts of tracers were gushing everywhere, grenades were
flying, leaving smoking tails behind them. A scene, that could be worthy of
an artist's effort. Emotions were running hight too. We couldn't know if our
path was clear - may be a wall along the way collapsed by itself or somebody
helped it. Or may be an antitank mine is hidden somewhere in the piles of
trash. But there was no fear, in my mind or in the eyes of the grunts that
surrounded me here. We all knew that if we fail, our wounded comrades would
die. Our decision was to go to the end: to the death or victory.
So far we were definitely lucky, the engines roared on high revs,
adding their semi-processed fuel exhausts to the thick smoke cover. Although
the convoy stretched along a wide area, Com-brig decided not to break it
down into small mobile units but still carry on as one column.
Going past this neighbourhood, we kept our speed as high as we could
squeeze out of our darling APCs. Finally we cleared it, surprisingly enough,
without any friendly fire accidents. Maybe the rag-heads retreated or for
some other reason, but nobody was shooting at us any more or chasing us. But
all of us knew that it was still too early to relax. We had to keep going
and survive.
Recognisance party ahead of us, radioed in that they reached first of
our neighbouring roadblocks. That's better. Now the airborne units will walk
us through their territory. They are OK soldiers, but not persistent enough
and too cocky. They can't tenaciously assault the same target for a long
time. They push furiously at first, but gradually, run out of steam. They
act well as a supporting force, but on their own, of not much use. They have
been trained to storm a structure, destroy it and get out of there. They are
not prepared for these long and backbreaking battles. But our mahra is a
different thing all together. In excruciating heat, rain or snowstorm, we'll
carry on anywhere: in the arctic, deserts or swamps. We'll die but complete
the objective.
On the roadblock, airborne guys were waving us and smiled, showing
their teeth on the same parched faces as ours. It was a delight to see that
we are not alone here in this hostile land.
Their com-bat promised to send a party to sweep the area where we were
ambushed.
In case they'd find spooks there, he'll register them as his kills, we,
in turn, would write them down as ours, indicating the approximate number of
the enemy infantry destroyed. Some funny guy at the "North"
managed to calculate how many of the enemy we have knocked down here in
Chechnya. Turned out that during the 10 days of fighting we have wiped out
the entire Chechen population twice around. It's strange, it's only been 10
days, but seems like not less than six months. If you believe reports of the
Red Army commanders during the Second World War, the army of the Wermacht
was destroyed about 100 times. As for us, we don't have to free half of
Europe this time, but according to the reports we are ahead of any army.
Thus, my reader, listening to the news bulletins, multiply our losses by
three and divide enemy losses by two, then, you'd have a more or less clear
picture of what is going on.
The airborne lads tried to offload their wounded onto us, but we could
hardly squeeze our own asses on the "armour". Inside the vehicles
our own wounded were piled up like logs. If they wanted to come with us, no
problem, but they'd have to use their own trucks and their own escort. We
won't be waiting for them either as every second is counting. What are you
saying? We're bustards? Fine, we're bustards, but you still medivac your own
men. We have neither the time nor desire to argue with you. We understand
you perfectly. If we start arguing now, you might even convince us or
prepare your own cars. You should've thought about it beforehand. You had
all night for that. Cheers men, good-bye. No, don't bother trying. Where did
you send us? OK, stand still, we'll be coming back, talk to you then.
We watched our Com-brig talking to their com-bat. Of coarse we couldn't
hear anything, but we could observe the gestures they were using in their
conversation, thus reading who sent who and where. When they were done
myself and the grunts cackled simultaneously. But no one dared to yell
anything upsetting or make a gesture of that kind. We understood what
position they were in, but your wounded you medivac yourself. We're all a
bit foxy, like the Jews, enjoy solving our problems with somebody else's
help, but not the problems of this magnitude.
We cleared the airborne zone of responsibility and now entered the area
where for about ten blocks we would be moving along the zone for which the
spooks were responsible. And they were obviously controlling it. OK,
mutherfuckers, we'll medivac our wounded and take care of you. Let's
concentrate on the medivac for now. I raise my hand and the grunts start
carefully watching surrounding us rubble. Talking, screaming or instructing
makes no point - the roar, fumes and dust from the carriers in front of us
are making any attempt bound for failure. If you open your mouth trying,
it'll be crammed with turd. Another beauty of riding atop of APC is that it
is shaking violently as it moves and if you relax your jaws for a second you
can lose your teeth or bite your own tongue off. There was a gag that some
dumb ass, not from our garrison of coarse, bit his tongue's tip off like
that, but the corpsemen sewed it back. He was discharged afterwards. I've
heard so many of these gags during my commission that I can write a book
now. Especially I like that fact that nothing ever happens in our garrison,
but our neighbours - are a constant mess. But they are of the exact same
opinion about us.
The grunt next to me shouted something, pointing his finger at the top
floor of a building near by and firing his rifle in that direction. My
reflexes kicked in at once. My rifle let off a few bursts before I
consciously stopped and actually looked there. A pair of binoculars that lay
on the window frame was blasted to pieces. If you want to live, you shoot
first and then think and look. Everyone finds out this formula after his
first gunfight. I'm yelling out and waving to stop the shooting. Gradually
it fades out. I'm not angry at the grunt. In our line of business it's
better to overcook than undercook.
The carriers are speeding forward without slowing down. Recon party
radios in to report they are again taking fire. This time from three
directions simultaneously. Now, they are waiting for our approach, as they
can't handle the clash on their own. Com-brig called the neighbours for
assistance to try and hammer the rag-heads in the rear, meanwhile we are
speeding ahead to help out our scouts.
The last APCs in line have retarded a bit so that in case of an ambush
we don't become completely trapped. As we approached the intersection, the
avenue, where our recon party took their turn, was barricaded with bricks,
two neighbouring streets were also blocked, and thus we are either to break
through or to retreat. If we do decide to retreat, there is no insurance
that we wouldn't walk into another trap. Com-brig has made his decision:
break through. Ryzhov and myself both completely upheld his choice.
Those who could fire weapons leapt off the "armour" and the
carriers rolled back covering us. First, we wanted to push the spooks inside
the block and then, under fire, try and dismantle the barricade. Hiding
behind the piles of trash we shot back. Both sides exchanged fire furiously.
Suddenly a grenade exploded somewhere close to me - pieces of a blasted
grunt flipped into the air and landed 5 meters away from me with dull sound.
In a couple of seconds another soldier died the same terrible death. In the
heat of the gunfight I had no time to look who that was. Next to the second
body, three other grunts were whirling on the asphalt, screaming with pain
and pressing fingers against their wounds. Their coats were soaking in
blood. We thought at first that somebody was using a launcher, but then
another grunt shifted a brick and noticed an F-1 grenade, lying under a pile
of rubbish without its safety pin. Now everything was clear.
Smart sons of bitches the spooks turned out to be. They cleverly chose
the spot for their ambush and also considered that we would dismount and
confront them. Our future positions, imposed by them, they booby-trapped
with hand-grenades. In a gunfight you have to move around a lot: tumble,
spin and hide behind the rubble. That's where they placed these nice toys -
F-1 grenades without safety pins. You shift the brick on top of it, its
guard lever flies off and here you go, in 6 seconds it bursts. Shrapnel
cover an area of about 200 meters. No one mine will have the same effect.
Now we had to solve this dilemma -either pull back or try and
counterattack to bust the rag-heads out of the apartment block. Not much
choice. Neighbours radioed that they are on their way and called for air
support. That is exactly what we don't want. A soldier has many enemies at
war, but one of the biggest is his own air force. Doubtfully they'll ever
get the rag-heads, but to drop a few bombs on their own positions is a done
deal. That's why we asked our rushing reinforcements to call off the
"sky raiders". They'll stuff it up anyway. Instructions to storm
the building were passed along the chain. We also told the "boxes"
to open up from everything they have, keep going like that for 10 minutes
and then cease fire and wait for further instructions.
Every grunt and officer has his personal first aid kit, which contains
an ordinary set of medications, like painkillers, anti-radiation pills and
the likes. There are also drinking water tablets that can be used in any
water except the seawater. Drop it into a puddle if you like, it'll roil for
a second or two and you can drink it now without fear of catching some
disease. It'd have a chlorine stench though.
Every detachment has so called anti-fear tablets. When soldiers are
dog-tired and can't move their feet any more, not mentioning attacks, their
will is paralysed. Then their CO gives the order to hand out these tablets.
The grunts eat them, rest for a while and spring to their feet. No one knows
where the strength comes from and where the fear goes.
Now we didn't have those tablets as well as the need for them. After a
few gunfights, where the spooks were prevailing in every aspect and every
little thing we gained was paid for dearly in efforts and losses, now men
were experienced and confident and the rag-heads were getting a decent
response for once. They no longer bullied carelessly, doped and squalling
something about their Allah. First time it's actually quite scary, charging
like spellbound, unafraid of bullets.
At last our carriers opened up. Cracking salvos of their cannons and
machineguns, at first, muffled short barking bursts of BMP-3s, but they
caught up quickly with the old well-proven two-s. We also didn't fall behind
with our rifles and launchers.
APCs hit hard for ten minutes and then stopped as was agreed. The high
pitched ding from the shooting was still in our ears, but now we had to
attack. Our opponents had a lot more problems with their sense of dimension.
Our shells were bursting in their tight nests, causing them to go crazy with
terror. They were also still in awe from the air strikes. Now was the right
time for the final move.
This time nobody raised the grunts off the ground with his own example,
like it used to be here during the first days. Every one of them sprung up
by himself, some with the ancient "hoorah" other just yelling out
from fear and excess of adrenalin, all were running ahead like one. When you
plunge into attack like this, something medieval wakes up inside you. It
seems you are watching yourself from aside, observing the gunfight, noticing
every little thing. May be the common grudge and fear at this moment bear
this collective ability?
While we were clearing the open space of about 100 meters, we were met
with rare and disorganised gunfire. No one of our men was hit, but the
grunts, on the run and from the waist, were discharging long bursts at the
broken windows where the deadly gush of lead was coming from.
At last we crash into the doorway of this once apartment block, others
are storming the remaining four entrances of the "khruschevka".
Human reflexes are such that you always notice what's on your
right-hand side first and then move to the left. Spooks made a good use of
this fact and when we barged into a block they always stood to the left of
the entrance. While we were automatically checking out everything on the
right-hand side, they had a few seconds to shoot us in the back. Some time
has passed before we learnt to toss a hand-grenade before walking inside and
looked first to the left of the doorway.
The sunlight started to break through the fog but here inside the
building it was still dark from the shooting. Dust, mixed with gunpowder and
some other chemicals hung in the air, abstracting the view.
Together with some fifteen grunts we ran into the block. I glanced at
the grunts with my side-vision. Looks like there are no cowards amongst
them. All experienced. Two flats on the first floor, meaning that we should
expect the same structure further up. Three grunts took guard on the
staircase between the first and second floors, covering us from possible
attacks from above. The rest are fetching safety pins from their
hand-grenades. "Ready". Nocking down the door, it's not even
locked but blasted by explosions, barely hanging off the frame. Our boots
ram it down completely this time. I yell out: "Let's go!!!"
We move out from the doorways, hiding behind the concrete walls. In
three flats, grenades detonated almost simultaneously, probably about eight
of them. My head feels like a church bell, smoke and dust is coming out of
the blasted doorways. Move, move and don't stop now. Checking left, now
right. Tonnes of dust in the air, can't see shit. Squeezing off two long
bursts from the waist. We don't need no prisoners, not enough food for
ourselves. Move! Move! Kitchen: nobody there; bathroom: the door is slightly
open, screw it, another two bursts from the waist, the bathtub could be a
nice hide from the shrapnel. I node to the grunt next to me, covering my
rear. He jerks the door open and I pull the trigger slowly moving my rifle's
barrel sidewards. It is convulsing in my arms like a living organism and
flushing the bathtub with a deadly flow. The smashed off pieces from the tub
are flipping in the air. Meanwhile other grunts are firing into next rooms
dark with dust and smoke. Built-in wardrobes and shelves are also checked
thoroughly. That's all with this two bedroom flat. Let's move on to the
upper floors.
The grunts guarding the staircase, indicate that they have just spotted
some movement in one of the second floor apartments. Other grunts come out
of their flats and join us. Those who guarded the staircase move up one more
floor. I don't have to give out any instructions here, every grunt knows his
manoeuvre too well. No need to yell at anybody. All of us work together like
a well-tuned mechanism. Everyone covers everybody else's back.
We repeat the same process on the second floor. We barge into the room
tripping on a dead body ripped apart from a grenade explosion. That one's
cooked. Moving along. There's nobody here. Three more levels to go, rooftop
and the basement. Move! Move!
Grunts report they discovered two more stiffs in the neighbouring flat.
Screw them. Moving along. I look at my watch: it took us seven minutes to
check two floors, we have to speed this whole thing up.
On the third floor, when we knock the doors down, somebody inside the
flat yells out without accent: "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" I raise
my fist. Grunts hold back. I shout: "Come out slowly, hands behind your
head".
Wauling, a filthy chap is coming out, bristling with hand-grenades and
a chechen knife (dagger welded together with stiletto), looks Russian.
Smearing dirty tears on his face and weeping he's squalling that he was just
drafted, he's just an ordinary con and nothing else, never killed anyone of
ours. I notice some five personal dog-tags hanging around his neck. Earlier,
they were only given out to officers, now, since we arrived in Chechnya,
everyone gets a set. It looks like a little metal plate shaped like oval,
about five santimeters in length and three wide. Along its length the plate
is broken in two parts, upper part has "VS SSSR" stamped on it,
the lower one has a letter and a six-digit code. Every soldier has his own
code. The plate is cast from a stainless alloy. First they started using
these plates after an experimental rocket fell down onto some committee and
burnt it completely. At war every soldier wears it, jut like American GIs,
except they also have their names and blood type printed there.
I noticed that this "ordinary con" wore these dog-tags around
his neck. There were a lot of scumbags bumming around Chechnya, which were
surely due for jail time in Russia. Here they were like brothers to the
local bandits. As locals told us, to prove their loyalty they tortured
soldiers even worse than the chechens themselves. I grabbed him by the
dog-tag chains, coiled them onto my fist and twitched the shaking con
towards me. Grunts knew well what was going to follow. Some spooks collected
personal numbers of soldiers they have killed.
- What is this, asshole? - I asked him and kept pulling the chains.
- I found them, I swear. I didn't kill nobody. They forced me to, - he
squalled weeping.
I shoved my rifle in his chest and pulled the trigger. Bullets ripped
it open smearing my pants with his blood. The body jerked backwards, the
neck snapped but it was still hanging by the dog-tag chains. It seemed the
souls of the dead soldiers wouldn't let their murderer go free. Barrel still
stuck in the con's chest I asked the grunt next to me:
- Cut the chains, will you.
He stripped the knife from the dead con and sliced the chains with one
quick move. The no longer hanging body dropped to the ground with a thud.
Grunt reached his hand out with the dagger offering it to me. I shook my
head and he stashed it in his boot. I rose, put the dog-tags into one of my
pockets and gave an order:
- Get your hand-grenades ready and let's move.
Again explosions roared and we barged inside other flats. There we
found five more dead bodies. Without any further ado we squeezed off a few
bursts into each one of them just in case. One of the "deceased"
suddenly came alive and tried to draw his rifle - cross fire coming from
three directions simultaneously nearly chopped him to pieces.
All of a sudden we heard a grenade explosion and a rifle burst. We
quickly finished off checking the apartment and popped outside. The gunfight
there was in full swing. Rag-heads from the upper floors were attempting to
break through to downstairs. Three grunts were keeping them up there; two
more soldiers, covering the basement entrance, hustled up to help them. We
too quickly got into the skirmish. Here on the narrow staircases we were too
crowded. To add to the confusion, spooks started throwing hand-grenades
down. Huddled down here together we couldn't possibly hide from them. Thank
God, the morons threw them at the very moment they were pulling safety pins
out, thus giving us time to push them away onto the lower floors.
We also returned fire as best as we could. Two of the grunts were
blasting off grenades from their under-barrels, the other four spraying the
spooks from their rifles, keeping them at bay. Meanwhile something blew up
there with a terrible boom. Ceiling collapsed in one of the kitchens on the
third floor. Five grunts quickly dived into the breach and now the gunfight
shifted to the fourth level. Coming up, from the point blank range, we
wasted the rag-heads in the back. We were afraid of coarse to waist our own
grunts, but this time we were lucky. After the clean up, twelve more bodies
were left up on the fourth floor. Not bad at all, if according to the
Regulation the ratio should be one defender to three or four members of the
assaulting team. On the fifth floor nobody greeted us except for two dead
bodies. With caution with we came up the roof. There is nobody there too,
meaning that we are the first ones up here and have to help out other storm
groups in the neighbouring blocks. I split my men, myself choosing the block
Ryzhov went into. Walking on the roof we could here the gunfire in every
block.
Carefully we are opening the hatchway. Judging from the noise, the
shootout is in between the first and second floors. We are starting the
clean up from the fifth floor down. Voices and gunfire are coming from the
two-bedroom flat, apparently the shooting comes from the inside. OK,
assholes, let's roll. Hand-grenades at stand-by, at the nod of my head, the
door is smashed open, we throw the grenades in and take cover. Burst; move,
move; one of the grunts stays here guarding the staircase, I turn left:
burst into an empty corner and burst dead ahead. The grunt on my right
already checked the right hand side discharging a burst into the right
corner. We finish off two wounded by the window. Next to them lies an RPG-7
rocket grenade launcher, fine toy. We take the launcher and the seven
remaining rounds for it with us.
Downstairs, the spooks apparently realised what happened and doubled
their efforts attempting to fight their way out of the trap. Our grunts on
the other side also figured that the help is near and pressed with renewed
energy. We came down to the forth floor. Shooting off the doors and tossing
in grenades. In two flats we discover a few more of the rag-heads' stiffs.
No idea whose job that was, someone else's or ours, but what does it matter
anyway. Move, move, downstairs, tempo, tempo. Hold on fellows, we're close.
The spooks disparately tried to move upstairs and blow us off. No way,
I'm yelling out:
- Yurka, stay down, I'll meet them up here.
We hear the treading and fire from the RPG and the under-barrels,
ducking behind the concrete to cover from shrapnel. One of the grunts
screams with pain. A shrapnel piece ricocheted in his arm. Two men stayed
behind to give him first aid. The remaining grunts and myself fire into the
dense blur of smoke and dust after the explosion. No one is shooting back.
- Slava, don't shoot, we're coming up.
- Let's move, boys, slowly. May be some son of a bitch is still there,
- I yell to my grunts.
We're slowly moving downstairs, ready to open up at even a slightest
suspicion of movement. On the staircase between the forth and the third
floors we stumble on the torn apart bodies of our resent foe. The BDUs on
some are still burning. Nostrils are tingling from the stench of parched
human flesh, cotton and something else, terribly stinky. I'm labouring not
to vomit. Suddenly, from the dark, grunts' faces are emerging from the
downstairs. We're all happy and hugging.
- Still alive, demon? - We couldn't get enough of each other, like
lovers after a long break-up.
- How did we bust the shitheads, ha? Hammered the crap out of them! -
Yurka was wound up. Despite the cold, everybody was steaming hot.
- I grabbed some scumbag back in there. Squalled he was just a con, but
had dog-tags dangling round his neck. Here they are, - I pulled a bunch of
dog-tags out of my pocket, - I sent him off to meet his victims.
- You did the right thing. They dug in well in here. With machinegun
and all. Not even one approach. But thanks to you
- OK, let's go. You owe me a drink. - I fetched a packet of cigarettes,
my home ones, "TU-134", the sniper's smokes were long gone. It's a
petty, they were really nice, - have some, the NATO threat.
Happily chatting this way, though still in the heat of the gunfight, we
walked out on the street. Following us, grunts helped my wounded lad out. He
walks by himself though, his arm patched tightly, meaning that he'll live.
Out here, the clash was also over. Apparently, the spooks retreated
from their other positions, realising that we would've taken care of them
too if they hadn't. The barricade was also nearly dismantled. From that
direction our neighbours were coming up.
- Slava, look. What the hell is that? - The approaching grunts had some
tanks, they wore like backpacks, carrying metal pipes in their hands
attached to the tanks by rubber hoses.
- I think it's flame-throwers. I've never seen them live, but heard
that some units got them off the emergency reserves and dragged them over
here. Probably a marvellous tool.
Meanwhile all our grunts left the building and the newly arrived
soldiers, with jokes, approached the basement windows and having tossed a
pair of hand-grenades in there first, started pouring from their
backpack-type flamethrowers, which these devices did turn out to be. Bravo.
Streams of flame, human hand sized and about 10 meters in length, widening
as they left the pipes were flowing into the basements. At once we felt the
stench of burnt kerosene and something else of the kind.
- First class gadget. I wish we had more of them. We'd smoke the snakes
out for sure. We should throw the idea at our commander to ask for them in
the "North". Since they are sending us to storm "The
Minutka", might as well give us these, - I said, watching with
admiration as grunts having finished off our building are preparing to fry
some other structure.
- I've heard, in Afghan, there was a flame-throwing tank, but turned
out useless in the mountains and was taken off the production line, - Yura
said climbing our APC.
- Such morons, ha? They could've figured that we'd have to take towns
at some stage instead of clashing in the mountains or in the open all the
time. Bloody Moskovites; what can you possibly get from them, except a urine
sample, and that one will be hopeless too, - I spewed and tried to settle
comfortably on top of the "armour".
- Attention! All ready?- Then the order came through, - Move! On the
march!
As we set off, APC underneath me jerked sharply trying to shake us off
the "armour", but clinging to each other and to every extending
part on the APC's surface, we held on. Internal forces are lucky in that
respect: they have the BTR-80s. Very smooth piece of machinery, moving fast
and soft. We, on the other hand, have bulldozers.
As we approached the flame-throwers' roadblock, we again greeted each
other shouting.
The rest of the journey was pretty uneventful, although we were
prepared for any surprise. Now first outposts and roadblocks of the
"North" airport were coming into view along the way. Whole
regiment guarded the airport. When rumours came that spooks planned to
assault it, another airborne battalion was fetched to help the defences.
- One battle is over and another one begins, the longer and harder one
and more important too, - I said to Yura.
The mood was changing from the merry, since we came back all OK, to
more grim and serious. We had to attend the briefing with the High Command
representatives. The latter were itching to send us to our deaths.
- Regardless of the briefing's outcome I'll drink myself stupid
tonight, - my good mood was totally gone by now and I was grimly watching
the airport sentry. They have already managed to wash up and some even
changed into brand spanking new BDUs.
I looked at my blood-splattered pants, my filthy coat, burnt and even
twice shot through by shrapnel. In peace life, a first police patrol would
pick me up for sure dressed like this. A total tramp.
- I agree Slavian, we should get wasted today. Moreover, I owe you one,
- Yurka, on the contrary, was in a fabulous mood.
- Where are you planning to get the liqueur? From under the bench? - I
and Ryzhov, before the Grozny campaign, chipped in and bought three boxes of
Vodka as well as seven litres of pure ethanol that I swapped for a
camouflage set from the comms operators in commemoration of our old
friendship. Thus, I would be very surprised if he found alcohol in any other
place.
- Where else? Spooks closed their stashes and our Voentorg never comes
out beyond the "North"
- Listen, near the field hospital, there is a Voentorg trading spot.
Let's try to get some beer down there (fallen off the truck of coarse). What
do you think? - Beer was a terrible temptation. Right now, right here, I
even imagined its tight, bubbly, cool flow streaming down my throat and
heavily bumping against my stomach walls on its way down. And I would drink
it right from the bottle, no glasses, hate them. May be it's my unfit family
upbringing, but I just like it like that and there is nothing I can do about
it.
- Good idea. We've got about twenty minutes, while they are offloading
the wounded. The problem is if they actually have beer and if we've got
enough dough? - He said, dumping everything from his pockets, including the
useless here money and counted it.
- I've got some more, - said I, pulling out some crumpled paper nodes,
- get cigarettes too, preferably something nice.
- Like a rich life, don't you? - Ryzhov sneered.
- Yeah, rich life, sure. When right before your eyes people live like
moguls, - I looked at "the royal court" regiment's HQ with a sigh.
- Wait until we walk into the hospital with all its women, - Yurka was
clearly tormenting me.
- I'd either rape ten of them at once or put a bullet in my head.
The hospital was situated in the airport's left wing, in the
ex-restaurant building. Rumours had it that this restaurant used to belong
to some relative of Dudaev's. Along the way we met some doctors and actually
female nurses. At war, any woman is a goddess.It's not just about sexual
deprivation. Looking or simply talking to them you don't harden up as fast.
That thin wire that connects you back to the "normal" life doesn't
break as quickly. We have no women in our brigade, maybe that's probably why
we are so drawn to them. But first desire, of coarse, is purely sexual. Why
don't we have mobile brothels with us? In the past wars were gradual and
rigidly positioned. People had respect for their opponent. They had fine
moving canteens, mobile brothels, champagne and whites. How times have
changed? Not for the better, if you ask me, although, medical science is
definitely on top. So far none of the incoming wounded here has died.
- We're home! - Com-brig first leapt off his carrier.
Everybody else followed him, warming up their numb legs and bums.
Surgeons and nurses ran over and started offloading our wounded and dead.
The latter are to be placed in wooden and then in zinc coffins, soldered in,
meshed, to make it more comfortable to carry, and sent home to their parents
as "Cargo-200". With the coffins, parents will also receive death
notifications and thanking notes for their sons' wonderful upbringing.
That's about it. After the funerals they'll have commemorative salvo fired
into the air in their honour, with dummy rounds, by military college
students or young soldiers. Both types are potential candidates for the same
"elegant" burial in the nearest future. The God of War demands new
sacrifices and opposing sides supply them in full.
Then parents or wife of the dead soldier will be paid ten-year salary:
the whole five million rubles. During the next six-month they'll have
visitors and after that, as it is customary, they'll be left to themselves.
When mother or wife comes to the authorities for help (no matter which,
military or civilian), first, they'll nicely talk to her and then tell her
that there is no money or prospects for help at this stage. And if she
persists, they'd state the following: we, personally, did not send your son
(or husband) to this war. Go ask for help those who did and please do not
come here again because people who sent your son to his death must've
forgotten to allocate money for your pension, your licking roof, telephone
and so on. You can, my reader, complain all you want; there will be nothing
done. The power hungry would say about you: "This is that woman who
lost her son (or husband) in that war". That will be said jokingly, so
that you weep, my reader, and run away never to come back here again. Even
if they throw something at you for the New Years Eve or The Army Day. Now
think if it's worth sending your son into that butchery because of some sick
old Head Commander. Think well. By the way, during the Chechen campaign, he
had a grandson of the drafting age, but for some reason, I have never seen
him there, even on civilian visits.
Meanwhile our wounded were being offloaded and carried into the
hospital rooms. We followed them. Nobody was paying any attention to us.
Ryzhov and I were staring at the women. No point in flirting anyway, they
have already been shared and allocated long ago. Our appearances also didn't
help. We were searching for the semi-legal Voentorg trading spot or any
local crook that can sell us liqueur and cigarettes. History of the war
shows that there have always been some niggling criminals who make money
reselling small wanted goods. Nothing really law-breaking, on the contrary,
they are doing more good supplying men with those little things from the
"normal" life that they are deprived of. The problem is money. For
some it's war, for others it's their darling mother. May be that is what it
should be? No, I don't think so; my upbringing and poor life experience
wouldn't let me do this.
We were hanging around the hospital asking grunts where we could get
some beer and cigarettes. But since this was a medivac hospital, as a rule,
soldiers never stayed here for longer than a day and thus knew nothing. But
suddenly we noticed a corporal, with a mug, wider than two of ours put
together. He wore new camouflage fatigues and standing next to the window
was leisurely puffing a ciggi. That mug expressed vanity and
self-indulgence. It seemed nothing around concerned him. He did not look
wounded at all.
I pushed Yurka in the ribs when he was flat out staring at a nurse
rushing to attend to some matter and fortunate enough to walk past us.
Judging by the hungry expression on his face, he's already raped her about
ten times and kept going.
- OK, that's enough. We are here with a peacekeeping mission. Remember?
You better look at that panorama, - I showed him the mighty worrier, - I
think his body can be used to plug ten machinegun nests at the same time. It
seems he represents the whole might of Russia's armed forces. What do you
think Yura?
I deliberately talked in loud voice for the grunt to hear us. Yurka
read my plot and kept going.
- Yeah man. You're right. We lack lads like this one in the recon unit.
They need some kind of human shield. Or better yet in the storm group,
pulling wounded out of the killing zone.
The soldier slowly moved his eyes onto us without even turning his
head. We didn't wear any insignia, like many other officers. Snipers have
this bad habit of picking officers first. Some kind of sad hatred they have
for us. Well, everyone has his own thing and for them it's professional and
even well paid.
- Sonny, - politely and smoothly started Yura, - what would you say if
we invited you down for a visit, so that you, prick, could see the war for
yourself? Otherwise, you'll just come home with a metal thingy on your
chest, having actually never seen it.
All of this Yurka was telling quietly, thus passing surgeons didn't
even pay attention to us. Some fellow soldiers are standing here, chatting
peacefully, no trouble.
- Get stuffed, - the grunt mumbled leisurely without his head even
moving. There was so much scorn in his voice that it made me sick.
Momentarily the grudge inside me was alive. I know that in moments like this
I exercise very little control and can do a lot of stupid things, but the
thoughts come to me later.
- Turn around, scum, when a line officer is talking to you, and
apologise immediately, - I too tried to keep my voice down, but the words
were boiling inside. No one soldier ever dared to insult me, no matter what
state they were in. In my being a green lieutenant I had to calm down a
drunken sentry once. And here, this supply sergeant piece of shit dared to
offend two of us.
The fat skunk turned his head and jokingly stared at us in silence,
with his appearance obviously laughing at us. Both of us figured that words
here were useless and we had to act. There was a niche near by, where
hospital personnel kept their cleaning gear. From two sides simultaneously,
we fast picked up the young man under his arms and shoved him into the dark
and humid closet. At once I grabbed him by the throat to keep him from
screaming and Yurka thrust his rifle in the guy's belly and pressed it real
hard. Even in this meagre lighting we could see that the lad went pale. His
eyes were popping out and screams were bursting out of his throat, but I was
holding them tight in there, squeezing his throat stiffer, only allowing him
to breath. I leaned over to his ear and whispered:
- I will now let go my hand a little, if you, scumbag, promise to be a
good boy and give us your apologies quietly. Beer and cigarettes too, I'm
sure you've got some. If you agree, blink once, if not, I'll just strangle
you right here and my friend will shoot your balls off. I'm sure no one
would care, we'll write you off as a battle loss. And if you try to move a
muscle, we'll keep our promise with the neck and balls. Or we can load you
up on the truck and exchange with the rag-heads for beer and cigarettes.
Besides, you freak, we are offering you the same deal anyway. Get it,
asshole? - I squeezed his throat harder and Yurka pushed his AK a little
more in.
The grunt's eyelashes were flipping like butterflies near a light bulb:
- I'm sorry, please forgive me, sirs my mistake I promise won't happen
again, I'm giving you my word, - tears were falling down his face but I kept
my grip on his fat throat.
- What about the second part? - Asked Yurka, hinting at the beer and
cigarettes.
- No problem, right away, - The soldier hustled up and reached his
hands somewhere behind his head and produced a six-pack of
"Holsten" and a pack of "LM" or as we called it -
"Cop's love".
At last, we let the punk breath freely. I slapped him leniently on his
cheek, pulled crumpled five thousand rubles from my pocket and shoved it in
the weeping grunt's hand:
- Do not ever be rude, young men, and maybe you'll even live through
all this. There is the money for your goods, so that you don't tell anybody
that we are thugs. By the way, lend us a few bags for the groceries, will
you?
The grunt turned around and again in the dark started searching for
something in the buckets. Nice hide he's got here. Something banged inside
buckets, something metal, like a pistol. Is he really planning a trick? I
drew my rifle and pressed it hard against the junction of his scull and
backbone. There is pain spot there and if you hit it, a person can collapse
unconscious. In a moment Yurka too thrust his rifle against the man's
kidneys.
- Sonny, stop this, - I again spoke in a smooth voice, - or you,
scumbag, decided to die like a hero. If that's the case, then go ahead, try.
With my left hand I fetched my narrow stiletto and set it on his
throat. Cold blade, for some reason produced more result than my
Kalashnikov. Something metal banged in there again, he must've dropped it
back in the bucket. Removing the stiletto I jerked him towards me and
pressed the barrel under his chin. The grunt put his hands up, and his left
one he was holding a bag off some equipment. With my left hand I searched
behind his head and found a pistol. Wow! Makarov with a silencer! Bravo!
Probably swiped it from some wounded scout or a Special Forces guy. I
punched him in the nose with the pistol grip. He fell on the floor in a
rumpled heap. We left him there, picked up our bags and walked away.
Out on the street, the unloading was almost over and the Com-brig was
gathering up our officers to go to the briefing. We stashed the bags inside
our APC and told the driver that if we come back and they're gone he'll be
castrated and left out here to die. The grunt nodded and carried on
undressing passing women with his eyes. Walking behind our CO, we were
slowly puffing good cigarettes and discussing our arguments against the
head-on frontal assault of the bloody square.
- Let's do this: first - airforce, then artillery, tanks, rockets and
after they're all done, mahra goes in, what do you reckon? - Asked Yurka,
enjoying his cigarette and observing all the almost peaceful life around
here.
- And better yet: napalm bombs, so that everything would burn alive and
loud disco music for the spooks to sacrifice their lives to Allah with happy
thoughts, - I was experiencing peace of mind and almost sexual satisfaction
from the surrounding atmosphere and my cigarette. How little do we actually
need? Good smoke, tranquillity and women walking past.
Suddenly, we saw an officer whose face we instantly recognised. We were
taking the airport together. His regiment was then left here to guard it.
Lucky bustards.
- Yura, Slava, you're alive! What a delight! We've heard about your
deeds here and about Karpov too. We thought you guys wasted him, but all was
then cleared. He's surely an idiot. He is to receive The Order of Fortitude.
- So, you thought we killed the mother?
- No, not really, but here everybody knows he is a rat.
Yurka and I cackled loudly:
- Sasha, we saw him for the first time and gave him exactly that
nickname. Rat is rat. You better tell what the HQ has in store for the
Minutka Square and us.
- Fellows, listen to this: marines and some airborne units tried to
take it on the fly, then lost about thirty men and backed off. Now is your
turn.
- Get out of here!
- Yeah, that freaking peacemaker is there too. Radios to us all the
time with statements. Listen to the joke: he's up there, inside one of the
Dudaev's bunkers with his delegation committee and everybody has just