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cleared his throat and took a bite out of a chunk of ham, which had been cut
the way men cut - in thick slices.
"Basta! " said Osipov when Zhenka began to pour for the next toast.
"I've had my litre for today ... one should practice moderation, my fellow
gentlemen-officers!"
"That's what I'm always saying," added Morgultsev. "Drink your norm,
and into bed."
A few months ago Morgultsev had behaved differently, more simply and
comradely, and would not have left until the last drop had been drunk. Now
that he was aiming to become battalion commander, he kept his distance from
his subordinates. Furthermore, the captain felt that the newly-arrived
lieutenant should begin his service in strict observance of discipline, and
not a drunken spree. However, there was no way he could forbid Zhenka's
farewell evening.
Morgultsev reluctantly stayed another strained quarter of an hour, but
managed to drink quite a lot in that time. Finally he rose from the table,
pleading pressure of work and collected Osipov, who was dead drunk. Nemilov
began taking his leave as well.
... it's way over time...
Morgultsev poured a final glass, breathed out with all his might and
downed it with a single gulp, belched loudly and grabbed the last gherkin:
"I'm off, guys. Make sure you keep order here, dammit! Sharagin, you're
the least drunk. I'm making you responsible!"
"Don't worry, Volodya, everything will be fine," promised Chistyakov.
"Bye, Volodya," intoned lieutenant Yepimakhov, completely drunk and
barely able to move his tongue, without realizing that Morgultsev had not
left yet. "He's a first class guy, our commander! And all you guys are all
first class..."
"On your feet, comrade lieutenant!" bellowed Morgultsev, forging back
into the room. "Attention! Who the hell do you think you are, comrade
lieutenant? You go teach your granny to piss through a straw first! I'm not
your kith and kin for you to use the familiar form of address to me! Do you
understand that, comrade lieutenant?"
Lieutenant Yepimakhov stood rocking slightly and trying to find an
answer. Instead of that, he suddenly gave a loud hiccup.
All the officers burst out laughing, and the tension dissipated.
"What's so funny?" asked Pashkov plaintively.
After Morgultsev left, everyone took a turn at imitating Yepimakhov. He
sat there, embarrassed and magically sober, blushing like a schoolgirl.
Everyone in the room was drunk.
... when you're drunk, you want it even more, I'd smother anyone I
could drag into bed right now ...
Sharagin drank all evening without cheating, taking little part in the
conversation and watching Chistyakov and Yepimakhov.
The lieutenant choked but forced himself to drink vodka in order not to
shame himself before his new comrades. He listened avidly to stories about
the Panjsher Valley, twiddling his wheat-colored mustache and poking at it
with his tongue. In spite of the drink, his eyes glistened with interest.
Chistyakov was not as tall as Yepimakhov, but more solidly built, more
muscular. His hair had started to thin and hung down onto his forehead in
stringy wisps, his eyes either went around the room slowly, softly, then
seeming to stop, die. When he looked at his neighbor with that colorless
gaze, it was impossible to tell whether Chistyakov felt anything about what
he was telling, or not.
Drunk Chistyakov was remembering how he was wounded and had to pick out
fragments which had entered his body in different places. Pointing at a deep
cleft a centimeter from his eye, he explained:
"Just a fraction over, and I could have played the leading part in a
film about general Kutuzov. "
Zhenka knew dozens of stories about the spooks and took pleasure in
regaling his replacement with them, so that the new boy would realize that
there was a real war on here, fuck it, that they weren't playing
pick-up-sticks.
Chistyakov called the Afghans "monkeys" and repeated constantly that if
he had his way, they would all be exterminated, root and branch.
"But why all of them?" protested Yepimakhov. "Are the simple peasants
guilty of anything?"
...O, God, another truth-seeker ...
"Why?" exploded Chistyakov. "Why? Because your fucking peasants finish
off our wounded with pitchforks! And hang out severed heads in the
marketplace! Animals!"
... poor naive kid ...
Yepimakhov wriggled around uneasily in his chair while Zhenka informed
him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had
been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The
Afghan lay without breathing
Yepimakhov wriggled around uneasily in his chair while Zhenka informed
him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had
been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The
Afghan lay dead, his body jerking as it was riddled by bullets.
...Zhenka laughed, then spat in the spook's face ...
The new lieutenant was fascinated by stories about the real war, no
doubt about it, it was all new and rather strange, rather frightening. Not
frightening because combat officers could casually discuss with panache how
to kill someone, and not from the realistic descriptions, but out of fear
that something like that would happen to him, the way it had with the
platoon commander Chistyakov had mentioned - the one who got blown up on his
first sortie. As for any normal person, something quaked inside Yepimakhov
at the thought that there were two more years he would have to spend at war,
that anything at all could happen to him, that he might stop a bullet from a
"Boer" at the very beginning of his service.
"That's an old rifle, dates back to the start of the century, "
explained Chistyakov. "The spooks can hit you in the head from a distance of
three kilometers. The rifles were left here by the English. The Afghans beat
the shit out of the English. Killed half the expeditionary corps, the other
half dies from hepatitis..."
The vodka helped in overcoming bad premonitions and Yepimakhov
listened, spellbound. They filled him to the brim with stories and drink.
That evening he had only one real hero, one truly combat-hardened
officer - senior lieutenant Chistyakov, who would be leaving Afghanistan in
a few days time with a combat medal.
Sharagin reacted quite differently to his friend's tales. He was
genuinely fond of Zhenka, pitied him but acknowledged that he feared him a
bit at times because Zhenka was not quite right in the head, just like many
who had served a full term in Afghanistan, not sitting in HQ, but taking a
big and real part in the fighting.
It was said that Zhenka had changed noticeably in two years. He came to
Afghanistan voluntarily, like his brother Andrei.
... probably came here just as green and naive as lieutenant Yepimakhov
...
There was no more cheerful officer in the regiment or, indeed, the
battalion than Chistyakov He lived easily, served diligently, fought well
and bravely, so he was put up for a medal in a few months' time. The
battalion commander thought the world of Zhenka.
Then once Zhenka wandered in to visit the regimental Counter
Intelligence officer - they were practically neighbors back home - and saw a
pile of specially selected photos of "brutalities committed by the spooks."
The Counter Intelligence officer kept them mainly as an object lesson for
the common soldiers. Once you see photos like that, you'll think twice about
venturing beyond the gates of the compound, trade with the Afghans at the
post or on sortie, stay within twenty meters of your position and not take a
step outside the guard post.
"See this soldier with the star cut on his back - he left the post to
go for a swim," the Counter Intelligence officer would say in confidential
tones, steering a soldier into a separate room. Then he would apply
pressure: "That's what will happen to you, too, but the whole band of spooks
will fuck your ass first and tear it apart into the shape of a swastika.
Never been fucked in your ass before? No? Good, that means you're not a
queer. The spooks will make one out of you, though! Then they'll cut your
balls off!"
The Counter Intelligence officer worked on the newcomers who, according
to his information, had been driven to the edge of desperation by the
violence in the ranks and were contemplating whether to make a run for it,
or hang themselves.
He would scare them, shove the photos under their noses:
"Is this what you want, you idiot? No, don't turn away! Look at me!"
If a soldier shot himself, that was no big deal, it could be swept
under the rug, write it off as careless handling of weapons or some such
thing. In a case like that, let his direct commander find a way out. But if
a soldier driven to despair were to run off into the mountains - that would
be something the Counter Intelligence officer would have to answer for.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Pour yourself a cup of tea, help yourself to some jam. I'll only be a
moment." The Counter Intelligence officer slid out into the corridor.
Chistyakov scooped a spoonful of jam, licked the spoon. Delicious!
Raspberry jam. Just like mother used to make. He put a spoonful of jam into
his tea, reached out and picked up the half-open file. Sipping tea, he
leafed through it dispassionately: torn bellies, guts scattered around
everywhere, eyes put out, probably prized out of their sockets with knives,
a cut off penis thrust into a mouth like a gag, severed heads. Nothing
special. Back home Zhenka would have been horrified by such sights, but here
it was run-of-the-mill, he'd seen just about the lot.
"Hey, let me put that away, said his host when he returned. "That's for
special occur..."
He stopped in mid-word in the center of the room, because Zhenka
suddenly jerked, went pale. He thought he'd recognized his brother on one of
the photos. He took a closer look. Yes! It was him! Andrei! Rather, he
recognized a severed head, lying next to a body.
Andrei Chistyakov had served in the "Spetsnaz", their group had been
ambushed and nobody survived. Zhenka went to his brother's funeral back
home, but it had proved impossible to find out the details of what had
happened. The authorities were evasive. They kept silent about what the
spooks did with wounded Russians, how they desecrated the bodies of the
dead. The spooks did not dent themselves anything with prisoners. Some were
skinned alive, and the skins were hung out to dry in the sun in the market
place for all to see. The men taken prisoner died terrible deaths.
"You knew all the time, you bastard! You knew it was my brother! And
showed these photos to the men as a teaching aid! You fucking sonofabitch!"
yelled Zhenka in fury.
The Counter Intelligence officer was perturbed, demanded the photo
back, threatened with dire consequences.
"You rotten swine! And a fellow-countryman at that! All you Counter
Intelligence bitches are the same, dirt! Don't you come near me!" Zhenka
picked up a chair and swung it warningly. He clutched the photo, then thrust
it into his pocket.
They really went at it, a genuine fight, Zhenka almost gouged out the
man's eyes. He was totally beside himself:
"Just try and take it away, I'll shoot you, you bastard!"
It was when he found out about his brother that Zhenka went slightly
crazy. He became vicious and retreated into himself. And for the rest of his
term, he wreaked revenge for his brother, showing the spooks no mercy.
...Their parents had been afraid that the older brother would one day
land in jail, he kept bad company from his early years, got into fights, all
sorts of mischief, carried a prison-made blade, dreamed of using it on some
"deal", even had his arms tattooed.
yet after all, he had turned into a fine officer, a brave commander,
and his nature helped.
He stopped drinking, took up sport, entered the Ryazan military school.
He found himself when he joined the army.
Andrei never went around minefields, but plunged across regardless. He
got a charge out of it. He proved an ace in capturing caravans, came out
without losses of life from the most incredible situations. If rumors could
be believed, the spooks set a price on the head of "commander Andrei" to the
sum of 100.000 afghanis or more.
There was just one unexplained episode. No one could say what had
really occurred. The fact of the matter was that some general became
infuriated and almost sent Andrei before a military tribunal. "What the
hell, they were one spook short!" fumed Zhenka. Andrei's early
recommendation for a medal was withdrawn, and he had been under a cloud for
a long time. The general had a long memory. When Andrei's group was finally
killed in ambush, he was recommended by his captain for a posthumous award
of Hero, but the recommendation was turned back, all Andrei got was a Red
Banner order.
Andrei was shipped home in a zinc coffin without a small glass window.
As if he's been canned. There was no way of opening the coffin for a last
look. The coffin stood on a table in their apartment, alien and cold; their
mother tore at the coffin with her fingernails in grief, pleading for a
look; she never came to believe, not having seen with her own eyes, that her
son was dead. She moaned, holding a photo of Andrei to her cheek, his
graduation photo from military school.
"Leave her be," their father said to Zhenka. "Let her cry herself out."
Zhenka worked out a reflex for spotting spooks, just like Pavlov's dogs
learned to salivate on cue. He could tell them at a glance, or so he
thought, thrusting any doubt aside, and later it would be too late to check,
and why bother? Usually he finished them off on the spot, straight after
battle, taking no prisoners.
... paying bloody barbarians in their own coin ...
and nobody could stop him, even Morgultsev. He just pretended that he
knew nothing. Nemilov tried once, when one of the men tattled to him, tried
to threaten Zhenka with Court Marshals, and then wished he hadn't opened his
mouth.
...Zhenka warned him: "you're either with us, or against us"...
However, despite his hatred of the Afghans, Zhenka did not let his men
go too far and forbade any brutalities against spooks taken prisoner, just
as he never allowed any marauding in the platoon, any theft, and punished
all violators with all severity.
He was the sole judge, avenger and executioner.
... and if Zhenka's brother had not died in such tragic circumstances,
if his body had not been desecrated by the spooks, Zhenka would not have
turned into a blood-soaked avenger ... that's for sure! ..
Nobody tried to stop Chistyakov because everyone knew the reason,
understood that he was wreaking vengeance on the Afghans for his brother,
and sympathized.
... who hasn't been changed by Afghanistan? ..
It usually started when one heard about the cruelties of war; this was
topped of by personal experiences and impressions, which followed one
another like pieces of good, juicy meat on a skewer; and then, without
consciously realizing it, a man would move further and further away from the
values he knew back home, the norms of behavior, and become infected by the
local, temporary Afghan morality, rough mores;
... just like the times of the Golden Horde ...might becomes right ..
that which seemed barbaric back home, somehow became natural in
Afghanistan, everyday, customary, like the passage of day into night, like
reveille and lights out.
Incredible sufferings and grief for lost friends, the difficulties of
semi-nomadic existence essentially incomprehensible life in a strange land,
hundreds and hundreds of kilometers away from home, physical deprivation,
encounter with medieval barbarity and cruelty, horrors endured - all this
dulled the senses, drained pity, sapped the good nature so common to
Russians, reawakened long forgotten, lost in the mists of time crudeness and
inhumanity inherited by one's ancestors from the times of the two-hundred
year reign of the Mongols over Russia.
... Zhenka will come home and everything will change, all the bad
things will be forgotten, be left behind, forever in the past ... or am I
kidding myself? ..
In order to break the silence which descended on the room, Zhenka
Chistyakov began a casual account of the last raid, stressing that
everything had gone well:
"... as far as carrying out my socialist obligations in the matter of
collecting "ears." Well, I collected a bagful. They've already dried out
quite nicely... I'm going to give them away as presents. I've put them on a
string, like beads. I'll give you a couple if you want, kid! How about that?
For luck!" offered Chistyakov sincerely, smiling at his replacement for the
first time that evening and dipping a hand into one of his pockets.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov grinned uncertainly, probably thinking this was
some kind of joke invented by his new friends. When the truth finally
penetrated his alcohol-dulled brain as to what was being offered as an
Afghan souvenir he paled and stared as if hypnotized at the little rag
Chistyakov had unfolded in the palm of his hand. It contained a small
cluster of shriveled brownish-black human ears.
"There you go, kid, they don't bite," urged Chistyakov, thrusting the
ears at Yepimakhov.
"...?..."
"Get them out of sight, fuck you!" said Sharagin angrily. "He'll spew
all over the table if you don't...Everyone's fed up with those ears..."
Zhenka did not seem to take offense: he gave a snort of laughter,
shrugged, wrapped up his trophies again and put them back in his pocket.
Chistyakov flew back to the Soviet Union, having said his farewells.
With his departure, the company suffered a tangible loss, everything became
quiet and dull. The newcomers slouched around the barracks, making Sharagin
feel bleak. He studied their sleepy, inexpressive faces, having trouble
remembering their names, surnames, recognizing the new recruits by their
snub noses, freckles, prominent ears, watched their awkward movements with
distaste, was annoyed by their hesitation in handling weapons and machinery,
but nonetheless, saw potential in several of them.
Gradually, he got a picture of the replacements. Asked a few of them in
passing about their lives prior to being drafted, about their families. He
learned about some of them from their personal dossiers; a whole host of
small, seemingly insignificant details, made a mental note of them for the
future. He wanted to have a clear idea, and quickly found out, what
determined the mind-set of this or that soldier, whether they were all
suitable for duty in Afghanistan, what sort of news from home upset each
young man before going out on a sortie.
It was still too soon to try and guess who was capable of what, because
only the war can put things into proper perspective. As captain Morgultsev
liked to say on such occasions: "Only the spring thaw will show who shit
where..."
That first evening, Sharagin had not noticed that lieutenant Yepimakhov
was one of those people towards whom, after you have spoken with them, you
begin to feel sympathy and even a degree of pity when you spot a far-off, as
yet unplayed tragedy behind his indestructible or incredibly youthful
interest and enthusiasm. Yepimakhov turned out to be well-read and educated
above army level. Paratrooper in the bone and a dreamer at heart.
After a few weeks, Sharagin realized Yepimakhov's leadership potential
and grinned dourly:
"A brain like that shouldn't be confined by straps and belts. That
would be criminal! Let's go out and catch a breath of fresh air, Nikolai"
"Did you do well at school?" asked Sharagin casually, dragging on his
cigarette.
"Reasonably well, I suppose," replied Yepimakhov modestly.
"D'you remember everything?"
"Everything..."
"Well, forget all that crap!"
Yepimakhov proved to be an obedient, attentive and grateful pupil; he
absorbed advice like a thirsty sponge, and did not hesitate to ask
questions: what does one do in such a situation? what if it happens like
this? He went into everything in the finest details.
Only he was more inclined to talk about other things. Like a kid (and
he was little more than that - almost a contemporary of the long service
soldiers!) Yepimakhov swallowed all that he was told here and there about
the war, all that was heroic and tragic; about the war which lived next
door, somewhere beyond the fencing of the camp, and everyone had seen it
except him.
He was impatient, a typical trait for a newcomer. Yepimakhov wanted to
try, prove himself in battle, under fire, he probably imagined medals and
all sorts of feats of valor.
And in those blue eyes, as yet unshadowed by the war, Sharagin saw the
unspoken question, to the point but not quite: "Have you killed many people?
What did you feel then?" The question shimmered in the air, then disappeared
- lieutenant Yepimakhov could not bring himself to ask outright about such
things, even though they had become friends.
Furthermore, he had burned his fingers in those first weeks, had become
more cautious and restrained. Firstly, he had been put in his place in no
uncertain manner when he had used the familiar "thou" form of address to
captain Morgultsev, being drunk at the time, and then being told to go fuck
himself when he had interrupted someone else's story about something.
"We're not interested in your philosophy, lieutenant," another officer
had said. "You're a snotty-nosed newcomer, and you're shoving your oar in!
We don't need your clever quotes out of books, we graduated from other
universities!" And an even more telling blow: "Your philosophy starts with
dinner, and ends up in the latrine!"
There was no need to ask Zhenka Chistyakov whether he had killed. Just
count the ears he kept as trophies, but Sharagin was different. He knew how
to listen, he read if he had the time. He was the only one to appreciate the
books Yepimakhov had brought. The others were still laughing, and would
probably be laughing still when he ended his service.
"What have you got that's so heavy?" asked senior warrant officer
Pashkov with that rehearsed respect for officers and ill-disguised hope of a
freebie, when he first met Yepimakhov and hefted his suitcase. "Bet you've
got some beer in here! I could murder for a beer right now!"
"No."
"Sausage? Smoked fat?" ventured the slightly disillusioned Pashkov,
still hoping for a miracle.
"No, just personal stuff and books and journals."
"Wha-a-at?" asked Pashkov in disbelief. "You brought books here? You
crazy or something?" he burst out at this unexpected turn, shifting in
amazement from the formal 'thou' to the informal 'you.' "What the hell do
you need them for?"
The newly-baked lieutenant felt a bit miffed at being addressed in such
a manner, but Pashkov's age and the fact that he had been here for a long
time did not allow Yepimakhov to show his chagrin. Anyway, there was nobody
else in the room at the time.
Yepimakhov tried to see Pashkov as simply nice but stupid, a man twice
his own age, especially as Pashkov really was kind, something you could read
in his face at once, no matter how he puffed himself up.
"To read. I think I've brought enough for the first year. Actually,
there are some very interesting books there, a good detective story, for
instance ... I'll show it to you later."
"Good Lord, what have we come to? Bringing books into the war zone.
Don't tell anyone else."
"Don't tell what?"
"That you dragged books across the border. There's got to be about ten
kilos of paper here." Pashkov kicked a dismissive toe at the bag. "Have you
brought the Great Soviet Encyclopedia, or the complete works of Karl Marx?"
"Why shouldn't I tell anyone?" persisted Yepimakhov.
"They won't understand..."
Sharagin was the only one who understood. Yepimakhov was sure of him
immediately. He was different from the other officers. He put on a stern
appearance to the men, but apart from that he was friendly, open, refined
and cynical in reasonable measure. Who else would have spoken confidentially
to a newcomer:
"You think you'll come face to face with the enemy immediately? If so,
I don't envy you, if you have to look into their eyes while they're alive.
You take a look, and it means you've come too close. It's not likely you'll
live to tell the tale. It's better to look at dead spooks after battle...
And don't think, never think that you're smarter than them. The spooks can
watch you from cover all day, and when they find your weak spot, that's
where they'll strike... And another thing - Don't be afraid of being
demanding and meticulous with the men. If you nursemaid them, they'll be on
your back in a flash. If you can't control them through strictness - use
force! A good fight in wartime is good practice, insurance against losses.
If you see that the "elephants" are getting out of hand - beat the shit out
of them! So that they won't loosen up after Chistyakov. You have to keep a
constant eye on those slobs. See that they don't sell fuel to the spooks,
that they're wearing their bullet-proof vests when you go out on combat
duty. If one of them catches a bullet, you're the one who's going to have to
drag his body. If anyone disobeys you - pow! Straight in the kisser! All
they understand is force! They behaved themselves beautifully under Zhenka.
And Zhenka kept them safe. Now they're grateful that he beat some sense into
them and they're still alive..."
"But you don't hit them, like Chistyakov..." demurred Yepimakhov.
"When you've served six months here, you can decide whether to bash a
soldier in the liver, or address him formally... As a matter of fact, you
haven't seen me working out, but if need be, I can hurt them more than
Zhenka could, if they deserve it..."
"Know something?" asked Yepimakhov, looking like a mischievous small
boy. "Yesterday, after lights out, there was this stamping on the roof. I
thought it was a whole herd of mice running to the other end of the barracks
to feed, racing each other to the table, so to speak. Claws scratching on
the wood. You know what the men thought up? They've already killed about a
hundred mice, put out traps for them."
"That was a favorite pastime of Zhenka's."
"...then last night I heard: snap! Everyone ran to see. A mouse!
Honestly, everyone was so happy! They were squealing like children."
"They are children..."
"They put this mouse into an empty pail, sprayed it with petrol - I
thought there'd be a fire, but there wasn't - and threw in a lighted match.
You should have seen it! The mouse went up in flames, it must have hurt
terribly, it was all aflame and running around the bottom of the pail like
crazy. Everyone was laughing! It was just like a living torch!"
"Check out that everything's all right in there," said Sharagin,
indicating the barracks, "and let's go eat. I'm starved."
In the smoking room near the mess hall, hungry officers milled around
under a canopy of camouflage netting. Lieutenant-colonel Bogdanov, who was
temporarily in command of the regiment, was strutting past headquarters,
shoulders back and chest forward, like some hero from a folk tale. Warily,
they eyed this officer, with fists like basketballs. It was said that he
once killed a spook with a mere blow of his fist....
...there is an unpleasant look in his eye, that
lieutenant-colonel...makes your skin crawl...the 'grandpas' straighten their
belts and backs at the sight of him....they're afraid of him....they respect
him .... Bogdanov is strict beyond the call of duty...and rarely fair ....a
petty tyrant ... if he's appointed permanent commander, it'll be curtains
for us all... commanders like that only think about ranks and titles...
"...what in hell do you want with Yugoslavia, Petrovich?" demanded a
warrant officer. "What will you do there?"
"They sell these cans of cherries from Yugoslavia in the
quartermaster's store. What does it say on the cans? Yugotutun or something.
"
"So?"
"I want to go to that factory in Yugoslavia and see how they take the
stones out of the cherries."
"There's probably a machine that does it," suggested captain Osipov.
"That's really interesting - can't say it ever occurred to me before."
"Or they sit there and remove them by hand."
"Nah, by hand? That many cans? Can't be done."
"Why not? Easy as anything. D'you know how many potatoes a platoon can
peel in an hour?"
"About five sacks."
"Five? Ten! You just have to clout them hard and often enough."
"A few tons in a night," was the general agreement.
"So in Yugoslavia they've got soldiers pitting those cherries. So
what?"
"Wheeee!" the eyes of all the officers senior and junior followed a
very plump young woman who was heading for the mess hall.
"A new waitress!"
"Hey, Yakimchuk, look at that ass! All that fat! You'd never manage to
eat that much in a year!" said someone.
Then it was a free-for-all:
"That's some workbench! Enough for a whole platoon!"
"Yes, man, that's a delayed action sex bomb..."
"Nah, she's not my type..."
"Who's asking you?
"In Afghanistan, pal, you don't have much choice. You take what's
available..."
"Spending winter with a woman like that would be easy. She'd keep the
whole barracks warm."
"Where the hell did they find her?"
"She's instead of Luska..."
"What Luska?"
"Remember, the one with the big tits?"
"Oh yeah, I remember her..."
"She didn't work long before she got herself under Bogdanov."
"He's a real one for the ladies, that's true. A stallion!"
"He didn't have much time to ride her, though. She got herself in with
a general from headquarters while Bogdanov was away on combat duty. The
general had her transferred closer to him. Maybe it's a lie, but I've heard
that the general recommended her for a medal."
"Well, well: "Ivan gets a poke up the ass for being in the attack, and
Masha gets a Red Star award for her cunt..."
"That's what I'm saying: this new one will be under some colonel soon
enough."
"Who'd want a fat slob like that?"
"They could have sent someone a bit thinner. I went to pick up the
"elephants" last week, and you should have seen the dames that arrive! Make
your eyes pop. And what do we get? We have to look at that fat ass every day
in the mess hall! She'll never squeeze between the tables! Makes you sick...
I'm not going to the mess any more."
"So who's forcing you?"
"You lads have got it all wrong," chided a gray-haired warrant officer
after the doors into the mess hall slammed shut behind the new waitress.
"You're laughing, but there's a man for every woman here. Not a single one
will be left with nothing to do. This one will find her match, too..."
"Maybe it will be you, Petrovich?" suggested someone. Everybody
laughed. "In that case, all the parachute silk in the regiment will have to
be used up for her knickers! ..."
Butts were thrown into the shell case that served as an ashtray, the
smokers headed for the mess. Only two remained in the smoking hut - Sharagin
and Yepimakhov. Oleg had wanted to draw his friend away, but the other was
obviously interested in the neighboring conversation, even though he
pretended he was not listening and sat with his back turned.
"Take my family, now, Petrovich," said one of the warrant officers. "My
wife doesn't work. Two kids. A third was born last year. D'you know what she
gets from the state? Thirty five rubles a month! Thirty five! If anything
happens to me here..."
"Nothing'll happen to you, you're in the rear, damn it!"
"No, I'm serious. If anything happens to me, how will she live? I
wouldn't walk to the fucking checkpoint for thirty five rubles! "
"You will, what can you do?" insisted the gray-haired warrant officer.
"If you're ordered, you'll go."
"No I won't! As a matter of principle! But you tell me, how can anyone
live on that? And they want me not to steal!"
"All right, let's go," said Oleg rising, bored with this chatter. "No
wonder their character reports say that warrant officers are "thoughtful"
and "have staying power"...."
"In what way?"
... this kid's really from another world...
"Well...how shall I put it to be fair? I don't mean all warrant
officers. Our Pashkov won his medal fair and square. But those two - they're
quartermaster's rats. They're not equal to Pashkov. So they're "thoughtful"
and "have staying power" because they sit around in their store jerking off
until dinner time, thinking and thinking, and after dinner they need staying
power to carry away all that they've stolen. When you go into town, you'll
see that all the shops are full of our products. You and I are supposed to
be fed normally, but these sons of bitches sell off everything right and
left, while we Soviet officers are left with fuck all!"
"When do you think there'll be a chance to go into town, Oleg?" asked
Yepimakhov once they were in the mess hall.
"Been here five minutes, and he's already wanting to go into town,"
commented Nemilov sarcastically.
"But it would be interesting to take a look..."
"Save up your chits first," advised Zebrev across the table.
"Everything in its own time," winked Sharagin.
Spooning soup from a plastic bowl, Sharagin remembered his first
clandestine visit into town. Together with Ivan Zebrev, who was going on
leave and had to buy up as much as possible, they had taken their chances
and gone around the shops. Unfortunately for them, an order had been issued
forbidding anyone going into town for security reasons. You could leave your
unit only with written permission from headquarters, so the MPs were having
a field day rounding up everyone from the shops.
They dressed in "civvies" and gave a bottle of "Stolichnaya" to be
taken out of the camp in a BMP, worrying all the way that something would
happen and their absence would be noticed. Nemilov might report them. They
dodged patrols. Sharagin almost fainted the first time he entered a shop and
saw the abundance of imported goods: jeans, all sorts of cloth, shoes,
folding sunglasses, quartz watches, cigarette lighters of different kinds.
He suddenly felt offended on behalf of Lena and Nastyusha, who were back
there in the Soviet Union and would never see anything like this.
... how wonderful it would be if Lena could choose whatever she
wanted!...I'd give her all my chits - let her enjoy herself...and the
children's things! why are all our children so gray and unattractive? why
can't we make decent clothing for them?!..
Oh, what a chewing out they got from Morgultsev later! He treated them
like naughty children! He almost burst with indignation when he found he'd
been fooled by his lieutenants, he'd shouted and shouted, about twenty
minutes, turned red as a beet, and ended by saying:
"You have been formally reprimanded, and it will go on your records!"
That meant that they would have to give the commander a half litre to
get his nerves back in shape.
...of course, we're used to him and don't react or take particular
offense, he is what he is ....on edge, easily wound up, shouts a lot, but
usually without real anger ... he cools down soon, so we forgive him his
quick temper ... you resent it when he yells and yells, but once he quietens
down you feel sorry for him, because you know that he's not mean, that he
cares about us, his company, his officers, the "elephants"...
Shall we go?" asked Yepimakhov, interrupting Sharagin's reminiscent
train of thought.
"You go. I'll stay and have some tea..."
Almost everyone had finished eating. Sharagin sat alone in the empty
mess hall. A soldier went around lazily swiping crumbs off the tables with a
towel, two waitresses were exchanging confidences near the kitchen. A
soldier without a belt was mopping the floor. Oleg dipped sugar cubes in his
tea and sucked them lazily, holding them in two fingers. The sugar changed
color, fell apart, melted in his mouth. He ate a slice of bread with butter
that smelled rancid. The day they had made their illicit sortie to the
shops, he had been indescribably happy. Together with Zebrev, he sent his
first presents home for Lena and Nastyusha - a musical postcard and a tin of
tea...
... with bergamot oil...not just any old Georgian tea, or that Indian
one with three elephants!...how they'll love it!..
Zebrev had taken the trouble of going to the Sharagins, stayed a while
and told Lena that they were living and working well, comforted her by
saying there was virtually no danger, there were only rare clashes somewhere
near the border, far away from the regiment. "Unusual woman, your wife, " he
commented. "Harrumph! - Quiet and meek. Wish mine was like that. I took out
the parcel from my bag, and she just put it on the couch without opening it.
I barely managed to talk her into unwrapping your presents. You have to make
sure everything fits, I told her. How many chits did you spend? Actually,
you did the right thing. I was too stingy in that shop. She particularly
liked that blue dress. I thought she'd rush out and try it on, but she's a
strange woman, she just sat down by the table and burst into tears. I asked
her why she was crying, and she said she'd never had such beautiful things
in her life. How do you like that! I felt really awkward. My wife did
nothing but bitch and criticize everything I brought. That dress will be
just right for your wife, don't worry, she's very slim. Then she sorted the
children's things and dressed up your daughter. Then she sat down again and
started asking about you. What could I say to her? - Harrumph! - I can just
see her now, sitting on the edge of the chair, pale as anything. Is she sick
or something? Very fragile, she is....
... like a cup from a Chinese tea service... Pashkov bought himself one
like that...
...So there I am, talking all sorts of crap, and she sits there
listening, smiling and crying. Silly little thing...."
Sharagin picked up a tin of aubergine caviar, thanked the waitresses
smoking at a corner table and went back to the company.
Morgultsev looked annoyed..
"Get yourself ready!" he ordered without preamble. "You'll be going out
tomorrow."
"Again? Where?"
"Who the fuck knows? They called from the political section . They've
got some production brigade, or musical brigade or propaganda brigade on
their hands. Damn it! I couldn't make head or tail of it, so don't ask me!
Don't rile me up, Sharagin, I'm in a bad mood today, so be warned! ...What
are you standing around for?"
"I'm waiting for more detailed instructions."
"Wash your ears, Sharagin, I said you're going out tomorrow!"
"Where are we going exactly?"
"How the hell would I know? ...The task is a simple one. They want an
escort, see, to drive around the villages and teach the fucking spooks to
play the balalaika or some such shit!"
"Seriously?"
"How can I know?! The vehicles are falling to pieces, we've got no
spare parts, it's time to write them off and not barge around playing
amateur theatricals! I said to them: "The company's not ready to go!" And
what did they say to me? "Obey orders, fuck it!" So - you're off tomorrow.
We pull out at zero four hundred hours..."
The paratroop company rumbled through a still sleeping Kabul, as if by
waking the hated Afghans would give them a measure of revenge for the
troops' early start. The tracks of the BMPs grated over the asphalt,
powerful motor roared, headlights swung here and there throwing light on
stone walls and the few people up and about at this early hour. It was only
after the company had left the city behind that mullahs left their beds and
the first cries of "Allah is great" screeched out of the loudspeaker in the
minaret.
They had to wait for three hours at the last checkpoint before the
mysterious agitprop brigade put in an appearance.
Morgultsev cursed, calling headquarters to find out where those damned
"artists" were. Meantime, the men dozed.
"What a screw-up! Damn them all to hell!"
Dawn broke. The drivers who had been sleeping in their vehicles at the
checkpoint woke up and went off to wash, clean their teeth and eat
breakfast. Finally, their transport column moved off toward Salang under BMP
escort.
All traffic stopped along the roads with the coming of darkness. A
temporary exchange of power was taking place in Afghanistan. By day, the
roads belonged to the Soviets, and night was the time of the spooks.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov, looking very serious, sat on the turret of a BMP
wearing an earphone helmet, new pea jacket and did not let go of his machine
gun for an instant.
... let him take an excursion, we'll spend a few days in the fresh air,
and then it's
back to the regiment ...
The agitprop brigade arrived at last. Those officers and drivers who
had alpine or motorbike goggles put them on to keep the dust out of their
eyes. Sharagin nodded to his friend. Yepimakhov raised a thumb in
acknowledgment as if to say - this is just great!
The company reformed into battle positions, all the trucks taking their
places between the BMPs.
They topped a hill. A breath-taking panorama opened before them: a
beautiful valley lay below, bisected by a concrete road. In the depth of the
valley Afghan houses clustered among the "greenery" and along its edges,
like mushrooms on a tree stump, forming tiny clusters on the cliffs - sort
of tiny oasis amid the trees.
"This is zero three, this is Zero three! Can you hear me? Over and
out!" came Zebrev's voice through the earphones.
"This is zero one! I hear you loud and clear" Roger!" replied
Morgultsev.
"Column's moving OK," reported Zebrev to his commander. His vehicles
were at the end of the convoy, covering the rear.
If it were not for the danger, it would have been interesting to watch
the column weave its way along the concrete: armored cars, then a couple of
Kamaz trucks, the agitprop's armored personnel carrier (APC), a jeep with a
red cross, another APC, a fuel truck, a BMP, a "Zil" truck and another
armored vehicle to close the line.
"Attention on the left!" barked Morgultsev. The BMP cannons rotated to
the left. They were passing a bomb-blasted village, which meant "be on your
guard!". A line of Afghan passenger buses and trucks were coming towards
them. The column went through the Soviet and Afghan posts along the road and
past piles of the rusty remains of destroyed combat vehicles, lonely
monument to fallen Soviet soldiers.
They stopped for a while in the regional center, while the forthcoming
operation was discussed with the Afghans. Yepimakhov smiled amiably at the
Afghans and nodded to the urchins who clustered around, begging.
"Don't mistake those animal grins for friendly smiles!" cautioned
Morgultsev as he passed by.
"What do you mean? They're only children!"
"Sons of bitches," corrected Morgultsev.
Several Afghans, unarmed but dressed in army uniform climbed on to the
first BMP to show the way to the village. As bad luck would have it, the
selected village lay a fair distance from the main road. It was not
comfortable going so far. The officers and men traded silent looks of
inquiry: were they heading into a trap?
"Should've posted sentries first, and then go into this godforsaken
hole!" muttered Morgultsev.
The company spread out over the village, taking up defensive positions.
The vehicles were parked as close as possible to the houses, waiting.
"What they're doing isn't worth a tinker's damn, but we've got to cover
them!" commented Morgultsev angrily. "Going along any country road without
sappers!"
Only Yepimakhov, who did not yet understand all the dangers of this
window-dressing venture into an isolated village, who had not yet smelled
the way men cut - in thick slices.
"Basta! " said Osipov when Zhenka began to pour for the next toast.
"I've had my litre for today ... one should practice moderation, my fellow
gentlemen-officers!"
"That's what I'm always saying," added Morgultsev. "Drink your norm,
and into bed."
A few months ago Morgultsev had behaved differently, more simply and
comradely, and would not have left until the last drop had been drunk. Now
that he was aiming to become battalion commander, he kept his distance from
his subordinates. Furthermore, the captain felt that the newly-arrived
lieutenant should begin his service in strict observance of discipline, and
not a drunken spree. However, there was no way he could forbid Zhenka's
farewell evening.
Morgultsev reluctantly stayed another strained quarter of an hour, but
managed to drink quite a lot in that time. Finally he rose from the table,
pleading pressure of work and collected Osipov, who was dead drunk. Nemilov
began taking his leave as well.
... it's way over time...
Morgultsev poured a final glass, breathed out with all his might and
downed it with a single gulp, belched loudly and grabbed the last gherkin:
"I'm off, guys. Make sure you keep order here, dammit! Sharagin, you're
the least drunk. I'm making you responsible!"
"Don't worry, Volodya, everything will be fine," promised Chistyakov.
"Bye, Volodya," intoned lieutenant Yepimakhov, completely drunk and
barely able to move his tongue, without realizing that Morgultsev had not
left yet. "He's a first class guy, our commander! And all you guys are all
first class..."
"On your feet, comrade lieutenant!" bellowed Morgultsev, forging back
into the room. "Attention! Who the hell do you think you are, comrade
lieutenant? You go teach your granny to piss through a straw first! I'm not
your kith and kin for you to use the familiar form of address to me! Do you
understand that, comrade lieutenant?"
Lieutenant Yepimakhov stood rocking slightly and trying to find an
answer. Instead of that, he suddenly gave a loud hiccup.
All the officers burst out laughing, and the tension dissipated.
"What's so funny?" asked Pashkov plaintively.
After Morgultsev left, everyone took a turn at imitating Yepimakhov. He
sat there, embarrassed and magically sober, blushing like a schoolgirl.
Everyone in the room was drunk.
... when you're drunk, you want it even more, I'd smother anyone I
could drag into bed right now ...
Sharagin drank all evening without cheating, taking little part in the
conversation and watching Chistyakov and Yepimakhov.
The lieutenant choked but forced himself to drink vodka in order not to
shame himself before his new comrades. He listened avidly to stories about
the Panjsher Valley, twiddling his wheat-colored mustache and poking at it
with his tongue. In spite of the drink, his eyes glistened with interest.
Chistyakov was not as tall as Yepimakhov, but more solidly built, more
muscular. His hair had started to thin and hung down onto his forehead in
stringy wisps, his eyes either went around the room slowly, softly, then
seeming to stop, die. When he looked at his neighbor with that colorless
gaze, it was impossible to tell whether Chistyakov felt anything about what
he was telling, or not.
Drunk Chistyakov was remembering how he was wounded and had to pick out
fragments which had entered his body in different places. Pointing at a deep
cleft a centimeter from his eye, he explained:
"Just a fraction over, and I could have played the leading part in a
film about general Kutuzov. "
Zhenka knew dozens of stories about the spooks and took pleasure in
regaling his replacement with them, so that the new boy would realize that
there was a real war on here, fuck it, that they weren't playing
pick-up-sticks.
Chistyakov called the Afghans "monkeys" and repeated constantly that if
he had his way, they would all be exterminated, root and branch.
"But why all of them?" protested Yepimakhov. "Are the simple peasants
guilty of anything?"
...O, God, another truth-seeker ...
"Why?" exploded Chistyakov. "Why? Because your fucking peasants finish
off our wounded with pitchforks! And hang out severed heads in the
marketplace! Animals!"
... poor naive kid ...
Yepimakhov wriggled around uneasily in his chair while Zhenka informed
him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had
been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The
Afghan lay without breathing
Yepimakhov wriggled around uneasily in his chair while Zhenka informed
him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had
been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The
Afghan lay dead, his body jerking as it was riddled by bullets.
...Zhenka laughed, then spat in the spook's face ...
The new lieutenant was fascinated by stories about the real war, no
doubt about it, it was all new and rather strange, rather frightening. Not
frightening because combat officers could casually discuss with panache how
to kill someone, and not from the realistic descriptions, but out of fear
that something like that would happen to him, the way it had with the
platoon commander Chistyakov had mentioned - the one who got blown up on his
first sortie. As for any normal person, something quaked inside Yepimakhov
at the thought that there were two more years he would have to spend at war,
that anything at all could happen to him, that he might stop a bullet from a
"Boer" at the very beginning of his service.
"That's an old rifle, dates back to the start of the century, "
explained Chistyakov. "The spooks can hit you in the head from a distance of
three kilometers. The rifles were left here by the English. The Afghans beat
the shit out of the English. Killed half the expeditionary corps, the other
half dies from hepatitis..."
The vodka helped in overcoming bad premonitions and Yepimakhov
listened, spellbound. They filled him to the brim with stories and drink.
That evening he had only one real hero, one truly combat-hardened
officer - senior lieutenant Chistyakov, who would be leaving Afghanistan in
a few days time with a combat medal.
Sharagin reacted quite differently to his friend's tales. He was
genuinely fond of Zhenka, pitied him but acknowledged that he feared him a
bit at times because Zhenka was not quite right in the head, just like many
who had served a full term in Afghanistan, not sitting in HQ, but taking a
big and real part in the fighting.
It was said that Zhenka had changed noticeably in two years. He came to
Afghanistan voluntarily, like his brother Andrei.
... probably came here just as green and naive as lieutenant Yepimakhov
...
There was no more cheerful officer in the regiment or, indeed, the
battalion than Chistyakov He lived easily, served diligently, fought well
and bravely, so he was put up for a medal in a few months' time. The
battalion commander thought the world of Zhenka.
Then once Zhenka wandered in to visit the regimental Counter
Intelligence officer - they were practically neighbors back home - and saw a
pile of specially selected photos of "brutalities committed by the spooks."
The Counter Intelligence officer kept them mainly as an object lesson for
the common soldiers. Once you see photos like that, you'll think twice about
venturing beyond the gates of the compound, trade with the Afghans at the
post or on sortie, stay within twenty meters of your position and not take a
step outside the guard post.
"See this soldier with the star cut on his back - he left the post to
go for a swim," the Counter Intelligence officer would say in confidential
tones, steering a soldier into a separate room. Then he would apply
pressure: "That's what will happen to you, too, but the whole band of spooks
will fuck your ass first and tear it apart into the shape of a swastika.
Never been fucked in your ass before? No? Good, that means you're not a
queer. The spooks will make one out of you, though! Then they'll cut your
balls off!"
The Counter Intelligence officer worked on the newcomers who, according
to his information, had been driven to the edge of desperation by the
violence in the ranks and were contemplating whether to make a run for it,
or hang themselves.
He would scare them, shove the photos under their noses:
"Is this what you want, you idiot? No, don't turn away! Look at me!"
If a soldier shot himself, that was no big deal, it could be swept
under the rug, write it off as careless handling of weapons or some such
thing. In a case like that, let his direct commander find a way out. But if
a soldier driven to despair were to run off into the mountains - that would
be something the Counter Intelligence officer would have to answer for.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Pour yourself a cup of tea, help yourself to some jam. I'll only be a
moment." The Counter Intelligence officer slid out into the corridor.
Chistyakov scooped a spoonful of jam, licked the spoon. Delicious!
Raspberry jam. Just like mother used to make. He put a spoonful of jam into
his tea, reached out and picked up the half-open file. Sipping tea, he
leafed through it dispassionately: torn bellies, guts scattered around
everywhere, eyes put out, probably prized out of their sockets with knives,
a cut off penis thrust into a mouth like a gag, severed heads. Nothing
special. Back home Zhenka would have been horrified by such sights, but here
it was run-of-the-mill, he'd seen just about the lot.
"Hey, let me put that away, said his host when he returned. "That's for
special occur..."
He stopped in mid-word in the center of the room, because Zhenka
suddenly jerked, went pale. He thought he'd recognized his brother on one of
the photos. He took a closer look. Yes! It was him! Andrei! Rather, he
recognized a severed head, lying next to a body.
Andrei Chistyakov had served in the "Spetsnaz", their group had been
ambushed and nobody survived. Zhenka went to his brother's funeral back
home, but it had proved impossible to find out the details of what had
happened. The authorities were evasive. They kept silent about what the
spooks did with wounded Russians, how they desecrated the bodies of the
dead. The spooks did not dent themselves anything with prisoners. Some were
skinned alive, and the skins were hung out to dry in the sun in the market
place for all to see. The men taken prisoner died terrible deaths.
"You knew all the time, you bastard! You knew it was my brother! And
showed these photos to the men as a teaching aid! You fucking sonofabitch!"
yelled Zhenka in fury.
The Counter Intelligence officer was perturbed, demanded the photo
back, threatened with dire consequences.
"You rotten swine! And a fellow-countryman at that! All you Counter
Intelligence bitches are the same, dirt! Don't you come near me!" Zhenka
picked up a chair and swung it warningly. He clutched the photo, then thrust
it into his pocket.
They really went at it, a genuine fight, Zhenka almost gouged out the
man's eyes. He was totally beside himself:
"Just try and take it away, I'll shoot you, you bastard!"
It was when he found out about his brother that Zhenka went slightly
crazy. He became vicious and retreated into himself. And for the rest of his
term, he wreaked revenge for his brother, showing the spooks no mercy.
...Their parents had been afraid that the older brother would one day
land in jail, he kept bad company from his early years, got into fights, all
sorts of mischief, carried a prison-made blade, dreamed of using it on some
"deal", even had his arms tattooed.
yet after all, he had turned into a fine officer, a brave commander,
and his nature helped.
He stopped drinking, took up sport, entered the Ryazan military school.
He found himself when he joined the army.
Andrei never went around minefields, but plunged across regardless. He
got a charge out of it. He proved an ace in capturing caravans, came out
without losses of life from the most incredible situations. If rumors could
be believed, the spooks set a price on the head of "commander Andrei" to the
sum of 100.000 afghanis or more.
There was just one unexplained episode. No one could say what had
really occurred. The fact of the matter was that some general became
infuriated and almost sent Andrei before a military tribunal. "What the
hell, they were one spook short!" fumed Zhenka. Andrei's early
recommendation for a medal was withdrawn, and he had been under a cloud for
a long time. The general had a long memory. When Andrei's group was finally
killed in ambush, he was recommended by his captain for a posthumous award
of Hero, but the recommendation was turned back, all Andrei got was a Red
Banner order.
Andrei was shipped home in a zinc coffin without a small glass window.
As if he's been canned. There was no way of opening the coffin for a last
look. The coffin stood on a table in their apartment, alien and cold; their
mother tore at the coffin with her fingernails in grief, pleading for a
look; she never came to believe, not having seen with her own eyes, that her
son was dead. She moaned, holding a photo of Andrei to her cheek, his
graduation photo from military school.
"Leave her be," their father said to Zhenka. "Let her cry herself out."
Zhenka worked out a reflex for spotting spooks, just like Pavlov's dogs
learned to salivate on cue. He could tell them at a glance, or so he
thought, thrusting any doubt aside, and later it would be too late to check,
and why bother? Usually he finished them off on the spot, straight after
battle, taking no prisoners.
... paying bloody barbarians in their own coin ...
and nobody could stop him, even Morgultsev. He just pretended that he
knew nothing. Nemilov tried once, when one of the men tattled to him, tried
to threaten Zhenka with Court Marshals, and then wished he hadn't opened his
mouth.
...Zhenka warned him: "you're either with us, or against us"...
However, despite his hatred of the Afghans, Zhenka did not let his men
go too far and forbade any brutalities against spooks taken prisoner, just
as he never allowed any marauding in the platoon, any theft, and punished
all violators with all severity.
He was the sole judge, avenger and executioner.
... and if Zhenka's brother had not died in such tragic circumstances,
if his body had not been desecrated by the spooks, Zhenka would not have
turned into a blood-soaked avenger ... that's for sure! ..
Nobody tried to stop Chistyakov because everyone knew the reason,
understood that he was wreaking vengeance on the Afghans for his brother,
and sympathized.
... who hasn't been changed by Afghanistan? ..
It usually started when one heard about the cruelties of war; this was
topped of by personal experiences and impressions, which followed one
another like pieces of good, juicy meat on a skewer; and then, without
consciously realizing it, a man would move further and further away from the
values he knew back home, the norms of behavior, and become infected by the
local, temporary Afghan morality, rough mores;
... just like the times of the Golden Horde ...might becomes right ..
that which seemed barbaric back home, somehow became natural in
Afghanistan, everyday, customary, like the passage of day into night, like
reveille and lights out.
Incredible sufferings and grief for lost friends, the difficulties of
semi-nomadic existence essentially incomprehensible life in a strange land,
hundreds and hundreds of kilometers away from home, physical deprivation,
encounter with medieval barbarity and cruelty, horrors endured - all this
dulled the senses, drained pity, sapped the good nature so common to
Russians, reawakened long forgotten, lost in the mists of time crudeness and
inhumanity inherited by one's ancestors from the times of the two-hundred
year reign of the Mongols over Russia.
... Zhenka will come home and everything will change, all the bad
things will be forgotten, be left behind, forever in the past ... or am I
kidding myself? ..
In order to break the silence which descended on the room, Zhenka
Chistyakov began a casual account of the last raid, stressing that
everything had gone well:
"... as far as carrying out my socialist obligations in the matter of
collecting "ears." Well, I collected a bagful. They've already dried out
quite nicely... I'm going to give them away as presents. I've put them on a
string, like beads. I'll give you a couple if you want, kid! How about that?
For luck!" offered Chistyakov sincerely, smiling at his replacement for the
first time that evening and dipping a hand into one of his pockets.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov grinned uncertainly, probably thinking this was
some kind of joke invented by his new friends. When the truth finally
penetrated his alcohol-dulled brain as to what was being offered as an
Afghan souvenir he paled and stared as if hypnotized at the little rag
Chistyakov had unfolded in the palm of his hand. It contained a small
cluster of shriveled brownish-black human ears.
"There you go, kid, they don't bite," urged Chistyakov, thrusting the
ears at Yepimakhov.
"...?..."
"Get them out of sight, fuck you!" said Sharagin angrily. "He'll spew
all over the table if you don't...Everyone's fed up with those ears..."
Zhenka did not seem to take offense: he gave a snort of laughter,
shrugged, wrapped up his trophies again and put them back in his pocket.
Chistyakov flew back to the Soviet Union, having said his farewells.
With his departure, the company suffered a tangible loss, everything became
quiet and dull. The newcomers slouched around the barracks, making Sharagin
feel bleak. He studied their sleepy, inexpressive faces, having trouble
remembering their names, surnames, recognizing the new recruits by their
snub noses, freckles, prominent ears, watched their awkward movements with
distaste, was annoyed by their hesitation in handling weapons and machinery,
but nonetheless, saw potential in several of them.
Gradually, he got a picture of the replacements. Asked a few of them in
passing about their lives prior to being drafted, about their families. He
learned about some of them from their personal dossiers; a whole host of
small, seemingly insignificant details, made a mental note of them for the
future. He wanted to have a clear idea, and quickly found out, what
determined the mind-set of this or that soldier, whether they were all
suitable for duty in Afghanistan, what sort of news from home upset each
young man before going out on a sortie.
It was still too soon to try and guess who was capable of what, because
only the war can put things into proper perspective. As captain Morgultsev
liked to say on such occasions: "Only the spring thaw will show who shit
where..."
That first evening, Sharagin had not noticed that lieutenant Yepimakhov
was one of those people towards whom, after you have spoken with them, you
begin to feel sympathy and even a degree of pity when you spot a far-off, as
yet unplayed tragedy behind his indestructible or incredibly youthful
interest and enthusiasm. Yepimakhov turned out to be well-read and educated
above army level. Paratrooper in the bone and a dreamer at heart.
After a few weeks, Sharagin realized Yepimakhov's leadership potential
and grinned dourly:
"A brain like that shouldn't be confined by straps and belts. That
would be criminal! Let's go out and catch a breath of fresh air, Nikolai"
"Did you do well at school?" asked Sharagin casually, dragging on his
cigarette.
"Reasonably well, I suppose," replied Yepimakhov modestly.
"D'you remember everything?"
"Everything..."
"Well, forget all that crap!"
Yepimakhov proved to be an obedient, attentive and grateful pupil; he
absorbed advice like a thirsty sponge, and did not hesitate to ask
questions: what does one do in such a situation? what if it happens like
this? He went into everything in the finest details.
Only he was more inclined to talk about other things. Like a kid (and
he was little more than that - almost a contemporary of the long service
soldiers!) Yepimakhov swallowed all that he was told here and there about
the war, all that was heroic and tragic; about the war which lived next
door, somewhere beyond the fencing of the camp, and everyone had seen it
except him.
He was impatient, a typical trait for a newcomer. Yepimakhov wanted to
try, prove himself in battle, under fire, he probably imagined medals and
all sorts of feats of valor.
And in those blue eyes, as yet unshadowed by the war, Sharagin saw the
unspoken question, to the point but not quite: "Have you killed many people?
What did you feel then?" The question shimmered in the air, then disappeared
- lieutenant Yepimakhov could not bring himself to ask outright about such
things, even though they had become friends.
Furthermore, he had burned his fingers in those first weeks, had become
more cautious and restrained. Firstly, he had been put in his place in no
uncertain manner when he had used the familiar "thou" form of address to
captain Morgultsev, being drunk at the time, and then being told to go fuck
himself when he had interrupted someone else's story about something.
"We're not interested in your philosophy, lieutenant," another officer
had said. "You're a snotty-nosed newcomer, and you're shoving your oar in!
We don't need your clever quotes out of books, we graduated from other
universities!" And an even more telling blow: "Your philosophy starts with
dinner, and ends up in the latrine!"
There was no need to ask Zhenka Chistyakov whether he had killed. Just
count the ears he kept as trophies, but Sharagin was different. He knew how
to listen, he read if he had the time. He was the only one to appreciate the
books Yepimakhov had brought. The others were still laughing, and would
probably be laughing still when he ended his service.
"What have you got that's so heavy?" asked senior warrant officer
Pashkov with that rehearsed respect for officers and ill-disguised hope of a
freebie, when he first met Yepimakhov and hefted his suitcase. "Bet you've
got some beer in here! I could murder for a beer right now!"
"No."
"Sausage? Smoked fat?" ventured the slightly disillusioned Pashkov,
still hoping for a miracle.
"No, just personal stuff and books and journals."
"Wha-a-at?" asked Pashkov in disbelief. "You brought books here? You
crazy or something?" he burst out at this unexpected turn, shifting in
amazement from the formal 'thou' to the informal 'you.' "What the hell do
you need them for?"
The newly-baked lieutenant felt a bit miffed at being addressed in such
a manner, but Pashkov's age and the fact that he had been here for a long
time did not allow Yepimakhov to show his chagrin. Anyway, there was nobody
else in the room at the time.
Yepimakhov tried to see Pashkov as simply nice but stupid, a man twice
his own age, especially as Pashkov really was kind, something you could read
in his face at once, no matter how he puffed himself up.
"To read. I think I've brought enough for the first year. Actually,
there are some very interesting books there, a good detective story, for
instance ... I'll show it to you later."
"Good Lord, what have we come to? Bringing books into the war zone.
Don't tell anyone else."
"Don't tell what?"
"That you dragged books across the border. There's got to be about ten
kilos of paper here." Pashkov kicked a dismissive toe at the bag. "Have you
brought the Great Soviet Encyclopedia, or the complete works of Karl Marx?"
"Why shouldn't I tell anyone?" persisted Yepimakhov.
"They won't understand..."
Sharagin was the only one who understood. Yepimakhov was sure of him
immediately. He was different from the other officers. He put on a stern
appearance to the men, but apart from that he was friendly, open, refined
and cynical in reasonable measure. Who else would have spoken confidentially
to a newcomer:
"You think you'll come face to face with the enemy immediately? If so,
I don't envy you, if you have to look into their eyes while they're alive.
You take a look, and it means you've come too close. It's not likely you'll
live to tell the tale. It's better to look at dead spooks after battle...
And don't think, never think that you're smarter than them. The spooks can
watch you from cover all day, and when they find your weak spot, that's
where they'll strike... And another thing - Don't be afraid of being
demanding and meticulous with the men. If you nursemaid them, they'll be on
your back in a flash. If you can't control them through strictness - use
force! A good fight in wartime is good practice, insurance against losses.
If you see that the "elephants" are getting out of hand - beat the shit out
of them! So that they won't loosen up after Chistyakov. You have to keep a
constant eye on those slobs. See that they don't sell fuel to the spooks,
that they're wearing their bullet-proof vests when you go out on combat
duty. If one of them catches a bullet, you're the one who's going to have to
drag his body. If anyone disobeys you - pow! Straight in the kisser! All
they understand is force! They behaved themselves beautifully under Zhenka.
And Zhenka kept them safe. Now they're grateful that he beat some sense into
them and they're still alive..."
"But you don't hit them, like Chistyakov..." demurred Yepimakhov.
"When you've served six months here, you can decide whether to bash a
soldier in the liver, or address him formally... As a matter of fact, you
haven't seen me working out, but if need be, I can hurt them more than
Zhenka could, if they deserve it..."
"Know something?" asked Yepimakhov, looking like a mischievous small
boy. "Yesterday, after lights out, there was this stamping on the roof. I
thought it was a whole herd of mice running to the other end of the barracks
to feed, racing each other to the table, so to speak. Claws scratching on
the wood. You know what the men thought up? They've already killed about a
hundred mice, put out traps for them."
"That was a favorite pastime of Zhenka's."
"...then last night I heard: snap! Everyone ran to see. A mouse!
Honestly, everyone was so happy! They were squealing like children."
"They are children..."
"They put this mouse into an empty pail, sprayed it with petrol - I
thought there'd be a fire, but there wasn't - and threw in a lighted match.
You should have seen it! The mouse went up in flames, it must have hurt
terribly, it was all aflame and running around the bottom of the pail like
crazy. Everyone was laughing! It was just like a living torch!"
"Check out that everything's all right in there," said Sharagin,
indicating the barracks, "and let's go eat. I'm starved."
In the smoking room near the mess hall, hungry officers milled around
under a canopy of camouflage netting. Lieutenant-colonel Bogdanov, who was
temporarily in command of the regiment, was strutting past headquarters,
shoulders back and chest forward, like some hero from a folk tale. Warily,
they eyed this officer, with fists like basketballs. It was said that he
once killed a spook with a mere blow of his fist....
...there is an unpleasant look in his eye, that
lieutenant-colonel...makes your skin crawl...the 'grandpas' straighten their
belts and backs at the sight of him....they're afraid of him....they respect
him .... Bogdanov is strict beyond the call of duty...and rarely fair ....a
petty tyrant ... if he's appointed permanent commander, it'll be curtains
for us all... commanders like that only think about ranks and titles...
"...what in hell do you want with Yugoslavia, Petrovich?" demanded a
warrant officer. "What will you do there?"
"They sell these cans of cherries from Yugoslavia in the
quartermaster's store. What does it say on the cans? Yugotutun or something.
"
"So?"
"I want to go to that factory in Yugoslavia and see how they take the
stones out of the cherries."
"There's probably a machine that does it," suggested captain Osipov.
"That's really interesting - can't say it ever occurred to me before."
"Or they sit there and remove them by hand."
"Nah, by hand? That many cans? Can't be done."
"Why not? Easy as anything. D'you know how many potatoes a platoon can
peel in an hour?"
"About five sacks."
"Five? Ten! You just have to clout them hard and often enough."
"A few tons in a night," was the general agreement.
"So in Yugoslavia they've got soldiers pitting those cherries. So
what?"
"Wheeee!" the eyes of all the officers senior and junior followed a
very plump young woman who was heading for the mess hall.
"A new waitress!"
"Hey, Yakimchuk, look at that ass! All that fat! You'd never manage to
eat that much in a year!" said someone.
Then it was a free-for-all:
"That's some workbench! Enough for a whole platoon!"
"Yes, man, that's a delayed action sex bomb..."
"Nah, she's not my type..."
"Who's asking you?
"In Afghanistan, pal, you don't have much choice. You take what's
available..."
"Spending winter with a woman like that would be easy. She'd keep the
whole barracks warm."
"Where the hell did they find her?"
"She's instead of Luska..."
"What Luska?"
"Remember, the one with the big tits?"
"Oh yeah, I remember her..."
"She didn't work long before she got herself under Bogdanov."
"He's a real one for the ladies, that's true. A stallion!"
"He didn't have much time to ride her, though. She got herself in with
a general from headquarters while Bogdanov was away on combat duty. The
general had her transferred closer to him. Maybe it's a lie, but I've heard
that the general recommended her for a medal."
"Well, well: "Ivan gets a poke up the ass for being in the attack, and
Masha gets a Red Star award for her cunt..."
"That's what I'm saying: this new one will be under some colonel soon
enough."
"Who'd want a fat slob like that?"
"They could have sent someone a bit thinner. I went to pick up the
"elephants" last week, and you should have seen the dames that arrive! Make
your eyes pop. And what do we get? We have to look at that fat ass every day
in the mess hall! She'll never squeeze between the tables! Makes you sick...
I'm not going to the mess any more."
"So who's forcing you?"
"You lads have got it all wrong," chided a gray-haired warrant officer
after the doors into the mess hall slammed shut behind the new waitress.
"You're laughing, but there's a man for every woman here. Not a single one
will be left with nothing to do. This one will find her match, too..."
"Maybe it will be you, Petrovich?" suggested someone. Everybody
laughed. "In that case, all the parachute silk in the regiment will have to
be used up for her knickers! ..."
Butts were thrown into the shell case that served as an ashtray, the
smokers headed for the mess. Only two remained in the smoking hut - Sharagin
and Yepimakhov. Oleg had wanted to draw his friend away, but the other was
obviously interested in the neighboring conversation, even though he
pretended he was not listening and sat with his back turned.
"Take my family, now, Petrovich," said one of the warrant officers. "My
wife doesn't work. Two kids. A third was born last year. D'you know what she
gets from the state? Thirty five rubles a month! Thirty five! If anything
happens to me here..."
"Nothing'll happen to you, you're in the rear, damn it!"
"No, I'm serious. If anything happens to me, how will she live? I
wouldn't walk to the fucking checkpoint for thirty five rubles! "
"You will, what can you do?" insisted the gray-haired warrant officer.
"If you're ordered, you'll go."
"No I won't! As a matter of principle! But you tell me, how can anyone
live on that? And they want me not to steal!"
"All right, let's go," said Oleg rising, bored with this chatter. "No
wonder their character reports say that warrant officers are "thoughtful"
and "have staying power"...."
"In what way?"
... this kid's really from another world...
"Well...how shall I put it to be fair? I don't mean all warrant
officers. Our Pashkov won his medal fair and square. But those two - they're
quartermaster's rats. They're not equal to Pashkov. So they're "thoughtful"
and "have staying power" because they sit around in their store jerking off
until dinner time, thinking and thinking, and after dinner they need staying
power to carry away all that they've stolen. When you go into town, you'll
see that all the shops are full of our products. You and I are supposed to
be fed normally, but these sons of bitches sell off everything right and
left, while we Soviet officers are left with fuck all!"
"When do you think there'll be a chance to go into town, Oleg?" asked
Yepimakhov once they were in the mess hall.
"Been here five minutes, and he's already wanting to go into town,"
commented Nemilov sarcastically.
"But it would be interesting to take a look..."
"Save up your chits first," advised Zebrev across the table.
"Everything in its own time," winked Sharagin.
Spooning soup from a plastic bowl, Sharagin remembered his first
clandestine visit into town. Together with Ivan Zebrev, who was going on
leave and had to buy up as much as possible, they had taken their chances
and gone around the shops. Unfortunately for them, an order had been issued
forbidding anyone going into town for security reasons. You could leave your
unit only with written permission from headquarters, so the MPs were having
a field day rounding up everyone from the shops.
They dressed in "civvies" and gave a bottle of "Stolichnaya" to be
taken out of the camp in a BMP, worrying all the way that something would
happen and their absence would be noticed. Nemilov might report them. They
dodged patrols. Sharagin almost fainted the first time he entered a shop and
saw the abundance of imported goods: jeans, all sorts of cloth, shoes,
folding sunglasses, quartz watches, cigarette lighters of different kinds.
He suddenly felt offended on behalf of Lena and Nastyusha, who were back
there in the Soviet Union and would never see anything like this.
... how wonderful it would be if Lena could choose whatever she
wanted!...I'd give her all my chits - let her enjoy herself...and the
children's things! why are all our children so gray and unattractive? why
can't we make decent clothing for them?!..
Oh, what a chewing out they got from Morgultsev later! He treated them
like naughty children! He almost burst with indignation when he found he'd
been fooled by his lieutenants, he'd shouted and shouted, about twenty
minutes, turned red as a beet, and ended by saying:
"You have been formally reprimanded, and it will go on your records!"
That meant that they would have to give the commander a half litre to
get his nerves back in shape.
...of course, we're used to him and don't react or take particular
offense, he is what he is ....on edge, easily wound up, shouts a lot, but
usually without real anger ... he cools down soon, so we forgive him his
quick temper ... you resent it when he yells and yells, but once he quietens
down you feel sorry for him, because you know that he's not mean, that he
cares about us, his company, his officers, the "elephants"...
Shall we go?" asked Yepimakhov, interrupting Sharagin's reminiscent
train of thought.
"You go. I'll stay and have some tea..."
Almost everyone had finished eating. Sharagin sat alone in the empty
mess hall. A soldier went around lazily swiping crumbs off the tables with a
towel, two waitresses were exchanging confidences near the kitchen. A
soldier without a belt was mopping the floor. Oleg dipped sugar cubes in his
tea and sucked them lazily, holding them in two fingers. The sugar changed
color, fell apart, melted in his mouth. He ate a slice of bread with butter
that smelled rancid. The day they had made their illicit sortie to the
shops, he had been indescribably happy. Together with Zebrev, he sent his
first presents home for Lena and Nastyusha - a musical postcard and a tin of
tea...
... with bergamot oil...not just any old Georgian tea, or that Indian
one with three elephants!...how they'll love it!..
Zebrev had taken the trouble of going to the Sharagins, stayed a while
and told Lena that they were living and working well, comforted her by
saying there was virtually no danger, there were only rare clashes somewhere
near the border, far away from the regiment. "Unusual woman, your wife, " he
commented. "Harrumph! - Quiet and meek. Wish mine was like that. I took out
the parcel from my bag, and she just put it on the couch without opening it.
I barely managed to talk her into unwrapping your presents. You have to make
sure everything fits, I told her. How many chits did you spend? Actually,
you did the right thing. I was too stingy in that shop. She particularly
liked that blue dress. I thought she'd rush out and try it on, but she's a
strange woman, she just sat down by the table and burst into tears. I asked
her why she was crying, and she said she'd never had such beautiful things
in her life. How do you like that! I felt really awkward. My wife did
nothing but bitch and criticize everything I brought. That dress will be
just right for your wife, don't worry, she's very slim. Then she sorted the
children's things and dressed up your daughter. Then she sat down again and
started asking about you. What could I say to her? - Harrumph! - I can just
see her now, sitting on the edge of the chair, pale as anything. Is she sick
or something? Very fragile, she is....
... like a cup from a Chinese tea service... Pashkov bought himself one
like that...
...So there I am, talking all sorts of crap, and she sits there
listening, smiling and crying. Silly little thing...."
Sharagin picked up a tin of aubergine caviar, thanked the waitresses
smoking at a corner table and went back to the company.
Morgultsev looked annoyed..
"Get yourself ready!" he ordered without preamble. "You'll be going out
tomorrow."
"Again? Where?"
"Who the fuck knows? They called from the political section . They've
got some production brigade, or musical brigade or propaganda brigade on
their hands. Damn it! I couldn't make head or tail of it, so don't ask me!
Don't rile me up, Sharagin, I'm in a bad mood today, so be warned! ...What
are you standing around for?"
"I'm waiting for more detailed instructions."
"Wash your ears, Sharagin, I said you're going out tomorrow!"
"Where are we going exactly?"
"How the hell would I know? ...The task is a simple one. They want an
escort, see, to drive around the villages and teach the fucking spooks to
play the balalaika or some such shit!"
"Seriously?"
"How can I know?! The vehicles are falling to pieces, we've got no
spare parts, it's time to write them off and not barge around playing
amateur theatricals! I said to them: "The company's not ready to go!" And
what did they say to me? "Obey orders, fuck it!" So - you're off tomorrow.
We pull out at zero four hundred hours..."
The paratroop company rumbled through a still sleeping Kabul, as if by
waking the hated Afghans would give them a measure of revenge for the
troops' early start. The tracks of the BMPs grated over the asphalt,
powerful motor roared, headlights swung here and there throwing light on
stone walls and the few people up and about at this early hour. It was only
after the company had left the city behind that mullahs left their beds and
the first cries of "Allah is great" screeched out of the loudspeaker in the
minaret.
They had to wait for three hours at the last checkpoint before the
mysterious agitprop brigade put in an appearance.
Morgultsev cursed, calling headquarters to find out where those damned
"artists" were. Meantime, the men dozed.
"What a screw-up! Damn them all to hell!"
Dawn broke. The drivers who had been sleeping in their vehicles at the
checkpoint woke up and went off to wash, clean their teeth and eat
breakfast. Finally, their transport column moved off toward Salang under BMP
escort.
All traffic stopped along the roads with the coming of darkness. A
temporary exchange of power was taking place in Afghanistan. By day, the
roads belonged to the Soviets, and night was the time of the spooks.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov, looking very serious, sat on the turret of a BMP
wearing an earphone helmet, new pea jacket and did not let go of his machine
gun for an instant.
... let him take an excursion, we'll spend a few days in the fresh air,
and then it's
back to the regiment ...
The agitprop brigade arrived at last. Those officers and drivers who
had alpine or motorbike goggles put them on to keep the dust out of their
eyes. Sharagin nodded to his friend. Yepimakhov raised a thumb in
acknowledgment as if to say - this is just great!
The company reformed into battle positions, all the trucks taking their
places between the BMPs.
They topped a hill. A breath-taking panorama opened before them: a
beautiful valley lay below, bisected by a concrete road. In the depth of the
valley Afghan houses clustered among the "greenery" and along its edges,
like mushrooms on a tree stump, forming tiny clusters on the cliffs - sort
of tiny oasis amid the trees.
"This is zero three, this is Zero three! Can you hear me? Over and
out!" came Zebrev's voice through the earphones.
"This is zero one! I hear you loud and clear" Roger!" replied
Morgultsev.
"Column's moving OK," reported Zebrev to his commander. His vehicles
were at the end of the convoy, covering the rear.
If it were not for the danger, it would have been interesting to watch
the column weave its way along the concrete: armored cars, then a couple of
Kamaz trucks, the agitprop's armored personnel carrier (APC), a jeep with a
red cross, another APC, a fuel truck, a BMP, a "Zil" truck and another
armored vehicle to close the line.
"Attention on the left!" barked Morgultsev. The BMP cannons rotated to
the left. They were passing a bomb-blasted village, which meant "be on your
guard!". A line of Afghan passenger buses and trucks were coming towards
them. The column went through the Soviet and Afghan posts along the road and
past piles of the rusty remains of destroyed combat vehicles, lonely
monument to fallen Soviet soldiers.
They stopped for a while in the regional center, while the forthcoming
operation was discussed with the Afghans. Yepimakhov smiled amiably at the
Afghans and nodded to the urchins who clustered around, begging.
"Don't mistake those animal grins for friendly smiles!" cautioned
Morgultsev as he passed by.
"What do you mean? They're only children!"
"Sons of bitches," corrected Morgultsev.
Several Afghans, unarmed but dressed in army uniform climbed on to the
first BMP to show the way to the village. As bad luck would have it, the
selected village lay a fair distance from the main road. It was not
comfortable going so far. The officers and men traded silent looks of
inquiry: were they heading into a trap?
"Should've posted sentries first, and then go into this godforsaken
hole!" muttered Morgultsev.
The company spread out over the village, taking up defensive positions.
The vehicles were parked as close as possible to the houses, waiting.
"What they're doing isn't worth a tinker's damn, but we've got to cover
them!" commented Morgultsev angrily. "Going along any country road without
sappers!"
Only Yepimakhov, who did not yet understand all the dangers of this
window-dressing venture into an isolated village, who had not yet smelled