Страница:
said."
Prokhorov had taken up a position with a sniper's rifle, and turned to
the cowed sentry:
"Burkov, fuck you! Get over to the sergeant and tell him to come here."
"But I'm on duty, I can't leave my post ..."
"Whaaat? Lost your marbles in attack, or something? On your way -- one
foot here, the other one there!"
At first, they just fooled around to shape up, aiming at rocks and
bushes from the top of the hill. However, this pastime soon palled. Panasyuk
offered a bet to make things more interesting:
"For five chits, all right? Prokhor, let's see which one of us can hit
that donkey over there."
Prokhorov missed, which made him even more angry. Panasyuk got the
donkey with his first shot, leaned back against a rock and pulled out a
packet of cigarettes, while the unlucky grand-dad, boiling with frustration,
studied the village through the rifle sights, hoping that something live
would appear, a domestic animal, say, or an Afghan, so that he could renew
the bet and win back his five chits -- a whole FIVE -- from Panasyuk.
Sharagin went for a piss after his tea and saw the grand-dads messing
around with the rifle. He saw Prokhorov, pop-eyed and red-faced, pull money
out of his pocket and give it to the sergeant. Buttoning up his fly as he
went, Sharagin wandered over to the shooters. He wouldn't mind doing a bit
of shooting himself.
"Hey, Prokhor, look! An old woman's come out! No, no, a bit further to
the right," prompted the sergeant.
"Same conditions as before?" Asked Prokhorov, just to be sure.
"Yep. There's a war on, she's got no business roaming the streets.
Right, comrade lieutenant?"
"I guess so."
"One fucking spook about to bite the dust!" Cried Prokhorov gleefully.
The sun was already low, and the veiled woman cast a long shadow, which
dragged behind her along a wall, as if trying to hold her back from
inevitable disaster.
A 7.62 whooshed toward the village.
The old woman stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought, then slid
slowly to the ground, fell on her side and lay motionless.
"Never cross the road on a red light," quipped one of the men who had
gathered to watch the show.
"Want a go, comrade lieutenant?" Offered Panansyuk. "I'll load it up
with an exploding head, if you like." He retreated a few steps behind the
beaming Prokhorov and returned the five chits. They stood there watching as
their commanding officer settled down on a sleeping bag, and adjusted the
rifle sights.
"Look, look, comrade lieutenant, over on the left by the wall!"
Prompted Titov, eyes glued to a pair of binoculars. "There's a spook there,
see him?"
"Yes, I see him..."
He did not dampen the grand-dads' exhilaration, consenting silently
that the village belonged to the spooks and was thus doomed to destruction,
so there was no point in wasting pity on its inhabitants. He had agreed, so
he, too, was now part of this "game." He lay cradling the rifle and looking
through its sights at an old man who peered out from behind a wall from time
to time.
... Prokhorov's right: there's a war on, they've no business showing
themselves outside ... there's a war on, so it's either them or us ... all
these so-called peaceful civilians, old and young, hate our guts, and given
the chance, they'll wind our gizzards around a pitchfork and put them out
for all to see ... they help the spooks, the bastards, going back and forth
as if they're tending their fields, but at the same time, the sons of
bitches are setting out trip-wires ... "
Sharagin took aim, but at the same moment decided not to kill the old
man, just shoot over his head, and tightened his finger on the trigger. In
training, he had been the best shot in his group. It would be easy to hit
the target at this range -- too easy.
... live, old man ....
"Bet you he'll miss," came a whisper from behind.
" ....."
"No guts?"
"No ... Bet you ten chits." That was Panasyuk.
Sharagin aimed again. A drop of sweat trickled from his hairline past
his ear, down his cheek and fell on the rifle butt. He held his breath. He
couldn't understand why he had suddenly given way to doubts. His fingers
felt the stiffness of the trigger, as though it was resisting him.
"... taking too long to aim, fuck it, he'll miss for sure!" needled
Prokhorov's voice.
The shot boomed out. The old man fell away from the wall, staggered
forward a few steps and fell.
"Ha! Gotcha!" whooped Panasyuk.
"Class shot! Right in the brain box!" Confirmed Titov, still glued to
the binoculars. "Head's gone like it was never there. Just his jawbone
hanging on his neck!"
The armoured vehicles were like pincers around the village; moving
inward, the paratroopers began combing through the village. Groups of
soldiers dispersed along its dusty, crooked streets.
... the village is empty, definitely empty ... and the artillery
pounded the hell out of it ... everyone must be long gone ... but, then, who
knows? ...
A dead donkey lay beside the last hut, distended from the heat like a
barrel to which someone had tied four legs for fun. A suffocating stench of
decaying flesh hung in the air for several dozen meters around.
Suppressing the urge to vomit, the soldiers tried to keep as far away
from it as possible, as if fearing that the rock-hard hide of the dead
animal, bloated to its limits, might burst and douse them with stinking,
rotten matter.
Armed men filed through the winding streets, which were not wide enough
for their vehicles: a BMP was bound to get stuck and become a sitting
target.
The new boys gazed around fearfully, creeping sideways along the walls
in momentary expectation of attack, delaying the others as they pressed
their backs to the blind walls of houses. Lacking experience, borne along
only by the fear and excitement arising out of terror of the unknown, they
could only count on the speed of their reaction, the ability to fire at
once, emptying the entire magazine.
The more experienced soldiers were like predators: listening,
constantly evaluating their position in relation to a possible enemy,
estimating the best and closest cover to dive into at the first sound of a
shot. Intuitively, they sought the temper of the village, tried to catch its
breath, and moved confidently ever deeper, to complete the combing and get
out of this silent, malevolent and alien kingdom.
The men advanced quickly but quietly, fearful of mines and trip-wires.
Their eyes searched the ground. The labyrinths under the houses led to the
very heart of the village.
Part of the village was destroyed by artillery fire: some roofs and
grey mud walls had collapsed, shattered windows were black holes in the
walls of houses. Here and there, on houses that were still standing, there
were small Chinese-manufactured padlocks -- a sure sign that the inhabitants
had fled, expecting the worst, but hoped to return at some later time.
"Check 'em out!"
A door was rammed in.
"Sychev, follow me!" Ordered Sharagin. "Titov, Myshkovsky! Check
opposite, in the yard!"
"All clear!"
"The spooks have fucked off!..."
Captain Morgultsev took off his hat, wiped the sweat off his brow with
his sleeve, and unfolded a map on the armour.
"Combing through the "greenery" is like chasing lice out of your hair
with a bloody fine-tooth comb ... All right ...The Afghan units will move in
from here, and here. Our orders are to move along here." He poked a finger
at a green-shaded section on the map, criss-crossed by roads, like so many
veins.
"To hell and gone with that fucking greenery!" Chistyakov hawked and
spat through his teeth, then rubbed the spittle into the ground with the toe
of his boot. "Can't we do without those bloody Afghans? They'll scare off
the spooks for miles around!"
... wants to take a last drink of blood, and there aren't any spooks
about, nobody to kill ...
guessed Sharagin.
"Comrade senior lieutenant!" squeaked the political officer. "Enough of
your fu ... '' he cut himself off. ''Enough of these emotional outbursts!
They're our military allies!"
Chistyakov bit his lip, scowled at Nemilov and burst out:
"What do you fucking well want, more than anyone else?"
"Bloody hell, will you stop that?!" interrupted Morgultsev. He gave the
platoon leaders their instructions and ordered them to their vehicles.
"I won't leave it at that," fumed the political officer. "I don't care
if he's due for replacement! What kind of an example is he setting others?"
"Leave him alone," advised Morgultsev.
Sharagin's BMP bounced across a trench, the armour slicing through a
corner of a house, and raced away from the village.
They penetrated deeper into the valley and the "greenery", breathing in
the unhealthy, greasy dust of deserted houses, the treads of BMPs churning
up the spooks' former land holdings, driving them away and pursuing; their
advance drove the spooks back from their bolt-holes, squeezed them out of
the valley, pointing them toward other hunters, even though they knew that
once the operation was over and the companies went back to base, the spooks
who had managed to break through would return and bring others with them,
return and take up residence once more, and revolutionary power would never
be established in these parts.
Unruly and defiant, condemned as treacherous or subversive, at times
due to errors inevitable in war time, the villages were methodically pounded
by Soviet air power and artillery. Heavy arms fire felled and destroyed
Muslim gravestones, flags fluttering in the wind. Shells disemboweled
cemeteries and homes of the heathen, cleared Afghan mountains, plains and
deserts of the spooks, of the unclean, making way for the builders of a new,
bright future. The shuravi hoped the time would come when they would finally
wipe all treacherous villages from the face of the earth. Villages fell,
burned, disintegrated, but for some reason never disappeared completely.
Like scabbed-over sores they lay on mountain slopes, in the "greenery" and
along roadsides -- a blind reproach, malignant and unforgiving of what was
done to them, ready to wreak revenge for the cruelty with which, free from
doubt and hesitation, the people from the North, the shuravi, who always did
whatever they wanted, had dealt with them.
A lone, stunted tree stuck out above a long, partially ruined wall,
chunks missing from it like bites from an apple. The tree had lost its crown
in the shelling, but it still lived. It looked out fearfully at the
surrounding world after the artillery storm.
... just like that old man behind the house ...
The familiar, relatively safe passage of life, accompanied by the roar
of diesel engines and shuddering armour, suddenly broke off. A grenade
launcher opened up on the first BMP from behind the wall.
... like a fireball ...
it flew from the shelter of the wall, beside the tree, and a moment
later the armour under Oleg jumped. The shell hit the vehicle's tread,
blasting it off.
Whee, whee, whee! Screamed wayward spook bullets on all sides. Soldiers
fell flat, pressing themselves against the ground, into the dust, dived
under vehicles. Everyone took whatever shelter they could.
A machine gun chattered in fury and hatred, striving to kill off as
many as it could of these suddenly vulnerable people, jumping off the armour
to the ground.
Sergeant Panasyuk was caught in mid-leap. He bounded up and fell like a
sack on his back; his helmet rolled away, and his hand clenched his gun.
The sergeant had no time to even shout, he just grunted almost
inaudibly, as if to himself, before his long, bony body struck the ground.
In the all-embracing silence before death, the sergeant was quiet and
relaxed for the first time in one and a half years of war, as if he had
returned home and wrapped himself in a blanket, hid his head and went to
sleep.
Hefty Titov crawled up and dragged him behind the BMP, pulled off his
bullet-proof vest, and only then saw the reddish-brown spot on Panasyuk's
shirt.
The battle cut off the squad from the rest of the world, deafened it
with shell-fire, blinded it with explosions; lead whizzed all around.
Sharagin emptied his second magazine, replaced it and turned, wondering
why the BMPs were not firing. The cannon of the nearest one was swiveling
back and forth. Prokhorov, staggering, as if drunk, could not figure out
where the fire was coming from and where the spooks had taken up their
position. Finally he fired by guess: Kaboom! Kaboom! Kaboom!
Kaboom! Kaboom! Came belated fire from the second BMP.
... serve the bastards right! ... give them another one! ...
Ah, that was better. Now all guns were firing.
Shattered by explosions, the village fell silent. The spooks must be
retreating. But the infuriated soldiers kept raking the area with every
available weapon. Eventually the barrage ceased, hot barrels cooling one
after another.
Death, which seemed to have come from nowhere and almost won, fell back
in the face of the soldiers' desperate resistance, taking sergeant Panasyuk
with it.
He lay there with an expression of faint chagrin or disappointment on
his face, his legs bent and doubled over like a snapped branch, pitiful,
frail, shot through the side just in the spot left exposed by the
bullet-proof vest.
Sharagin railed, swore at the radio operator, who spluttered
desperately, trying to summon a helicopter. There was not a single cloud in
the sky, and not a single chopper. Time was passing, flying away
uncontrolled, and together with it, with those speeding minutes that
replaced one another on the liquid crystal display of the black, quartz
watch in a plastic thick casing on the sergeant's wrist, hope faded.
"Where the hell are they, the swine!" Shouted Sharagin, but there was
nothing anyone could say. "I've got a man dying here!" He yelled into the
silent airwaves.
Titov, Prokhorov and others stared at the distant pass, hoping to catch
sight of the choppers, then looked back at Panasyuk, seeing how he was
slipping away, without a word of farewell, into another world, giving up,
cornered and unable to find anything to grasp and hold on to life. The
younger soldiers gaped at their dying comrade in terror, as though they
could no longer recognize him, so helpless and no longer in charge of them.
The men wandered around, smoking, chewing dry rations, talking in muted
voices, and each one was thinking: fuck, what lousy luck ...
Unable to do anything, the squad leader went through moments of
despair. When the sergeant opened his eyes slightly for the last time,
Sharagin thought:
... it'll be all right ... hang on, just don't die ...
Even though it was obvious that the sergeant wouldn't pull through: and
in that moment, in some distant corner of his mind, a hint of his own death
raised its head, a hint he immediately and naturally brushed aside, unable
to agree or accept such an eventuality, but at the same time, he wished that
his own end would be quick and without suffering.
Panasyuk died fifteen minutes before the choppers arrived. Lieutenant
Sharagin sat beside the dead sergeant, exhausted, drained, for the first
time in his service in Afghanistan cursing the war, cursing himself,
suffering as though he could have stopped those bullets that penetrate human
bodies, or dissipate the fog at the other end of the pass, so the
helicopters could come sooner and get the sergeant to the hospital on time.
He saw Yepimakhov for the first time when he returned to the regiment
after conducting the column, and was dragging his tired body to the
barracks, thinking only of two things - to have a bath and down a glass of
vodka. Zhenka had stopped in town and bought a couple of bottles. Almost as
if he knew they would be needed.
The new man with a lieutenant's shoulder boards was being escorted
toward regimental headquarters by a soldier. He was dressed in a "Union"
uniform, which nobody in Afghanistan had worn for a long time as it had been
superseded by the special so-called "experimental" uniform, supposedly
tailored to new field conditions. The soldier was lugging a suitcase,
bending under its weight, and a carrier bag. The lieutenant, natty in a
tailored military jacket with a high collar, carried a greatcoat over his
left arm.
.... must be Zhenka's replacement at last ....
Sharagin unlocked the Chinese padlock which hung on two bent nails
after they had lost the only key to the dead lock on the door and stepped
into the tiny entry hall. He leaned his rifle against the wall, dropped his
rucksack on the floor, gave a tired yank at his bootlaces, too lazy to undo
them completely, and got his boots off by pushing the heel of one with the
toe of the other foot. He flung back the curtain separating the entrance,
and stepped into the main room. The platoon leaders and sergeant lived here,
surrounded by family photographs and cuttings out of the "Ogonyok" magazine
pinned to the walls. Standard iron bunks lined the walls, and a doorless
clothes cupboard leaned crookedly. A heating pipe ran under the window with
a thin, flat radiator which leaked frequently and was therefore rusted
through. Wooden pegs were stuck into the radiator here and there, where the
leaks were strongest. They all froze in winter, wrapped themselves in their
greatcoats. Home-made heaters made no difference. A lone, naked light bulb
hung from the ceiling. Greatcoats hung on nails hammered into the walls. A
twin-cassette player stood on the table, surrounded by old newspapers and an
ashtray made out of half of a can of imported "Si-Si" soda.
... towel, soap, clean underwear...that's all ...
The burner by the bath-house was silent, cooling down.
... too damn late...
Usually the gas burner hissed, throwing out a tongue of flame, heating
up the steam room. Sharagin threw off his stiff uniform and underwear, which
stank of sweat and diesel and which he had not changed for some time, and
his socks which had a big hole on one toe and also smelled terrible and
stuck to his road-weary feet. He did not throw away the socks, but washed
them with the rest of his clothing. The trickle of water from the shower was
lukewarm, but he gloried in it nonetheless. He stood under it for at least
five minutes as if trying to soak himself through and through, rubbing his
body briskly with a sponge to get rid of the accumulated dirt,
simultaneously shedding the fatigue and nervousness brought on by combat,
washed his cropped hair.
... maybe I should shave my head bald once more? No, once was enough
...
He scraped his cheeks under the now cold shower, swore at the cheap
blade which lost its edge straight after contact with the stubble of many
days.
... the unit had not noticed the loss of a soldier ... they had not
even had time to deal with the enemy properly ... this particular lot of
spooks was very crafty, retreating from battle along mountain tracks,
underground tunnels ... But Chistyakov got his way, did some shooting later
... battalion reconnaissance took three prisoners... one spook was bumped
off on the way ...
All these days, the simplicity and unexpectedness of Panasyuk's death
haunted Sharagin and the war, which had previously given special color to
the imagination, a whole spectrum of exhilarating shades and fascinating
variety of sounds, now seemed bleak and almost monochrome. Earlier the war
had enticed and beckoned with unlimited shooting, frightened from afar with
shell explosions, warned against hidden peril with triggered mines which
concussed but did not kill. Now, for the first time, war had struck a vital
blow, which was serious and extremely painful. War had descended suddenly on
all sides, grim, real, merciless. From now on, Death kept a sharp eye on
every individual, walked in step and whispered something, its breath cold on
the back of the neck.
The bath-house was fast becoming cold. Sharagin splashed a few dippers
on the stones, climbed on to the top bench, stretched himself, closed his
eyes and relaxed. He almost fell asleep. Once something similar happened to
Pashkov, who had drunk a lot, set out for a steam bath and went to sleep on
the top bench. If it were not for the soldier who stood guard at the
bath-house, Pashkov would have been broiled like a lobster. When he was
shaken awake, he could barely move his whiskers and had no idea about where
he was. He drank nothing but mineral water for a whole week after that. When
Sharagin had soaked enough and washed himself clean, he felt fresh in mind
and body
... like a newborn baby...
He went out into the dressing room and was already standing on the
plank floor, barefoot and in his underpants, when he suddenly felt a sharp
surge of desire twist him up inside. Male need.
In order not to embarrass himself before other officers, he bent over
quickly, sat on a bench and pulled on his trousers.
He had forgotten all about that in the last few months, but now, after
the bath, he needed a woman. Badly. So much that he ground his teeth.
... you couldn't bend it using both hands...
The meager handful of women in the company were all accounted for.
Paired off, living with senior officers, no way you could approach them.
Sharagin went out and lit a cigarette.
... it's easier for the "elephants" ... those who are more shy,
masturbate in secret, on sentry duty, when else is a soldier alone? or in
the latrine, surrounded by the stink of shit...but what am I to do? I don't
know how to do it for money ... guzzling vodka is all that's left!... Zhenka
manages much better, straight into battle with reconnaissance and claims
victory over the latest girl...and forgets about it the next day...
... what does a man really need in wartime?..
he wondered, returning from the bath-house.
-"food, medals, vodka and dames!" according to Morgultsev ....well, the
food situation is bearable, there are never enough medals to go around, nor
enough vodka, either, but especially women ... you'd think they'd bring in
enough for everyone, so you wouldn't have to think about it! ... good thing
the replacement's arrived, it will mean a drink or two! ..
The orderly on duty pulled himself to attention and reported that
Chistyakov's replacement had arrived , and that the company had gone off to
eat.
Sharagin hung out his washing, lay down on his bunk and turned his head
to the wall, facing the photograph of Lena and Nastyusha. The gray cardboard
was cut unevenly around the edges to palm size, because for some time he
carried the photo in his pocket. Wife and daughter were frozen in unnatural,
tense poses before the camera, having taken inordinate pains to look as good
as possible.
The tasteless provincial hairdresser had given Lena a "stylish" hairdo,
hiding her beautiful long hair. For some reason she had colored her lips and
eyelashes with something. Her wide-spaced, usually bright and warm eyes,
high forehead and clear, touching face were immobile, as though they had
frozen Lena, enchained her, frightened her. Meek and helpless, but strong in
her love for him, and fearful for him, she seemed to look into the camera
lens as though trying to catch a glimpse of the future, the day when he
would receive this photo, in order to tell him of her love, her anxiety,
about all that surrounds a woman who is left for a long time without the
husband who has gone off to war. Nastyusha had huge bows of ribbon on both
sides of her head, making her look like a funny toy.
... it would have been better to take the photo at home ...
At the moment when "the birdie" flew out they, naturally, were thinking
of Daddy, who was serving in a distant country, and their fears were
involuntarily captured on film.
He had never known the pulling power of photographs before. That a
glance at a photograph is like a voyage in time: a moment of human life is
permanently fixed on a card, so tiny that the person probably did not even
notice it or attach any significance to it, it's like a trip into the past,
a projection into another dimension.
He closed his eyes and imagined the hairdresser's they usually went to
- on the corner near the railway station, possibly the only one in town.
Then - how they stood in line holding the receipt until their time came,
probably going to the mirror a few times to check how they looked, tried to
tune themselves up to smile and then headed back home, dressed in their
Sunday best, along the pitted, dirty streets.
... I bet it was Mother's idea to have that photo taken ...
He did not lie alone for long. Solitude is a great luxury in the army.
The door squeaked open, and senior lieutenant Ivan Zebrev, commander of the
1st platoon entered and, in joyful anticipation of the imminent drinking
spree, announced:
"Chistyakov's replacement has arrived.!" and added his favorite
"Ulyu-ulyu!"
"I know, I saw him."
"Zhenka's beside himself with joy. He's making sure not a speck of dust
settles on him. You could die laughing. He even missed going to the
bath-house, but took the lieutenant by the elbow and steered him off
somewhere. Listen - this is what we'll do. My "elephants" - harrumph! - are
on kitchen duty today, so they'll set up everything, and we'll all make
tracks there after lights out. We'll have a wow of a time. It's been a long
time since we got drunk. What's that you said? You sick or something?"
"Just tired. Is there anything to drink right now?"
"Harrumph!.." Zebrev dived under Chistyakov's bunk and emerged with a
bottle in his hands. "How much d'you want?"
"About a hundred grams..."
It was hard to force down the industrial alcohol. Even if drunk half
and half with juice or water, it gave off a tang of either kerosene or
rubber, seemed to stop in your throat and, after drinking a bottle of that
garbage some people broke out in red spots.
"Going to eat?"
"No thanks, Ivan, I won't bother if we're going to be eating later."
"Right. I'm off for a wash, and then to feed my face."
"There's almost no water left."
"See you!"
For a while longer Oleg remained alone. Relaxed by the alcohol, he
pulled out and re-read his wife's last letters. Lena never complained and
never would complain about any difficulties, especially in a letter. She
wrote only about good things, even if they were a tiny drop once a month.
She wrote that she loved him and was waiting for him. She described all the
new and funny things Nastya had said, how quickly she was changing, how
fascinating it is to watch a child's reactions to the surrounding world, and
did not fail to mention that Nastya loves her Daddy very much and misses
him.
He really ought to sit down and write, but he couldn't get into the
right mood. The words written down on paper became generalized, even if warm
and sufficiently understandable to someone close who was far away and
suffering anxiety. As a rule the tone of his letters was restrained, brief,
from a desire to save the really important words for his return home.
... Lena will understand. Lena will forgive ...
Distrust of the army postal service precluded putting anything secretly
sentimental in a letter. Letters from home were sometimes a week late, and
on the back of the envelope he had twice seen the stamp "Letter received in
damaged condition." That meant that the letter had been opened, checked,
possibly read. Sometimes letters did not arrive at all. It was assumed, in
such cases, that some swine of a soldier on duty at the post office had
opened the letter in search of money - cash was often enclosed - and then
thrown the letter away instead of resealing the envelope.
Suspicion also fell on the KGB personnel, and he did not want some KGB
sneak finding out the thoughts of lieutenant Sharagin.
In the barracks, everything went haywire whenever senior lieutenant
Chistyakov appeared on the threshold. The men would report glibly, one after
another. Chistyakov had trained them well, had them running on a string.
Zhenka was a bit "under the weather", his face red
... he's already had a drop or two...
thrusting the lieutenant in the "Union" uniform into the room. "Olly!
Fuck it, why are you lying around? Reveille! It's my big day today! Look
who's here - my replacement!"
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Nikolai Yepimakhov, " said the newcomer,
standing uncertainly between the doorframe and his big suitcase.
"Come in, come in," urged Chistyakov, dragging him forward. "Take a
seat, you'll soon be at home here. "
"Where?"
"On this chair. We need some more glasses," fussed Zhenka. He fished
under his bunk for the bottle and was surprised to find it had been opened.
"Shit, you're gone for half an hour, and some sonofabitch takes advantage!"
"What's the matter?" asked Oleg, not understanding.
"Someone's been at my vodka!"
"Actually, I took a swig."
"Oh.. well, in that case, all right," replied Chistyakov approvingly.
"Right, mate, we'll drink later. Meantime, let's go get you some cotton
clothes. It won't do to be wandering around the regiment in Union uniform.!"
Chistyakov's farewell party made Oleg feel sad. Zhenka had been part of
his first months of service, Zhenka had taught him how to survive in
Afghanistan.
However, Sharagin liked the look of the new lieutenant, and this helped
lessen the gloom.
There was something child-like in Nikolai Yepimakhov that immediately
appealed, something clean and naive - in his eyes, his long eyelashes, in
his unfeigned enthusiasm, mixed with a measure of shyness, in the way he
would spread a thick layer of butter on a slice of bread and top it off with
home-made jam or sweetened condensed milk from additional rations, sipping
tea into which he put at least six lumps of sugar.
... interesting, how did he get into the army at all? ..
Yepimakhov changed his uniform for the "experimental" rig and now held
himself proudly, trying not to crease his imperfectly ironed new outfit. His
uniform stood out in its bright greenish-yellow markings and smell of dust
from the quartermaster's shelves. The clothing of the other officers in the
room was faded from numerous washings, almost colorless.
"Fabulous uniform!" enthused the lieutenant. Like a child, he played
with the Velcro stickers on the pockets. "It's really comfortable, and all
these pockets...!"
"Sure," interjected Ivan Zebrev, "only for some reason you're cold in
it in winter, and boil to death in summer..."
Zhenka Chistyakov, as hero of the day, poured the drinks. He also
offered a toast: "To replacements! I've been a long time waiting for you,
baby!"
... we drink the first seventeen toasts quickly, and another forty nine
slowly...
That was how such parties usually went.
In the short breaks between toasts, everyone questioned the newcomer
about news from home, and where had he served and with whom.
Paratroops means a school in Ryazan and a few air-borne divisions and
storm brigades for the entire Soviet Union. Its like being on a small
island, on which it is hard to land and even harder to leave, where everyone
knows everything about each other: either they studied together, either they
served together, or from hearsay. A closed circuit. Being a paratrooper
means belonging to a caste, the elite among the armed services, great pride
and amazing chauvinism with regard to the other branches of the armed
forces.
... paratroopers are like mythical beasts, descending from the skies
... there's nobody to equal us! ... the paras strike unexpectedly, like the
wrath of God, they are as unpredictable as Judgment Day...
'Where'd you guys buy vodka?" asked Yepimakhov in his turn.
"From the locals," replied Sharagin.
"Wha-a-t?" Yepimakhov glanced warily at his glass, and tried again.
"I've heard that they often sell poisoned stuff..."
"Hey, you don't want it, don't drink it!" retorted Pashkov.
"Personally, I've become im-mu-ne (he stressed the word deliberately, don't
teach granny to suck eggs, boy!) to it."
"Quit scaring him," protested Sharagin. "They'd never dare sell
poisoned vodka in Kabul, and everyone knows where they bought their supply."
"If need be, we'll shell the shop," explained Zhenka Chistyakov.
They were nearing the end of the third bottle when captain Morgultsev
arrived together with captain Osipov from Reconnaissance.
The entrance door flew open, and somebody coughed loudly. It was clear
that the arrivals were friends, so everyone continued eating and drinking as
though nothing had happened except for lieutenant Yepimakhov, who shifted
uneasily and put aside his glass, obviously afraid of being caught drinking
on his first day.
Yepimakhov did not know that any appearance by one of the regimental or
battalion brass within fifty meters of the barracks would be spotted
immediately by some of the juniors, who had been taught to stand guard, and
who would warn the officers in time to avoid being punished for drinking
just because some damn sonofabitch in the political section had insomnia.
Captain Morgultsev was worried about something, and therefore sounded
aggressive:
"Bloody hell! Why are you giving me this thimble? Pour me a proper
glass - right, right, half is enough. Got another glass?" Warrant officer
Pashkov trotted over to the hand-basin, rinsed out a mug and placed it in
front of captain Osipov. "Right men, your health! To you, Chistyakov!"
"When are you off?" asked Osipov.
"No need to hurry now."
"I thought you'd be off first thing tomorrow."
"I have to get rid of the hangover tomorrow, tidy up any loose ends..."
"Any loose ends are already in the hands of the military prosecutors,"
joked Pashkov, who was on the jump, opening new cans and clearing things
from the table.
"...get a good sleep, get my gear together," continued Chistyakov,
oblivious of Pashkov's attempt at humor. "Then I have to go around and say
good-bye to everyone..."
"And get roaring drunk again in the evening. Ha-ha-ha!" needled Pashkov
with a braying laugh that shook the barracks.
"By the way, Sharagin, take a good look through your idiots' stuff. I
feel it in my bones that they got some hash when you went out on combat
duty. Damn their eyes," said Morgultsev angrily. "They'll smoke themselves
silly on shit ... You know full well that our sergeant does bugger all about
it," he indicated Pashkov. "All he can do is chuck grenades at scorpions..."
Everyone laughed except Pashkov.
"Sorry, comrade captain, but that's unfair. Everything in our unit's
tip-top..."
"Nobody's asking you, warrant officer!" snapped Morgultsev. "Never mind
shoving your fucking nose into officers' discussions!"
"Senior warrant officer, " corrected Pashkov.
"Same shit," retorted his commander.
Pashkov never took umbrage. He was not young and very cunning, like all
warrant officers. Morgultsev once remarked, that "being a warrant officer is
a state of the soul" and that "the world is divided into people who can
become warrant officers, and those who cannot." The company commander was
fond of Pashkov, but yelled at him in public, chewed him out like a raw
recruit and accused him of all the deadly sins. Pashkov drank in one gulp,
not eating anything afterwards. He was older than the other officers in the
company, but the alcohol which he consumed in inordinate amounts seemed to
rejuvenate him. Amazingly, nobody ever noticed in the mornings that Pashkov
was suffering from a hangover.
"Solid bone," declared Morgultsev, rapping Pashkov on the forehead.
"Nothing there to hurt." Pashkov was always first for physical exercises
after any drunken spree. "A bottomless pit," the commander would say
jokingly. "Don't give him any more, it's a waste of a precious product. If
it's free of charge he'll drink a full jerrican of vodka in three days."
After an "introductory" amount, Pashkov's cheeks would redden as if
he'd been out in the sow, he would perk up and become full of energy, like a
car which had just received a tankful of gas. And if he had been ordered to
do so at that moment, Pashkov would have scaled the peak of the highest
mountain in Afghanistan, dragging a mortar on his back, taken on ten spooks
and beaten them!
Pashkov's favorite word was "Montana." He applied it universally - from
the brand of jeans so popular in the Soviet Union, to delight,
understanding, agreement with an interlocutor, happiness and joy. If he did
not like something he would say: "That's not Montana!" He savored today's
vodka very much, real, not some cheap substitute, and he repeated over and
over, wiping a hand across his whiskers:
"Montana, real Montana!"
Pashkov took a bite of ham, spread a thick layer of butter on a slice
of bread.
"Yakshi Montana! Dukan, baksheesh, hanoum, buru!" This was the sum
total of the senior warrant officer's knowledge of the local tongue.
"What did you say?" asked Yepimakhov.
"It's an old Afghan saying," replied Pashkov sagely.
"Literally: shop, gift, woman, get out of here!" translated Morgultsev.
"Don't give him any more to drink!"
"Why's that?"
"Because every time I hear that idiotic phrase, you go on a drinking
bout!"
Ivan Zebrev winced when he drank vodka, so his face always looked worn
and tired.
"How the hell do the Bolsheviks drink this shit?" he would say every
time.
To which Morgultsev's usual reply was:
"Yes, it's as strong as Soviet power!"
Some nights Zebrev, swearing profusely, would command in battle, waking
Sharagin, Chistyakov and Pashkov; without saying a word, they all tacitly
agreed that Zebrev, if he didn't get killed in the meantime, would be the
next company commander. Because inside this medium-built, unprepossessing
and grayish man there was a stubborn, conscientious officer who, through his
ability and application and devotion to the army would climb the career
ladder to the height of battalion commander. People like that are born so
that in due time they will occupy their proper place in the armed forces.
Ivan Zebrev was born to command a battalion, and by all laws he would be a
battalion commander at thirty, and forty, and go on pension with the
battalion commander still alive inside him. At this stage, Zebrev dreamed of
captain's shoulder boards because, as he often stressed and repeated tonight
for Yepimakhov's benefit:
"Captain's boards have more stars on them than any others."
Zhenka Chistyakov always took a sip of pickled gherkin brine after
drinking vodka. Waving aside a can opener, he pushed the lid in with his
elbow, prized it up with his thumbs, speared out all the gherkins with a
fork as if they were fish in a pond and put them on a plate. The can with
the brine he put by his own plate and wouldn't let anyone else touch it.
The deputy commander of the company's political section, senior
lieutenant Nemilov, never drank his entire glass, always left a little at
the bottom. Neither the officers nor the men liked Nemilov, he didn't fit
in. From the very first day he was disliked for his small, cunning, deep-set
eyes, which seemed to lurk inside his skull. It was obvious that he had come
to Afghanistan out of career considerations and personal ambitions, that he
couldn't care less about his colleagues and despised everyone. Even if he
had been a teetotaler, as was implied by some of his fiery speeches at
meetings, the others would have treated him with a measure of distrust, but
would have forgiven what they considered sheer nonsense. But because Nemilov
only acted the part of a high-principled communist, obeying the instructions
of the Party and the new secretary-general comrade Mikhail Sergeyevich
Gorbachev, who had declared war on drunkenness and alcoholism and even
ordered that there should be no champagne at weddings, the officers and men
turned their noses up at the political officer.
However, despite his superciliousness, high-handedness and sententious
pronouncements, senior lieutenant Nemilov did not miss any opportunity to
have a drink with or without good reason, because everyone in Afghanistan
wanted to drink vodka, but not everyone was willing to spend their own money
on it. Moreover, Nemilov did not say much in company, and this fueled
further suspicions.
Nikolai Yepimakhov prepared to down his vodka after every toast with
great care: first he would breathe out, tip the drink down with difficulty,
and it was clear that although he was unaccustomed to drinking in such
quantities, he was doing his best to keep up. The new boy became visibly
drunker by the minute.
Morgultsev, whose lower jaw tended to stick out, and who was often the
butt of jokes to the effect that he must get a mouthful of water every time
it rains, followed each draught with a gherkin, crunching them in evident
enjoyment. He had a prominent forehead, and was the author of many snappy
phrases and sayings such as: "An officer has a head not to eat porridge, but
to wear a cap."
This was his second tour of duty in Afghanistan. He never talked about
the first months after Soviet forces entered Afghanistan in 1979.
Captain Osipov was an unexpected guest, but the legendary "regimental
scout" was greeted enthusiastically, despite the old Russian saying: "An
unbidden guest is worse than a Tatar."
"An unbidden guest is better than a Tatar," quipped Chistyakov when he
saw Osipov.
Osipov drank vodka as though it was ordinary water, occasionally
sniffing an onion. His reconnaissance company had recently caught a caravan
carrying a large consignment of weapons, so a medal for past accomplishments
arrived right on cue. For some days, he had been "watering" his award.
Osipov was of medium height, sturdily built, a tough nut with wiry hair
cropped short, with a prickly mustache and a hard stare, the stare of a lone
wolf. Even drunk, his eyes never lost that hardness, his gaze did not become
blurred but seemed even more penetrating.
"Fuck it, Vasili, show us the medal!" Zhenka Chistyakov held out his
hand. Somewhat reluctantly, captain Osipov parted with his trophy. Zhenka
had no intention of examining the "piece of tin", he had one exactly like it
himself. Chistyakov just wanted to test his friend, so he said: "Shall we
'water' it again?"
"What?" asked Osipov.
"One more time," proceeded Chistyakov, putting the medal in a glass and
filling it to the brim with vodka. "Can you handle it?"
"Sure thing!"
"O, my replacement," said Chistyakov, slapping Yepimakhov on the back
and pointing at captain Osipov: "Remember captain Osipov, he'll go far. A
regimental legend! Not just the regiment - the division! A famous scout!"
"Come off it!"
"This man will soon be awarded the Hero's Star. Fuck it, I heard with
my own ears how the commander said: "I'll give the Hero to whoever gets the
first Stinger from the spooks!" So when are you going to get a Stinger,
Vasili?"
"We're working on it."
"There you go!" Chistyakov held out the glass and slopping out some of
the vodka. "Drink it down, Vasili. God grant you'll be given the Hero. But
that'll be without me. I'm fucking off out of here. .. Enough, I've fought
enough. It's impossible to kill all the Afghans. The bastards breed faster
than we can kill them!"
Captain Osipov stared into the glass as if he were preparing to dive
off a bridge into the river, but couldn't decide at the last moment whether
he should remove his shoes, or the hell with them? He gathered himself and
took the plunge .... Choked, but kept drinking. His short hair seemed to
stand on end, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like the breech of a
rifle, forcing down the vodka. The glass rose to a steeper angle, now it was
vertical, now the medal slid down the side. Captain Osipov seized it in his
teeth and sat there beaming and looking for all the world like a satisfied
walrus. He took the medal out of his mouth, put it back into his pocket,
Prokhorov had taken up a position with a sniper's rifle, and turned to
the cowed sentry:
"Burkov, fuck you! Get over to the sergeant and tell him to come here."
"But I'm on duty, I can't leave my post ..."
"Whaaat? Lost your marbles in attack, or something? On your way -- one
foot here, the other one there!"
At first, they just fooled around to shape up, aiming at rocks and
bushes from the top of the hill. However, this pastime soon palled. Panasyuk
offered a bet to make things more interesting:
"For five chits, all right? Prokhor, let's see which one of us can hit
that donkey over there."
Prokhorov missed, which made him even more angry. Panasyuk got the
donkey with his first shot, leaned back against a rock and pulled out a
packet of cigarettes, while the unlucky grand-dad, boiling with frustration,
studied the village through the rifle sights, hoping that something live
would appear, a domestic animal, say, or an Afghan, so that he could renew
the bet and win back his five chits -- a whole FIVE -- from Panasyuk.
Sharagin went for a piss after his tea and saw the grand-dads messing
around with the rifle. He saw Prokhorov, pop-eyed and red-faced, pull money
out of his pocket and give it to the sergeant. Buttoning up his fly as he
went, Sharagin wandered over to the shooters. He wouldn't mind doing a bit
of shooting himself.
"Hey, Prokhor, look! An old woman's come out! No, no, a bit further to
the right," prompted the sergeant.
"Same conditions as before?" Asked Prokhorov, just to be sure.
"Yep. There's a war on, she's got no business roaming the streets.
Right, comrade lieutenant?"
"I guess so."
"One fucking spook about to bite the dust!" Cried Prokhorov gleefully.
The sun was already low, and the veiled woman cast a long shadow, which
dragged behind her along a wall, as if trying to hold her back from
inevitable disaster.
A 7.62 whooshed toward the village.
The old woman stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought, then slid
slowly to the ground, fell on her side and lay motionless.
"Never cross the road on a red light," quipped one of the men who had
gathered to watch the show.
"Want a go, comrade lieutenant?" Offered Panansyuk. "I'll load it up
with an exploding head, if you like." He retreated a few steps behind the
beaming Prokhorov and returned the five chits. They stood there watching as
their commanding officer settled down on a sleeping bag, and adjusted the
rifle sights.
"Look, look, comrade lieutenant, over on the left by the wall!"
Prompted Titov, eyes glued to a pair of binoculars. "There's a spook there,
see him?"
"Yes, I see him..."
He did not dampen the grand-dads' exhilaration, consenting silently
that the village belonged to the spooks and was thus doomed to destruction,
so there was no point in wasting pity on its inhabitants. He had agreed, so
he, too, was now part of this "game." He lay cradling the rifle and looking
through its sights at an old man who peered out from behind a wall from time
to time.
... Prokhorov's right: there's a war on, they've no business showing
themselves outside ... there's a war on, so it's either them or us ... all
these so-called peaceful civilians, old and young, hate our guts, and given
the chance, they'll wind our gizzards around a pitchfork and put them out
for all to see ... they help the spooks, the bastards, going back and forth
as if they're tending their fields, but at the same time, the sons of
bitches are setting out trip-wires ... "
Sharagin took aim, but at the same moment decided not to kill the old
man, just shoot over his head, and tightened his finger on the trigger. In
training, he had been the best shot in his group. It would be easy to hit
the target at this range -- too easy.
... live, old man ....
"Bet you he'll miss," came a whisper from behind.
" ....."
"No guts?"
"No ... Bet you ten chits." That was Panasyuk.
Sharagin aimed again. A drop of sweat trickled from his hairline past
his ear, down his cheek and fell on the rifle butt. He held his breath. He
couldn't understand why he had suddenly given way to doubts. His fingers
felt the stiffness of the trigger, as though it was resisting him.
"... taking too long to aim, fuck it, he'll miss for sure!" needled
Prokhorov's voice.
The shot boomed out. The old man fell away from the wall, staggered
forward a few steps and fell.
"Ha! Gotcha!" whooped Panasyuk.
"Class shot! Right in the brain box!" Confirmed Titov, still glued to
the binoculars. "Head's gone like it was never there. Just his jawbone
hanging on his neck!"
The armoured vehicles were like pincers around the village; moving
inward, the paratroopers began combing through the village. Groups of
soldiers dispersed along its dusty, crooked streets.
... the village is empty, definitely empty ... and the artillery
pounded the hell out of it ... everyone must be long gone ... but, then, who
knows? ...
A dead donkey lay beside the last hut, distended from the heat like a
barrel to which someone had tied four legs for fun. A suffocating stench of
decaying flesh hung in the air for several dozen meters around.
Suppressing the urge to vomit, the soldiers tried to keep as far away
from it as possible, as if fearing that the rock-hard hide of the dead
animal, bloated to its limits, might burst and douse them with stinking,
rotten matter.
Armed men filed through the winding streets, which were not wide enough
for their vehicles: a BMP was bound to get stuck and become a sitting
target.
The new boys gazed around fearfully, creeping sideways along the walls
in momentary expectation of attack, delaying the others as they pressed
their backs to the blind walls of houses. Lacking experience, borne along
only by the fear and excitement arising out of terror of the unknown, they
could only count on the speed of their reaction, the ability to fire at
once, emptying the entire magazine.
The more experienced soldiers were like predators: listening,
constantly evaluating their position in relation to a possible enemy,
estimating the best and closest cover to dive into at the first sound of a
shot. Intuitively, they sought the temper of the village, tried to catch its
breath, and moved confidently ever deeper, to complete the combing and get
out of this silent, malevolent and alien kingdom.
The men advanced quickly but quietly, fearful of mines and trip-wires.
Their eyes searched the ground. The labyrinths under the houses led to the
very heart of the village.
Part of the village was destroyed by artillery fire: some roofs and
grey mud walls had collapsed, shattered windows were black holes in the
walls of houses. Here and there, on houses that were still standing, there
were small Chinese-manufactured padlocks -- a sure sign that the inhabitants
had fled, expecting the worst, but hoped to return at some later time.
"Check 'em out!"
A door was rammed in.
"Sychev, follow me!" Ordered Sharagin. "Titov, Myshkovsky! Check
opposite, in the yard!"
"All clear!"
"The spooks have fucked off!..."
Captain Morgultsev took off his hat, wiped the sweat off his brow with
his sleeve, and unfolded a map on the armour.
"Combing through the "greenery" is like chasing lice out of your hair
with a bloody fine-tooth comb ... All right ...The Afghan units will move in
from here, and here. Our orders are to move along here." He poked a finger
at a green-shaded section on the map, criss-crossed by roads, like so many
veins.
"To hell and gone with that fucking greenery!" Chistyakov hawked and
spat through his teeth, then rubbed the spittle into the ground with the toe
of his boot. "Can't we do without those bloody Afghans? They'll scare off
the spooks for miles around!"
... wants to take a last drink of blood, and there aren't any spooks
about, nobody to kill ...
guessed Sharagin.
"Comrade senior lieutenant!" squeaked the political officer. "Enough of
your fu ... '' he cut himself off. ''Enough of these emotional outbursts!
They're our military allies!"
Chistyakov bit his lip, scowled at Nemilov and burst out:
"What do you fucking well want, more than anyone else?"
"Bloody hell, will you stop that?!" interrupted Morgultsev. He gave the
platoon leaders their instructions and ordered them to their vehicles.
"I won't leave it at that," fumed the political officer. "I don't care
if he's due for replacement! What kind of an example is he setting others?"
"Leave him alone," advised Morgultsev.
Sharagin's BMP bounced across a trench, the armour slicing through a
corner of a house, and raced away from the village.
They penetrated deeper into the valley and the "greenery", breathing in
the unhealthy, greasy dust of deserted houses, the treads of BMPs churning
up the spooks' former land holdings, driving them away and pursuing; their
advance drove the spooks back from their bolt-holes, squeezed them out of
the valley, pointing them toward other hunters, even though they knew that
once the operation was over and the companies went back to base, the spooks
who had managed to break through would return and bring others with them,
return and take up residence once more, and revolutionary power would never
be established in these parts.
Unruly and defiant, condemned as treacherous or subversive, at times
due to errors inevitable in war time, the villages were methodically pounded
by Soviet air power and artillery. Heavy arms fire felled and destroyed
Muslim gravestones, flags fluttering in the wind. Shells disemboweled
cemeteries and homes of the heathen, cleared Afghan mountains, plains and
deserts of the spooks, of the unclean, making way for the builders of a new,
bright future. The shuravi hoped the time would come when they would finally
wipe all treacherous villages from the face of the earth. Villages fell,
burned, disintegrated, but for some reason never disappeared completely.
Like scabbed-over sores they lay on mountain slopes, in the "greenery" and
along roadsides -- a blind reproach, malignant and unforgiving of what was
done to them, ready to wreak revenge for the cruelty with which, free from
doubt and hesitation, the people from the North, the shuravi, who always did
whatever they wanted, had dealt with them.
A lone, stunted tree stuck out above a long, partially ruined wall,
chunks missing from it like bites from an apple. The tree had lost its crown
in the shelling, but it still lived. It looked out fearfully at the
surrounding world after the artillery storm.
... just like that old man behind the house ...
The familiar, relatively safe passage of life, accompanied by the roar
of diesel engines and shuddering armour, suddenly broke off. A grenade
launcher opened up on the first BMP from behind the wall.
... like a fireball ...
it flew from the shelter of the wall, beside the tree, and a moment
later the armour under Oleg jumped. The shell hit the vehicle's tread,
blasting it off.
Whee, whee, whee! Screamed wayward spook bullets on all sides. Soldiers
fell flat, pressing themselves against the ground, into the dust, dived
under vehicles. Everyone took whatever shelter they could.
A machine gun chattered in fury and hatred, striving to kill off as
many as it could of these suddenly vulnerable people, jumping off the armour
to the ground.
Sergeant Panasyuk was caught in mid-leap. He bounded up and fell like a
sack on his back; his helmet rolled away, and his hand clenched his gun.
The sergeant had no time to even shout, he just grunted almost
inaudibly, as if to himself, before his long, bony body struck the ground.
In the all-embracing silence before death, the sergeant was quiet and
relaxed for the first time in one and a half years of war, as if he had
returned home and wrapped himself in a blanket, hid his head and went to
sleep.
Hefty Titov crawled up and dragged him behind the BMP, pulled off his
bullet-proof vest, and only then saw the reddish-brown spot on Panasyuk's
shirt.
The battle cut off the squad from the rest of the world, deafened it
with shell-fire, blinded it with explosions; lead whizzed all around.
Sharagin emptied his second magazine, replaced it and turned, wondering
why the BMPs were not firing. The cannon of the nearest one was swiveling
back and forth. Prokhorov, staggering, as if drunk, could not figure out
where the fire was coming from and where the spooks had taken up their
position. Finally he fired by guess: Kaboom! Kaboom! Kaboom!
Kaboom! Kaboom! Came belated fire from the second BMP.
... serve the bastards right! ... give them another one! ...
Ah, that was better. Now all guns were firing.
Shattered by explosions, the village fell silent. The spooks must be
retreating. But the infuriated soldiers kept raking the area with every
available weapon. Eventually the barrage ceased, hot barrels cooling one
after another.
Death, which seemed to have come from nowhere and almost won, fell back
in the face of the soldiers' desperate resistance, taking sergeant Panasyuk
with it.
He lay there with an expression of faint chagrin or disappointment on
his face, his legs bent and doubled over like a snapped branch, pitiful,
frail, shot through the side just in the spot left exposed by the
bullet-proof vest.
Sharagin railed, swore at the radio operator, who spluttered
desperately, trying to summon a helicopter. There was not a single cloud in
the sky, and not a single chopper. Time was passing, flying away
uncontrolled, and together with it, with those speeding minutes that
replaced one another on the liquid crystal display of the black, quartz
watch in a plastic thick casing on the sergeant's wrist, hope faded.
"Where the hell are they, the swine!" Shouted Sharagin, but there was
nothing anyone could say. "I've got a man dying here!" He yelled into the
silent airwaves.
Titov, Prokhorov and others stared at the distant pass, hoping to catch
sight of the choppers, then looked back at Panasyuk, seeing how he was
slipping away, without a word of farewell, into another world, giving up,
cornered and unable to find anything to grasp and hold on to life. The
younger soldiers gaped at their dying comrade in terror, as though they
could no longer recognize him, so helpless and no longer in charge of them.
The men wandered around, smoking, chewing dry rations, talking in muted
voices, and each one was thinking: fuck, what lousy luck ...
Unable to do anything, the squad leader went through moments of
despair. When the sergeant opened his eyes slightly for the last time,
Sharagin thought:
... it'll be all right ... hang on, just don't die ...
Even though it was obvious that the sergeant wouldn't pull through: and
in that moment, in some distant corner of his mind, a hint of his own death
raised its head, a hint he immediately and naturally brushed aside, unable
to agree or accept such an eventuality, but at the same time, he wished that
his own end would be quick and without suffering.
Panasyuk died fifteen minutes before the choppers arrived. Lieutenant
Sharagin sat beside the dead sergeant, exhausted, drained, for the first
time in his service in Afghanistan cursing the war, cursing himself,
suffering as though he could have stopped those bullets that penetrate human
bodies, or dissipate the fog at the other end of the pass, so the
helicopters could come sooner and get the sergeant to the hospital on time.
He saw Yepimakhov for the first time when he returned to the regiment
after conducting the column, and was dragging his tired body to the
barracks, thinking only of two things - to have a bath and down a glass of
vodka. Zhenka had stopped in town and bought a couple of bottles. Almost as
if he knew they would be needed.
The new man with a lieutenant's shoulder boards was being escorted
toward regimental headquarters by a soldier. He was dressed in a "Union"
uniform, which nobody in Afghanistan had worn for a long time as it had been
superseded by the special so-called "experimental" uniform, supposedly
tailored to new field conditions. The soldier was lugging a suitcase,
bending under its weight, and a carrier bag. The lieutenant, natty in a
tailored military jacket with a high collar, carried a greatcoat over his
left arm.
.... must be Zhenka's replacement at last ....
Sharagin unlocked the Chinese padlock which hung on two bent nails
after they had lost the only key to the dead lock on the door and stepped
into the tiny entry hall. He leaned his rifle against the wall, dropped his
rucksack on the floor, gave a tired yank at his bootlaces, too lazy to undo
them completely, and got his boots off by pushing the heel of one with the
toe of the other foot. He flung back the curtain separating the entrance,
and stepped into the main room. The platoon leaders and sergeant lived here,
surrounded by family photographs and cuttings out of the "Ogonyok" magazine
pinned to the walls. Standard iron bunks lined the walls, and a doorless
clothes cupboard leaned crookedly. A heating pipe ran under the window with
a thin, flat radiator which leaked frequently and was therefore rusted
through. Wooden pegs were stuck into the radiator here and there, where the
leaks were strongest. They all froze in winter, wrapped themselves in their
greatcoats. Home-made heaters made no difference. A lone, naked light bulb
hung from the ceiling. Greatcoats hung on nails hammered into the walls. A
twin-cassette player stood on the table, surrounded by old newspapers and an
ashtray made out of half of a can of imported "Si-Si" soda.
... towel, soap, clean underwear...that's all ...
The burner by the bath-house was silent, cooling down.
... too damn late...
Usually the gas burner hissed, throwing out a tongue of flame, heating
up the steam room. Sharagin threw off his stiff uniform and underwear, which
stank of sweat and diesel and which he had not changed for some time, and
his socks which had a big hole on one toe and also smelled terrible and
stuck to his road-weary feet. He did not throw away the socks, but washed
them with the rest of his clothing. The trickle of water from the shower was
lukewarm, but he gloried in it nonetheless. He stood under it for at least
five minutes as if trying to soak himself through and through, rubbing his
body briskly with a sponge to get rid of the accumulated dirt,
simultaneously shedding the fatigue and nervousness brought on by combat,
washed his cropped hair.
... maybe I should shave my head bald once more? No, once was enough
...
He scraped his cheeks under the now cold shower, swore at the cheap
blade which lost its edge straight after contact with the stubble of many
days.
... the unit had not noticed the loss of a soldier ... they had not
even had time to deal with the enemy properly ... this particular lot of
spooks was very crafty, retreating from battle along mountain tracks,
underground tunnels ... But Chistyakov got his way, did some shooting later
... battalion reconnaissance took three prisoners... one spook was bumped
off on the way ...
All these days, the simplicity and unexpectedness of Panasyuk's death
haunted Sharagin and the war, which had previously given special color to
the imagination, a whole spectrum of exhilarating shades and fascinating
variety of sounds, now seemed bleak and almost monochrome. Earlier the war
had enticed and beckoned with unlimited shooting, frightened from afar with
shell explosions, warned against hidden peril with triggered mines which
concussed but did not kill. Now, for the first time, war had struck a vital
blow, which was serious and extremely painful. War had descended suddenly on
all sides, grim, real, merciless. From now on, Death kept a sharp eye on
every individual, walked in step and whispered something, its breath cold on
the back of the neck.
The bath-house was fast becoming cold. Sharagin splashed a few dippers
on the stones, climbed on to the top bench, stretched himself, closed his
eyes and relaxed. He almost fell asleep. Once something similar happened to
Pashkov, who had drunk a lot, set out for a steam bath and went to sleep on
the top bench. If it were not for the soldier who stood guard at the
bath-house, Pashkov would have been broiled like a lobster. When he was
shaken awake, he could barely move his whiskers and had no idea about where
he was. He drank nothing but mineral water for a whole week after that. When
Sharagin had soaked enough and washed himself clean, he felt fresh in mind
and body
... like a newborn baby...
He went out into the dressing room and was already standing on the
plank floor, barefoot and in his underpants, when he suddenly felt a sharp
surge of desire twist him up inside. Male need.
In order not to embarrass himself before other officers, he bent over
quickly, sat on a bench and pulled on his trousers.
He had forgotten all about that in the last few months, but now, after
the bath, he needed a woman. Badly. So much that he ground his teeth.
... you couldn't bend it using both hands...
The meager handful of women in the company were all accounted for.
Paired off, living with senior officers, no way you could approach them.
Sharagin went out and lit a cigarette.
... it's easier for the "elephants" ... those who are more shy,
masturbate in secret, on sentry duty, when else is a soldier alone? or in
the latrine, surrounded by the stink of shit...but what am I to do? I don't
know how to do it for money ... guzzling vodka is all that's left!... Zhenka
manages much better, straight into battle with reconnaissance and claims
victory over the latest girl...and forgets about it the next day...
... what does a man really need in wartime?..
he wondered, returning from the bath-house.
-"food, medals, vodka and dames!" according to Morgultsev ....well, the
food situation is bearable, there are never enough medals to go around, nor
enough vodka, either, but especially women ... you'd think they'd bring in
enough for everyone, so you wouldn't have to think about it! ... good thing
the replacement's arrived, it will mean a drink or two! ..
The orderly on duty pulled himself to attention and reported that
Chistyakov's replacement had arrived , and that the company had gone off to
eat.
Sharagin hung out his washing, lay down on his bunk and turned his head
to the wall, facing the photograph of Lena and Nastyusha. The gray cardboard
was cut unevenly around the edges to palm size, because for some time he
carried the photo in his pocket. Wife and daughter were frozen in unnatural,
tense poses before the camera, having taken inordinate pains to look as good
as possible.
The tasteless provincial hairdresser had given Lena a "stylish" hairdo,
hiding her beautiful long hair. For some reason she had colored her lips and
eyelashes with something. Her wide-spaced, usually bright and warm eyes,
high forehead and clear, touching face were immobile, as though they had
frozen Lena, enchained her, frightened her. Meek and helpless, but strong in
her love for him, and fearful for him, she seemed to look into the camera
lens as though trying to catch a glimpse of the future, the day when he
would receive this photo, in order to tell him of her love, her anxiety,
about all that surrounds a woman who is left for a long time without the
husband who has gone off to war. Nastyusha had huge bows of ribbon on both
sides of her head, making her look like a funny toy.
... it would have been better to take the photo at home ...
At the moment when "the birdie" flew out they, naturally, were thinking
of Daddy, who was serving in a distant country, and their fears were
involuntarily captured on film.
He had never known the pulling power of photographs before. That a
glance at a photograph is like a voyage in time: a moment of human life is
permanently fixed on a card, so tiny that the person probably did not even
notice it or attach any significance to it, it's like a trip into the past,
a projection into another dimension.
He closed his eyes and imagined the hairdresser's they usually went to
- on the corner near the railway station, possibly the only one in town.
Then - how they stood in line holding the receipt until their time came,
probably going to the mirror a few times to check how they looked, tried to
tune themselves up to smile and then headed back home, dressed in their
Sunday best, along the pitted, dirty streets.
... I bet it was Mother's idea to have that photo taken ...
He did not lie alone for long. Solitude is a great luxury in the army.
The door squeaked open, and senior lieutenant Ivan Zebrev, commander of the
1st platoon entered and, in joyful anticipation of the imminent drinking
spree, announced:
"Chistyakov's replacement has arrived.!" and added his favorite
"Ulyu-ulyu!"
"I know, I saw him."
"Zhenka's beside himself with joy. He's making sure not a speck of dust
settles on him. You could die laughing. He even missed going to the
bath-house, but took the lieutenant by the elbow and steered him off
somewhere. Listen - this is what we'll do. My "elephants" - harrumph! - are
on kitchen duty today, so they'll set up everything, and we'll all make
tracks there after lights out. We'll have a wow of a time. It's been a long
time since we got drunk. What's that you said? You sick or something?"
"Just tired. Is there anything to drink right now?"
"Harrumph!.." Zebrev dived under Chistyakov's bunk and emerged with a
bottle in his hands. "How much d'you want?"
"About a hundred grams..."
It was hard to force down the industrial alcohol. Even if drunk half
and half with juice or water, it gave off a tang of either kerosene or
rubber, seemed to stop in your throat and, after drinking a bottle of that
garbage some people broke out in red spots.
"Going to eat?"
"No thanks, Ivan, I won't bother if we're going to be eating later."
"Right. I'm off for a wash, and then to feed my face."
"There's almost no water left."
"See you!"
For a while longer Oleg remained alone. Relaxed by the alcohol, he
pulled out and re-read his wife's last letters. Lena never complained and
never would complain about any difficulties, especially in a letter. She
wrote only about good things, even if they were a tiny drop once a month.
She wrote that she loved him and was waiting for him. She described all the
new and funny things Nastya had said, how quickly she was changing, how
fascinating it is to watch a child's reactions to the surrounding world, and
did not fail to mention that Nastya loves her Daddy very much and misses
him.
He really ought to sit down and write, but he couldn't get into the
right mood. The words written down on paper became generalized, even if warm
and sufficiently understandable to someone close who was far away and
suffering anxiety. As a rule the tone of his letters was restrained, brief,
from a desire to save the really important words for his return home.
... Lena will understand. Lena will forgive ...
Distrust of the army postal service precluded putting anything secretly
sentimental in a letter. Letters from home were sometimes a week late, and
on the back of the envelope he had twice seen the stamp "Letter received in
damaged condition." That meant that the letter had been opened, checked,
possibly read. Sometimes letters did not arrive at all. It was assumed, in
such cases, that some swine of a soldier on duty at the post office had
opened the letter in search of money - cash was often enclosed - and then
thrown the letter away instead of resealing the envelope.
Suspicion also fell on the KGB personnel, and he did not want some KGB
sneak finding out the thoughts of lieutenant Sharagin.
In the barracks, everything went haywire whenever senior lieutenant
Chistyakov appeared on the threshold. The men would report glibly, one after
another. Chistyakov had trained them well, had them running on a string.
Zhenka was a bit "under the weather", his face red
... he's already had a drop or two...
thrusting the lieutenant in the "Union" uniform into the room. "Olly!
Fuck it, why are you lying around? Reveille! It's my big day today! Look
who's here - my replacement!"
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Nikolai Yepimakhov, " said the newcomer,
standing uncertainly between the doorframe and his big suitcase.
"Come in, come in," urged Chistyakov, dragging him forward. "Take a
seat, you'll soon be at home here. "
"Where?"
"On this chair. We need some more glasses," fussed Zhenka. He fished
under his bunk for the bottle and was surprised to find it had been opened.
"Shit, you're gone for half an hour, and some sonofabitch takes advantage!"
"What's the matter?" asked Oleg, not understanding.
"Someone's been at my vodka!"
"Actually, I took a swig."
"Oh.. well, in that case, all right," replied Chistyakov approvingly.
"Right, mate, we'll drink later. Meantime, let's go get you some cotton
clothes. It won't do to be wandering around the regiment in Union uniform.!"
Chistyakov's farewell party made Oleg feel sad. Zhenka had been part of
his first months of service, Zhenka had taught him how to survive in
Afghanistan.
However, Sharagin liked the look of the new lieutenant, and this helped
lessen the gloom.
There was something child-like in Nikolai Yepimakhov that immediately
appealed, something clean and naive - in his eyes, his long eyelashes, in
his unfeigned enthusiasm, mixed with a measure of shyness, in the way he
would spread a thick layer of butter on a slice of bread and top it off with
home-made jam or sweetened condensed milk from additional rations, sipping
tea into which he put at least six lumps of sugar.
... interesting, how did he get into the army at all? ..
Yepimakhov changed his uniform for the "experimental" rig and now held
himself proudly, trying not to crease his imperfectly ironed new outfit. His
uniform stood out in its bright greenish-yellow markings and smell of dust
from the quartermaster's shelves. The clothing of the other officers in the
room was faded from numerous washings, almost colorless.
"Fabulous uniform!" enthused the lieutenant. Like a child, he played
with the Velcro stickers on the pockets. "It's really comfortable, and all
these pockets...!"
"Sure," interjected Ivan Zebrev, "only for some reason you're cold in
it in winter, and boil to death in summer..."
Zhenka Chistyakov, as hero of the day, poured the drinks. He also
offered a toast: "To replacements! I've been a long time waiting for you,
baby!"
... we drink the first seventeen toasts quickly, and another forty nine
slowly...
That was how such parties usually went.
In the short breaks between toasts, everyone questioned the newcomer
about news from home, and where had he served and with whom.
Paratroops means a school in Ryazan and a few air-borne divisions and
storm brigades for the entire Soviet Union. Its like being on a small
island, on which it is hard to land and even harder to leave, where everyone
knows everything about each other: either they studied together, either they
served together, or from hearsay. A closed circuit. Being a paratrooper
means belonging to a caste, the elite among the armed services, great pride
and amazing chauvinism with regard to the other branches of the armed
forces.
... paratroopers are like mythical beasts, descending from the skies
... there's nobody to equal us! ... the paras strike unexpectedly, like the
wrath of God, they are as unpredictable as Judgment Day...
'Where'd you guys buy vodka?" asked Yepimakhov in his turn.
"From the locals," replied Sharagin.
"Wha-a-t?" Yepimakhov glanced warily at his glass, and tried again.
"I've heard that they often sell poisoned stuff..."
"Hey, you don't want it, don't drink it!" retorted Pashkov.
"Personally, I've become im-mu-ne (he stressed the word deliberately, don't
teach granny to suck eggs, boy!) to it."
"Quit scaring him," protested Sharagin. "They'd never dare sell
poisoned vodka in Kabul, and everyone knows where they bought their supply."
"If need be, we'll shell the shop," explained Zhenka Chistyakov.
They were nearing the end of the third bottle when captain Morgultsev
arrived together with captain Osipov from Reconnaissance.
The entrance door flew open, and somebody coughed loudly. It was clear
that the arrivals were friends, so everyone continued eating and drinking as
though nothing had happened except for lieutenant Yepimakhov, who shifted
uneasily and put aside his glass, obviously afraid of being caught drinking
on his first day.
Yepimakhov did not know that any appearance by one of the regimental or
battalion brass within fifty meters of the barracks would be spotted
immediately by some of the juniors, who had been taught to stand guard, and
who would warn the officers in time to avoid being punished for drinking
just because some damn sonofabitch in the political section had insomnia.
Captain Morgultsev was worried about something, and therefore sounded
aggressive:
"Bloody hell! Why are you giving me this thimble? Pour me a proper
glass - right, right, half is enough. Got another glass?" Warrant officer
Pashkov trotted over to the hand-basin, rinsed out a mug and placed it in
front of captain Osipov. "Right men, your health! To you, Chistyakov!"
"When are you off?" asked Osipov.
"No need to hurry now."
"I thought you'd be off first thing tomorrow."
"I have to get rid of the hangover tomorrow, tidy up any loose ends..."
"Any loose ends are already in the hands of the military prosecutors,"
joked Pashkov, who was on the jump, opening new cans and clearing things
from the table.
"...get a good sleep, get my gear together," continued Chistyakov,
oblivious of Pashkov's attempt at humor. "Then I have to go around and say
good-bye to everyone..."
"And get roaring drunk again in the evening. Ha-ha-ha!" needled Pashkov
with a braying laugh that shook the barracks.
"By the way, Sharagin, take a good look through your idiots' stuff. I
feel it in my bones that they got some hash when you went out on combat
duty. Damn their eyes," said Morgultsev angrily. "They'll smoke themselves
silly on shit ... You know full well that our sergeant does bugger all about
it," he indicated Pashkov. "All he can do is chuck grenades at scorpions..."
Everyone laughed except Pashkov.
"Sorry, comrade captain, but that's unfair. Everything in our unit's
tip-top..."
"Nobody's asking you, warrant officer!" snapped Morgultsev. "Never mind
shoving your fucking nose into officers' discussions!"
"Senior warrant officer, " corrected Pashkov.
"Same shit," retorted his commander.
Pashkov never took umbrage. He was not young and very cunning, like all
warrant officers. Morgultsev once remarked, that "being a warrant officer is
a state of the soul" and that "the world is divided into people who can
become warrant officers, and those who cannot." The company commander was
fond of Pashkov, but yelled at him in public, chewed him out like a raw
recruit and accused him of all the deadly sins. Pashkov drank in one gulp,
not eating anything afterwards. He was older than the other officers in the
company, but the alcohol which he consumed in inordinate amounts seemed to
rejuvenate him. Amazingly, nobody ever noticed in the mornings that Pashkov
was suffering from a hangover.
"Solid bone," declared Morgultsev, rapping Pashkov on the forehead.
"Nothing there to hurt." Pashkov was always first for physical exercises
after any drunken spree. "A bottomless pit," the commander would say
jokingly. "Don't give him any more, it's a waste of a precious product. If
it's free of charge he'll drink a full jerrican of vodka in three days."
After an "introductory" amount, Pashkov's cheeks would redden as if
he'd been out in the sow, he would perk up and become full of energy, like a
car which had just received a tankful of gas. And if he had been ordered to
do so at that moment, Pashkov would have scaled the peak of the highest
mountain in Afghanistan, dragging a mortar on his back, taken on ten spooks
and beaten them!
Pashkov's favorite word was "Montana." He applied it universally - from
the brand of jeans so popular in the Soviet Union, to delight,
understanding, agreement with an interlocutor, happiness and joy. If he did
not like something he would say: "That's not Montana!" He savored today's
vodka very much, real, not some cheap substitute, and he repeated over and
over, wiping a hand across his whiskers:
"Montana, real Montana!"
Pashkov took a bite of ham, spread a thick layer of butter on a slice
of bread.
"Yakshi Montana! Dukan, baksheesh, hanoum, buru!" This was the sum
total of the senior warrant officer's knowledge of the local tongue.
"What did you say?" asked Yepimakhov.
"It's an old Afghan saying," replied Pashkov sagely.
"Literally: shop, gift, woman, get out of here!" translated Morgultsev.
"Don't give him any more to drink!"
"Why's that?"
"Because every time I hear that idiotic phrase, you go on a drinking
bout!"
Ivan Zebrev winced when he drank vodka, so his face always looked worn
and tired.
"How the hell do the Bolsheviks drink this shit?" he would say every
time.
To which Morgultsev's usual reply was:
"Yes, it's as strong as Soviet power!"
Some nights Zebrev, swearing profusely, would command in battle, waking
Sharagin, Chistyakov and Pashkov; without saying a word, they all tacitly
agreed that Zebrev, if he didn't get killed in the meantime, would be the
next company commander. Because inside this medium-built, unprepossessing
and grayish man there was a stubborn, conscientious officer who, through his
ability and application and devotion to the army would climb the career
ladder to the height of battalion commander. People like that are born so
that in due time they will occupy their proper place in the armed forces.
Ivan Zebrev was born to command a battalion, and by all laws he would be a
battalion commander at thirty, and forty, and go on pension with the
battalion commander still alive inside him. At this stage, Zebrev dreamed of
captain's shoulder boards because, as he often stressed and repeated tonight
for Yepimakhov's benefit:
"Captain's boards have more stars on them than any others."
Zhenka Chistyakov always took a sip of pickled gherkin brine after
drinking vodka. Waving aside a can opener, he pushed the lid in with his
elbow, prized it up with his thumbs, speared out all the gherkins with a
fork as if they were fish in a pond and put them on a plate. The can with
the brine he put by his own plate and wouldn't let anyone else touch it.
The deputy commander of the company's political section, senior
lieutenant Nemilov, never drank his entire glass, always left a little at
the bottom. Neither the officers nor the men liked Nemilov, he didn't fit
in. From the very first day he was disliked for his small, cunning, deep-set
eyes, which seemed to lurk inside his skull. It was obvious that he had come
to Afghanistan out of career considerations and personal ambitions, that he
couldn't care less about his colleagues and despised everyone. Even if he
had been a teetotaler, as was implied by some of his fiery speeches at
meetings, the others would have treated him with a measure of distrust, but
would have forgiven what they considered sheer nonsense. But because Nemilov
only acted the part of a high-principled communist, obeying the instructions
of the Party and the new secretary-general comrade Mikhail Sergeyevich
Gorbachev, who had declared war on drunkenness and alcoholism and even
ordered that there should be no champagne at weddings, the officers and men
turned their noses up at the political officer.
However, despite his superciliousness, high-handedness and sententious
pronouncements, senior lieutenant Nemilov did not miss any opportunity to
have a drink with or without good reason, because everyone in Afghanistan
wanted to drink vodka, but not everyone was willing to spend their own money
on it. Moreover, Nemilov did not say much in company, and this fueled
further suspicions.
Nikolai Yepimakhov prepared to down his vodka after every toast with
great care: first he would breathe out, tip the drink down with difficulty,
and it was clear that although he was unaccustomed to drinking in such
quantities, he was doing his best to keep up. The new boy became visibly
drunker by the minute.
Morgultsev, whose lower jaw tended to stick out, and who was often the
butt of jokes to the effect that he must get a mouthful of water every time
it rains, followed each draught with a gherkin, crunching them in evident
enjoyment. He had a prominent forehead, and was the author of many snappy
phrases and sayings such as: "An officer has a head not to eat porridge, but
to wear a cap."
This was his second tour of duty in Afghanistan. He never talked about
the first months after Soviet forces entered Afghanistan in 1979.
Captain Osipov was an unexpected guest, but the legendary "regimental
scout" was greeted enthusiastically, despite the old Russian saying: "An
unbidden guest is worse than a Tatar."
"An unbidden guest is better than a Tatar," quipped Chistyakov when he
saw Osipov.
Osipov drank vodka as though it was ordinary water, occasionally
sniffing an onion. His reconnaissance company had recently caught a caravan
carrying a large consignment of weapons, so a medal for past accomplishments
arrived right on cue. For some days, he had been "watering" his award.
Osipov was of medium height, sturdily built, a tough nut with wiry hair
cropped short, with a prickly mustache and a hard stare, the stare of a lone
wolf. Even drunk, his eyes never lost that hardness, his gaze did not become
blurred but seemed even more penetrating.
"Fuck it, Vasili, show us the medal!" Zhenka Chistyakov held out his
hand. Somewhat reluctantly, captain Osipov parted with his trophy. Zhenka
had no intention of examining the "piece of tin", he had one exactly like it
himself. Chistyakov just wanted to test his friend, so he said: "Shall we
'water' it again?"
"What?" asked Osipov.
"One more time," proceeded Chistyakov, putting the medal in a glass and
filling it to the brim with vodka. "Can you handle it?"
"Sure thing!"
"O, my replacement," said Chistyakov, slapping Yepimakhov on the back
and pointing at captain Osipov: "Remember captain Osipov, he'll go far. A
regimental legend! Not just the regiment - the division! A famous scout!"
"Come off it!"
"This man will soon be awarded the Hero's Star. Fuck it, I heard with
my own ears how the commander said: "I'll give the Hero to whoever gets the
first Stinger from the spooks!" So when are you going to get a Stinger,
Vasili?"
"We're working on it."
"There you go!" Chistyakov held out the glass and slopping out some of
the vodka. "Drink it down, Vasili. God grant you'll be given the Hero. But
that'll be without me. I'm fucking off out of here. .. Enough, I've fought
enough. It's impossible to kill all the Afghans. The bastards breed faster
than we can kill them!"
Captain Osipov stared into the glass as if he were preparing to dive
off a bridge into the river, but couldn't decide at the last moment whether
he should remove his shoes, or the hell with them? He gathered himself and
took the plunge .... Choked, but kept drinking. His short hair seemed to
stand on end, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like the breech of a
rifle, forcing down the vodka. The glass rose to a steeper angle, now it was
vertical, now the medal slid down the side. Captain Osipov seized it in his
teeth and sat there beaming and looking for all the world like a satisfied
walrus. He took the medal out of his mouth, put it back into his pocket,