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gunfire and knew nothing of the treachery of the Afghans, was inspired by
the situation. He was gripped by revolutionary fervor. Even the officers of
the agitprop group kept a wary eye on the surrounding hillsides, at the
armed men who mingled with the crowd of locals.
"Who's that with a machine-gun and worry-beads?" asked Yepimakhov,
suddenly feeling a stab of unease. "Is that a spook?"
The skinny Uzbek who was the agitprop interpreter, a small man who
looked like a ruffled sparrow, glanced at him with narrowed eyes:
"Don't use that word. It means "enemy." That man over there, ' he
indicated the armed Afghan with a jerk of his head, "belongs to the
self-defense unit."
"Oh...I see...."
"You new here?"
"Yes... My name's Nikolai." Yepimakhov held out his hand.
"Tulkun." The interpreter's hand was small and limp.
"Look Tulkun, could you tell me a couple of phrases that I could say to
these people?"
"What phrases?" asked the Uzbek, still eyeing him distrustfully.
"Well, something like 'how are you doing? or 'is everything in
order?"', that type of thing'"
The Afghans usually say: "Djurasti, cheturasti?'"
Yepimakhov wrote this down in a small notebook, then repeated the words
aloud. The armed Afghan from the self-defense brigade beamed at him.
"Djurasti, cheturasti, grow your dick until your old age-sti,
chopper-sti will come here-sti, and that will be fuck-all-sti for you-sti!"
mocked senior warrant officer Pashkov.
"I would advise you," said the interpreter when Pashkov was out of
earshot, "to learn some verses from the Koran."
"Why?"
"They could come in useful.
Yepimakhov dutifully wrote out a long sentence dictated by the
interpreter:
"And what does this all mean?"
"It means that there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.
" The interpreter took Yepimakhov by the arm, lowering his voice
confidentially. "If you get captured, keep saying that over and over. The
spooks won't kill you then... Excuse me, I have to go and help the doctor.
We can talk later."
"Capture?" repeated Yepimakhov, stunned. "I've no intention of being
captured by the bandits! I'd never plead for mercy like that Uzbek!..."
Sharagin felt strange, taking part in this charitable agitprop venture.
He sat on the sun-warmed armor and smoked, eyes roving over the surrounding
slopes, the armed Afghans, the activities of the agitprop brigade staff.
... Morgultsev is right when he says that "the only good Afghan is a
dead one" ... all these Afghan villages are hazardous ... you have to keep
your eyes peeled every second with these bearded bastards ... turn your
back, and you'll get a knife in it before you know it ...
... that's how we screwed up over Afghanistan! Instead of bombing the
shit out of them, they play Mister Nice Guy with them, thinking that a sack
of grain's enough to make an Afghan our friend! ... What utter crap! ...
Dream on!..."
He was used to fighting the Afghans, not visiting their villages and
playing namby-pamby. Just look!
... Doctor Dolittle in a nice white coat giving them a medical
check-up. It's enough to make you die laughing. He's lucky he's got an armed
soldier beside him, you can never know what to expect from these monkeys.
They say 'this village supports the people's power regime' ... the hell it
does! Simply the men have all gone off into the mountains or to Pakistan,
where they're being trained to lay mines, what else can they do? There's no
work for them, and they've forgotten how to work the land!... then the men
will return, and the village will belong to the spooks again...look at that
old guy all covered with sores and skin ulcer's pushing his way through to
the table with the medicines ... back home he wouldn't be allowed inside a
hospital, but would be packed off to a leper colony ... and you, old man,
probably go out into the fields every day ... Dolittle there puts some
lotion on a piece of cotton-wool and swabs down the sores, not afraid of
infection" "there you go," he tells the oldster through the interpreter.
"There you go. Next!"... dekhkane, what a word - sounds similar to our
Russian 'workers and peasants'! Dekh-kane-ne! Whole village is turning out
by the looks of it, they believe that this is all it takes - a swab of
something or a pill, and all their ills will be cured! Blessed are those who
have faith! That junior lieutenant who's the interpreter can barely keep up
translating their babble: hepatitis, ulcers, blood pressure, diarrhea, the
clap ....good for you, Grandpa! Says he's got the clap, but I bet his
soldier still stands at attention, otherwise why would he bother looking to
be cured, probably has a nice new young bride lined up, polygamy's not a
problem here ... Bravo, Dolittle! Nothing you can't handle! Calm and
collected, helps all the natives, gives one a packet of powder, breaks a
pill in half for the other and tells him that one half's for the diarrhea,
and the other half for headaches.
...the spooks are pleased the Russian doctor's cured them, gave them
three tablets and made them well...that nurse they've got with them is
something, though! I wouldn't mind traveling around villages for weeks just
for her... she's examining the local women ... shoving a stethoscope under a
raised burqa... I can imagine the filth underneath! Probably hasn't washed
since the day she was born ... you can't see her face...probably she's
uglier than a hundred Chinese... the nurse is monitoring her heartbeats:
tick-tock, tick-tock... can't tell the woman's age - could be anything from
twenty five to sixty five... they all have equally shriveled hands, and the
rest is under those robes...
... hey, nursie, you'd be better off monitoring my heart! ... there
they go over by the truck, sacks of grain going one after the other, and
just watch the spooks grabbing those free galoshes... not everyone back
home's got shoes, and we've been living without decent roads for centuries!
dirt everywhere, any town you name, it'd be better if they gave out free
galoshes to our own Soviet citizens: here you are, instead of asphalt on the
roads! a pair of galoshes for every Soviet family!... like hell! the Afghans
need them more, you see... the friendly Afghan people! we're helping the
revolution ...if we didn't throw everything away to these so-called allies
in the socialist camp and in our struggle, we'd have a chance to live like
normal human beings ... hey, the natives have started a fight, what do they
call them? saksauls? aksakals? elders? going at each other like angry
roosters, give them a chance and they'll work up a real Waterloo! grain
being issued by the sack-load, all free of charge!.. ah, they've put on a
movie... what in hell's the point? a Russian movie at that, a classical
masterpiece ... 'Anna Karenina' isn't it? dubbed of course, but are these
creeps likely to have any idea about what's being shown on the screen? ...
hey, they've shown only one part, and are wrapping up...some agitation and
propaganda exercise! ...and over there, they've got native songs blasting
out over a loudspeaker and are handing out leaflets ... it'd be better if
they printed more books back home instead of these leaflets, you can only
get proper books with special cards, and the amount of paper they've wasted
on these leaflets would be enough to print the entire works of Dumas, I
bet!... tell me, what use are these leaflets for the natives? they're all
illiterate, anyway! They haven't even learned to wipe their asses with
paper! they squat for just a piss!....
... the lieutenant who was interpreting for Doctor Dolittle's talking
to the elders now ... why don't we bring out a piano-accordion, sing some
songs do a little dance for them, maybe then they won't start shooting at
our backs when we leave this bloody village! we'll all get ourselves killed
with this idiotic agitprop do-gooding!...
"Show's finally over," said Morgultsev, not hiding his relief.
They crawled back towards the surfaced main road and returned to the
regional center. The commanding officers of the agitprop brigade retreated
to confer with Afghan activists in a one-storey barracks.
... bet they've gone off to eat pilaf ... and we have to sit around and
wait, like beggars on the threshold...
Impudent, pestering natives began sneaking around the army vehicles
like flies. Some of them were fluent in Russian swear-words. Weaving around,
prying, staring, they try to sell something to the Russians: two offering
wares, four hanging around looking out for something to steal.
... blink an eyelid, and they'll dismantle the BMP in five minutes flat
...
... that sonofabitch isn't as high as the vehicle wheel, but he's ready
to try and lug it off on his back ...
"I'll show you baksheesh in a moment!" roared private Chirikov, and
rattled a grenade menacingly.
... those bastards aren't even a little bit scared, they know that
nobody'll shoot them here ...
A red and white civilian bus pulled up on the other side of the road
from Sharagin's vehicle. A few minutes later it drove off, leaving an old
Afghan with a girl aged four or five sitting on his back, her arms around
his neck. Bending his trembling knees, the old man set the girl down and
stood there, looking around and seeming at a total loss. To the right, a
group of Indian traders sat in a group drinking tea, on the left - bearded
men with machine guns were exchanging greetings, hugging one another and
touching cheeks.
... either they're spooks that are observing a cease-fire agreement, or
they're so-called people's militia, who are also spooks , but today they're
for the Kabul regime, and tomorrow against it ...
Hesitantly, bowing like a slave and cringing, the old man approached
the traders, paused beside them and mumbled something, indicating the little
girl with his hand. The traders eyed him contemptuously and shrugged. They
turned away from him, but the old man did not go away. He milled around
indecisively, turning his head this way and that, finally stopping a
passer-by. The passer-by did not want to listen.
... that child looks sick ... or maybe she's sleepy ... Nastyushka, I
wonder what my little Nastyushka's doing right now?
He imagined her romping around in the grass in little white knickers,
surrounded by butterflies, while Lena lay nearby on a blanket, reading and
enjoying the sunshine ....
Sharagin watched the confused old man, who disappeared and reappeared
through passing traffic. He shifted from one foot to another on the spot and
glancing at the little girl, who was leaning over at a strange angle towards
the traders.
... what if that were my Nastyusha?..
"Gerasimov?..."
"Sir!"
"Run down and get me an interpreter from the agitprop brigade. Not that
Uzbek, though, there's a Russian junior lieutenant there. Tell him to find
out from the old man ... Which one? That one that's crossing the road! Tell
him to find out what's wrong with that little girl. Got that? On the double!
Savatyev and Sychev - you come with me. You keep a watch here," he added to
Yepimakhov, who had just come up.
Had anyone asked Sharagin right then why he was concerning himself with
the old man's problems, he would probably have been unable to answer, it was
just that at this specific time, he thought of nothing else and, moreover,
it looked as though the child was crying.
The old Afghan replied with a torrent of words, gesticulating wildly
with typical peasant incoherence.
"His grand-daughter's been wounded. Got a bullet in the shoulder. She
needs a doctor," translated the junior lieutenant.
The soldiers carried the child across the road and put her down near
the BMP and the vehicles of the agitprop people.
"Chirikov!"
"Sir!"
"Find the doctor!"
"Yessir!"
Sharagin turned back to the interpreter and explained, as if justifying
himself:
"I thought she might have got travel-sick on the bus. Then I saw her
keeling over...."
Chirikov returned alone.
"Where's that Dolittle?" demanded Sharagin in displeased tones.
"He's over there, comrade lieutenant, having dinner with the Afghans
... Says he'll come soon..."
A crowd of some thirty curious Afghans gathered around in a circle,
pushing to get a look, clambering on to each other's shoulders.
"Chase 'em off!" ordered Sharagin.
Private Burkov aimed his gun at the Afghans, snapped the bolt. The kids
jumped back, but were unafraid. They mocked the Russian soldiers.
The girl sat there, crying quietly. The doctor arrived finally, rolled
up the torn sleeve and took a cursory look at the thin arm bandaged with
dirty rags covered with dried spots of blood.
It looked as though the bullet entered the shoulder and was lodged
below the shoulder-blade. The interpreter repeated the old man's account of
what had happened:
"She was working in the fields in the topmost village. The spooks often
fire on the Russian outpost, the Russians fire back, and the civilians get
the worst of it. This was a stray bullet. The field's right in the middle of
the crossfire... She was hit about three hours ago."
- poor little thing, in pain for three hours ...
The doctor put on a new dressing, gave the child a painkiller
injection, and told the interpreter to tell the old man that the girl must
be taken to hospital at once, and have an operation.
"Tell him that the bullet may have grazed one of her lungs, and there's
damage to the blood vessels. Tell him to hurry. That wound could turn
septic."
"I don't know how to say that ..."
"Well, tell him simply that she's got to have an urgent operation. Tell
him to take her to Kabul. Otherwise she'll die!"
"He says he's got no money."
"Oh, shit!" spat the doctor. "What's it got to do with me? Am I a
doctor, or a taxi driver? Am I supposed to operate on her here with my
bayonet knife?!"
"Hang on," interrupted Sharagin. "Are there any sacks of grain left?"
"Probably," nodded the interpreter.
"Give him a sack. Any car will take him to Kabul in exchange for that."
"That should be discussed with the commander..."
"What's there to discuss? How many bags did you give away to the spooks
in that village?! I'll go and speak to your commander myself. Where is he?
"Here he comes now. Captain Nenashev. "
The commander of the agitprop unit needed no persuasion, turned out to
be a right kind of guy. He understood what was happening at once and ordered
a bag of grain unloaded.
In the time it took to flag down a car, haggle with the driver and
bring a sack of grain from the truck, the doctor scribbled something on a
scrap of paper which he handed to the interpreter:
"Tell him to go to the Soviet hospital in Kabul and give them this
note. I've written down what's necessary..."
In the morning, the agitprop commander decided to visit some more
villages in order to "get rid of" the remaining humanitarian aid in the
trucks, then return to Kabul with a glowing report about the latest
successful propaganda action.
Once again, nobody asked the paratroopers whether they wanted to trek
from village to village, or not. They were assigned to guard and were under
the orders of the political workers, so they were bored and had nothing to
do from early morning onwards.
They pitched camp in a field behind the Soviet checkpoint.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov was becoming used to life on the armor, and had
by now a close look at the Afghans. He placed the troops in position quite
confidently and fairly sensibly, assigned sentries for the night. There was
a definitely commanding note in his voice now, even though it was still a
bit overdone and too loud, imitative, but even that was not bad. The main
thing was to keep the troops on their toes and respect the voice of their
commanding officer.
...so that they'll hear his voice in their dreams alongside their
mothers'...
The "elephants" were nobody's fools, either, if they should notice a
blind spot or a hint of indecisiveness, it would be the end for that
officer's authority, the old-timers would be on his back in a flash. They
know their own worth, move around sloppily, know how to avoid duty and are
masters of kibitzing.
At first they traded knowing winks, why show initiative? We'll wait
until we get orders, let the "finch" jump around for a bit, sweat some,
realize that he's nothing without us; was the attitude of the "grandpas"
toward the new commander.
Yepimakhov was not confused. He issued a string of orders, did not take
offense at silly questions and jibes, pretended not to notice them and
showed a strict face. His expression seemed to indicate that he was very
displeased with the men, but was holding back. Still, the implication was
clear that he would have no hesitation in giving someone a punch in the face
if he decided to do so. The "grandpas" had not seen him like this before,
decided that it wasn't worth pushing their luck and, like king Solomon,
settled on a compromise solution: they stripped to the waist and, snapping
their braces, loudly repeated Yepimakhov's orders to the finches and
dippers. Those, in turn, bared their torsos, spat on their hands and started
shoveling, breathing in the aroma of freshly-turned earth. These lowest of
the low had no way of understanding the likes of their new commander in any
case, nor did they have the time - pick up shovels and dig! put your backs
into it! get it all done before dark
The first missile landed about one hundred meters from the camp.
Yepimakhov turned and saw a pillar of smoke. Five seconds later a second
surface-to-surface missile came closer. First he heard its whistling
approach and decided, for some strange reason, that the next one would hit
the camp squarely and he would be killed.
Yepimakhov was dumbfounded, milled around and shouted to the men to
take cover, even though most of them had already done so. He looked around
frantically for a safe place. The third missile hit the ground about fifty
meters away, the earth shuddered, and its movement under his feet filled
Yepimakhov with terror.
The following hits were scattered in the field behind the camp.
As soon as it formed, fear, deep, animal fear, engulfed the
lieutenant's heart, mixed up his thoughts, drained all resolve and assumed
confidence. He fought the all-pervading fear, with the natural impulse to
hide, to flee from danger. He shook all over, knees buckling, but stood his
ground, repeating over and over: "You're an officer, you don't have the
right to be afraid, you're an officer, you don't have the right to be
afraid."
All in all, only seven missiles came over the hill. Sharagin counted
the explosions. Taking cover, just in case, behind the armored bulk of the
BMP, he and the officers of the agitprop group tried to estimate where the
missiles were coming from.
The spooks were clearly shooting at random. Most likely they had
spotted the Soviet convoy traveling and then breaking camp from some vantage
point, and decided to have a go.
There was another explosion further away, somewhere behind them on the
road leading to Kabul. Really alarmed this time, Sharagin and the agitprop
officers spun around as if on command. For a moment they wondered if the
spooks were coming at them from two different directions. There was a
chatter of machine gun fire from the road. It was comforting to know that
there was a Soviet outpost nearby, a reliable shield on one flank at least.
Captain Morgultsev became nervous, lit a cigarette and went off to
contact Zebrev's platoon. Returning, he gestured Sharagin aside:
"Zebrev's lost a "box"...
"Where?"
"On the road."
"Shall we go there now? Any losses?" asked Sharagin, getting ready to
move fast.
"Calm down, everything's all right," said Morgultsev in hushed,
conspiratorial tones. "No losses. But one vehicle's burned out. I'll go and
sort it out myself."
When the firing stopped and it was quiet again, Yepimakhov peered out
from behind the armor, and realized at once, to his profound embarrassment,
that there was no point in celebrating victory over fear after such
cowardice.
He looked around covertly, had anyone noticed his confusion? He had no
doubt that he looked pathetic and lost. But nobody seemed to be laughing.
However, this did not make things any better. Deep contempt seared the proud
heart of the would-be hero.
"Our boys will have their firing point targeted by now and will give
the spooks a nice dose of artillery," Yepimakhov heard someone say in the
group of officers standing nearby.
"You don't say? Optimistic, aren't you?" Sharagin lit a cigarette from
someone else's and glanced briefly at Yepimakhov. He could guess why the
lieutenant did not look too happy, but showed no trace either by word or
gesture. "They came from behind that hill," he went on casually. "Do you
think anyone's still there? Those spooks would have jumped into a waiting
Toyota and disappeared. Talk about chasing ghosts in a fog...!"
Yepimakhov sat beside Sharagin immersed in his own thoughts, poking his
rice pudding with a fork.
... nothing surprising in that the kid got scared ... it would be
stranger if he hadn't ... if you're afraid, it means you're no fool ...
he'll get used to it ... people get used to everything ... I read somewhere
that the Irish say you can even get used to being hanged ...
An APC was approaching the camp rapidly along the deeply worn ruts in
the road. A major in an earphone helmet, the battalion commander of the
nearest outpost jumped down. He looked like a native of Turkmenistan.
"Where's the company commander?" he shouted furiously. "Ah, there you
are! sitting here drinking tea while one of your BMPs is on fire!"
"Why are you yelling at me?" demanded captain Morgultsev, getting to
his feet. "I know all about that BMP, I've just got back from there. The
spooks hit it with a grenade launcher. Got it right in the oil tank!"
"What fucking rocket launcher! What fucking spooks!" continued the
outpost commander, raising his voice even higher. "Over the past months, the
spooks haven't hit a single column, a single vehicle! I've got an agreement
with the leader of the local gang! So don't give me any crap, captain! I
drove past your three BMPs and saw for myself that the last one had broken
down, the men were trying to repair it ... You set it on fire yourselves!"
"Don't say that comrade major," replied Morgultsev, speaking very
deliberately. "There's no call to slander my officers like that," he went on
with growing irritation, his face turning red. "Everyone heard that shot
from the grenade launcher! "
The major was not ready to back down - "Where are your wounded? Eh? No
answer, captain? It's impossible that someone isn't at least shell-shocked
after that!"
The war of words continued. The major and captain were no longer the
only combatants, they were looking for supporters among the surrounding
officers and agitprop personnel: who had the more convincing argument?
The major pulled off his helmet, exposing a cleanly shaven head.
... there was time when I went around bald, just like that ...
grinned Sharagin.
... looks like the head of a prick! ...
The outpost commander kept shoving his hands in his pockets and then
pulling them out again, gesticulated, poking a finger at Morgultsev, and
then in the direction of the burning BMP, which could not be seen from that
spot.
"What are you smiling about, captain? Admit that you simply wanted to
write off a faulty vehicle as destroyed in battle! It won't work, youngster.
Where have you ever seen anyone attack a BMP that way?!"
"Comrade major," said Morgultsev unpleasantly. "This is my second term
of service in Afghanistan, It's happened to me three times..."
"If you needed to write off that BMP," interrupted the major, "you
could have said so to me. I'd have shown you where to drive it over a mine,
there's a whole shitload of them around!"
Explosions were heard from somewhere beyond the outpost, about one and
a half kilometers away from the camp. It was the explosives in the burning
BMP going up. The major spat in disgust:
"I had a meeting with the head of the gang only yesterday. We agreed
that the spooks wouldn't hit anything along my stretch of the road."
"Does that mean you'd rather believe a spook than a Soviet officer?"
"Listen," whispered Sharagin, "sic our political officer on to him. Let
him give this jerk a brainwashing."
"The hell with him," replied Morgultsev with a dismissing wave.
"Captain, I can hardly believe my eyes, " continued the major, cooling
down visibly. "First there's a broken down BMP on the road, and then it's
attacked by spooks. And no losses at all! Everyone's alive and well!
Congratulations, captain! Tell me, have you thought about what happens next?
This is an emergency! What am I to say to the leader of the gang? Fucking
rangers, damn your eyes! Foraging out to taste a bit of combat, do a bit of
shooting, and I have to pick up the pieces! You'll be off to Kabul tomorrow,
but I have to stay on here..."
Little by little, he lost steam having shouted himself out. Breathing
heavily, the major turned to the officers present, as though seeking their
support:
"I come driving up, but they've already taken up positions and opened
fire on several villages. I asked them who they were shooting at, and they
said that there must be spooks behind the walls. They thought someone had
fired on them, you see! So here I am, walking around without a bullet-proof
vest and trying to get those fucking rangers to stop! Their senior
lieutenant, what's his name ...
"Senior lieutenant Zebrev," prompted Morgultsev.
"That's right, Zebrev. The fusillade he started, you wouldn't believe!
And what if one of your rangers killed or wounded some villagers, hey
captain? That means the whole gang will come down to the road tomorrow and
hit a whole column in revenge! What then?!"
"Come with me, comrade major," said Morgultsev, drawing the outpost
commander away from unnecessary witnesses. They wandered around the camp,
arguing, for about five minutes. The major remained stubborn:
"No, I'll report that the vehicle went up in flames for unknown
reasons. Let a commission come and investigate the matter. And I'll put a
guard around the BMP so that none of your rangers can take a shot at it from
a grenade launcher."
The incident was not discussed in the company. Everyone kept quiet
... just like inside a tank ...
It was clear to all what had happened to the BMP. A routine occurrence
in war. Why wag your tongue for nothing?
Only Yepimakhov, through naivete and lack of knowledge of the
realities, entertained suspicions all evening, and, when night descended on
the camp, protest burst forth from the breast of the young internationalist.
He wanted to sort things out, discuss what had happened with his friend:
" I simply can't understand it, "he confided in a low voice. "On one
hand, if the spooks really hit the BMP, then everyone's a hero, right? They
could be put up for medals! But if the major's right - and you and I both
saw on our way back that Zebrev and his platoon stayed on the road and began
poking around in the BMP's engine, well that would be sabotage, wouldn't it,
it could mean prison. That would mean we're ruining our own equipment,
right? Can you imagine the scandal for the whole regiment!..."
"It's not that simple," replied Sharagin thoughtfully. "The whole
affair will be swept under the carpet, you'll see."
- who wants to go into combat with defective equipment! ... you can't
fix it, you can't write it off - get rid of it! otherwise it will fail you
in battle ...
"But if there were no spooks about, then it's dishonest ... unfair ...I
never thought Morgultsev could do something like that!..."
"You're still new here. Don't judge people. You can talk about what's
fair or unfair back home... when the war's over..."
Captain Morgultsev was equally troubled. He walked around the camp,
stopping here and there, smoking one cigarette after another.
"I sure hit a snag, damn it all to hell! Screw that obstinate Turkmeni
asshole! "
That was the story of Mogultsev's life - medals, then reprimands! From
king to peasant!
He was a lieutenant when he arrived in Afghanistan for the first time.
Nobody was asked whether they wanted to go there or not. The Motherland made
that decision for one and all.
Shortly before departure, in December '79, they spent more than a week
training in the forests of Belorussia. The cold was intense, you wouldn't
wish it on your worst enemy. It was cold like this that beat the Germans and
the French in their times. Only the Russians could take it, and even so, a
few soldiers would be out every day with frostbitten fingers, toes or ears.
The officers felt intuitively that this training was not just like
that, there was something brewing. They spent the evenings discussing their
suppositions, exchanging views. Afghanistan was never mentioned, nobody had
any idea about this country then. Iran was mentioned frequently as it was
there, out of all the countries bordering on the Soviet Union, that there
was unrest. The thought of Iran cheered everyone up. They joked that it
wouldn't be bad to fly south for the winter.
Time passed. The men began to talk of home. Time to get the tree
decorated for New Year!
"Even if we miss out on New Year, we'll celebrate on the 23rd of
February," sighed the officers.
Fate decreed otherwise.
The AN-12 gathered height and set course for the Urals. Lieutenant
Morgultsev worked this out easily by looking at the stars. After a five hour
flight they landed in Shadrinsk. The pilots were taken off for a meal while
the paratroopers made do with dry rations with the temperature at minus 30.
They took off again, and arrived in Andizhan some four hours later, where
they remained on the airstrip for one and a half days.
By this time, there were no secrets - commanders were issued orders,
ammunition and maps ...of the Afghan capital.
The regimental HQ commander pronounced: "..Your task is to help a
friendly country, protect it from reactionary forces ... The situation is
extremely dangerous. Bands of insurgents have seized the airdrome ..."
After these words, the pilots flatly refused to fly. Flying is out of
the question in such circumstances, they said. A parachute drop - OK, but as
for landing on a strip held by insurgents - no way! Whoever heard of such a
thing! No commander would issue an order like that!
"Look, guys," squirmed the HQ commander, "I only said that to scare the
men a bit ... the airdrome is safe, everything's in our hands!"
They landed in Kabul at dawn. A strike force prepared for a lightning
victory, but there was no enemy to conquer. The enemy had gone to ground.
What was the enemy planning, how did he intend to outwit them?
Plane after plane came in, disgorging men and materiel.
A very serious operation was under way.
"So much for southern climes," grunted Morgultsev, rubbing his frozen
hands.
The Soviet units dug in, slept in their vehicles under jackets and
greatcoats. The day brought wet snow, moods slumped because of the driving
wind and a depressing feeling of uncertainty.
A cat, unusually striped in three colors, came up to Morgultsev on
frozen paws and rubbed against his muddy boots, mewing pitifully. Trying the
traditional "here kitty-kitty-kitty" routine, Morgultsev tried to pick up
the cat, but it sprang back in fear.
"Don't understand Russian, hey? Well, I don't speak your language.
Still, you're a living creature. Come on, I'll get you something to eat!"
He took an almost empty tin of canned meat from the soldiers.
Shivering, the cat flung itself on the food, frantically licking out the
sides of the can. She did not leave, but remained with the paratroopers.
"First contact with the locals accomplished!" laughed the lieutenant,
then immersed himself in rosy dreams: - We'll be through here in a week or
two, go home, and take this Afghan Murka with us! I've got to bring home at
least one souvenir!
After breakfast, he was summoned to headquarters. A real live general
was there. Morgultsev was given a military advisor who worked in Kabul, and
a map of object No.14, which his platoon was to seize.
This object turned out to be the Pul-i-Charkhi prison, a name the
senior officers had trouble pronouncing.
"Your task is to take object 14 and free political prisoners! According
to our information there are about 120 guards. Comrade Korobeynikov will
instruct you about the object. He's familiar with the layout. Comrade
Korobeynikov will deal with the political prisoners himself. Any questions?"
"No sir!"
"That hireling of American imperialism, Amin, wanted to destroy all the
prisoners in Pul-i-Charkhi," added the head of the Political Section. "The
prison's being guarded by troops loyal to him. They could start executing
the prisoners at any moment. The lives of thousands of people are in
danger!"
"If you fail, it's the military tribunal for you," promised the dour
general in parting. He fixed Morgultsev with a gimlet eye, as though not
trusting, doubting the lieutenant.
Donning medics' white coats, Morgultsev and the advisor set of on a
reconnaissance trip in an ambulance. They passed by the prison, checked out
the territory and returned to the airdrome.
Uncle Fedya - that was the soldiers' nickname for the snub-nosed,
round-faced advisor - unfolded a detailed plan of the prison, they bent over
it and discussed various tactics. Gradually, matters became clearer. In any
case, Morgultsev had seen the prison from the air when his plane was coming
in to land in Kabul. From above it resembled a wheel which had come off a
giant cart and rolled away. That was what he had thought at the time.
They warmed themselves by the fire and thrashed out the details of the
operation. The soldiers were ordered to pay close attention and remember
everything.
"You can fire at will once we're in," said Uncle Fedya. There was a
moment of silence as he looked hard at all the men, so they would realize
this was not an exercise. "No limits! Any disobedience, any doubts - shoot
on the spot. There won't be time for questions!"
"One hundred and twenty guards," calculated Morgultsev. "That's no
pushover. And we're just one platoon. Still, we're paras, we've got the
machines and we've got the guts!"
They moved out in total darkness. The road was blocked by a portable
checkpoint with a makeshift boom, situated in the village closest to
Pul-i-Charkhi. The column stopped. The leading vehicle trained its spotlight
on an Afghan soldier who pointed a bayonet and screamed "Dry-y-y-sh!" at the
top of his lungs.
"Where the fuck did he come from?" ground Uncle Fedya through clenched
teeth. "Light out! Don't shoot! Knife him!..."
"Why's he squealing like a stuck pig?"
"He's shouting 'Halt!' C'mon, lieutenant, do it!"
Morgultsev jumped down and approached the Afghan, extending a friendly
hand:
"We're on the same side, pal! How are things, slob? What are you gaping
at?" He clapped the Afghan on the shoulder: "Come with me! Come on, let's
get off the middle of the road!"
He twisted the soldier's arm up his back with a practiced move, put the
knife to his throat:
"Look, brother, get the shit out of here. I don't want your death on my
conscience, get it? Beat it!"
The soldier fell to his knees, opened his mouth wide in terror, then
scrambled back to his feet and ran.
At Pul-i-Charkhi the road was blocked by an Afghan armored vehicle. It
was quickly knocked out of action when machine gun fire shredded its tires.
There was no return fire. Maybe the Afghans were out of ammunition.
"Get those watchtower lights," ordered Uncle Fedya, and the men did so
promptly with a hail of bullets.
"Everybody mount up!"
The day before, Morgultsev had coaxed a mobile SU-85 installation from
the regimental commander. He meant to use it to break down the massive
prison gates with no loss of time. "We could hardly do that with an armored
vehicle," he argued, "the 'plywood shield of the Motherland' would never do
that job!"
And then what happened? A fool lieutenant went off the road, panicked
and opened fire with solid anti-tank shots. With no orders to do so, the
"Sushka" hit the watchtowers.
"Stop that!" yelled Morgultsev over the radio.
"Yessir!" replied the lieutenant, but thirty seconds later recommenced
firing.
"Idiot!" swore Morgultsev, and turned to the driver-mechanic: "Wreck
those gates!"
The armored vehicle did it! So much for the slur "plywood shield of the
Motherland"! They broke into the prison compound.
"Reverse! Faster!" commanded Morgultsev. He and Uncle Fedya had it all
worked out: they reversed and crushed the wooden structure which served as
the guardhouse.
"Full forward!"
They had to ram another pair of gates in front of the building where
the political prisoners were confined. Bullets flew everywhere, the
atmosphere was total chaos. Luckily, dawn had broken. Through the triplex
glass, Morgultsev could see armed men running hither and thither. Bullets
spattered against the armor like a downpour on a tin roof.
"Start the carousel!"
The armored vehicle spun around, all barrels blazing.
"Time to go," said Morgultsev, touching Uncle Fedya on the shoulder.
They opened the hatch and leapt out.
"Go!"
The soldiers hesitated. Shooting continued, but who was shooting at
whom and where was unclear. Uncle Fedya urged them on:
"We're losing time! Get moving! " and ran towards the entrance of the
building, jumping over corpses.
"Two men stay here!"
The babble of an unknown tongue could be heard in the depths of the
corridor. They flattened themselves against the wall and when steps
approached, Uncle Fedya fired a volley of shots holding his machine gun at
waist level. Someone cried out in the dark, there was the sound of a body
falling.
"Chuck a grenade!"
As soon as the smoke cleared a little, they raced for the far end of
the corridor. Blankets hung across doorways on both sides of the corridor.
One blanket seemed to bulge so Motgultsev pressed the trigger. An old man,
covered in blood and grasping a string of worry-beads fell out into the
corridor.
"Go! Go!" shouted Uncle Fedya. He himself paused for a moment to jam a
new magazine into his gun. "Cover me!"
It must have been even more frightening for the Afghans. How could they
know how many Soviets had stormed the prison, how many were still outside,
what forces were involved in the operation and, in general, what was
happening in Kabul? That was why they did not resist for long. Overall, they
amounted to two hundred plus guards. The paras had killed a small part of
them, the rest surrendered willingly. The Afghans had no intention of
fighting to the last drop of blood.
Hundreds of hands protruded from the bars of the cells, someone waved a
long piece of cloth - an unrolled turban, someone managed to reach a window
and stick out his hand.
Morgultsev should have felt himself a victor or, to be more precise, a
liberator, someone who had saved thousands of human lives. However, he felt
nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he was suddenly scared: swarthy,
bearded strangers watched the Soviet officer from behind bars. Morgultsev
shivered.
They'd saved them! Freed them! But who were these people? Against whom
had they rebelled? What were they punished for? Maybe they were real
criminals? How can anyone tell? Their language is incomprehensible and they
all look suspicious. We've saved and freed them, but what now? No question
of fraternizing with them! Damn it, what kind of friends were they, anyway?
No, let them stay locked up for the time being. It will be safer that way.
Let those who are in the know sort it out and decide which ones to release
and which ones to keep in the slammer! It's not my job. We've done what we
were ordered. If something like this had happened back home - if, for
instance, revolutionaries had to be rescued from prison ... well, that would
be another mater. That would be a sacred duty! But here ...
"Don't let anyone out!" he warned his men. "Are any of our people
wounded?"
"Not in our unit, comrade lieutenant.
"Where's the third unit?"
"No idea, comrade lieutenant," shrugged the soldier.
The third unit had plunged into a sewage pit. When they drove into the
prison yard, the second armored vehicle had veered sharply to the right and,
not knowing where to go in the dark and general confusion, landed straight
into the evil-smelling muck. The exhaust fumes fed back into the cabin and
the men started to choke. They were discovered by chance and just in time.
Someone saw the turret protruding from the pit.
"Shitheads!" railed Morgultsev. "Not paratroopers, but real shitheads!"
The taking of Pul-i-Charkhi lasted less than one hour - 54 minutes, in
fact. Morgultsev had marked the time on his "commander's" watch.
"Object 14 secured," he reported by radio.
Uncle Fedya went off to Kabul, came back with Afghan "comrades" and
began sorting out the prisoners.
Morgultsev's platoon received orders by radio from headquarters: "Stay
and guard the object. You'll be brought food and ammunition."
They posted sentries, took over the warmest building which was heated
by an oil stove as their quarters and draped blankets over the broken
windows.
Morgultsev warmed himself in the sun, the first he had seen since
arrival, drew on a cigarette.
"Comrade lieutenant! There's a whole bunch of journalists arrived, they
say they're from Soviet television. Should we let them in?"
"Sure, why not?"
"There's a whole lot of Afghans, too."
"What Afghans?"
"About three hundred of them by the looks of it."
"So-o-o," drawled Morgultsev. "What do they want here, I wonder?"
He refused flatly to admit anyone into the prison, contacted
headquarters and waited a long time for explanations. Better be safe than
sorry!
"I'm not going to accept the responsibility. Send someone from HQ! Then
I'll let them in."
"The television crew has to film the taking of Pul-i-Charkhi," said the
colonel who arrived eventually.
"No problem. I'll go whistle up my guys."
"You don't understand, comrade lieutenant. The prison was taken by
Afghan soldiers from units that rose against the bloody regime of that
traitor Amin."
"What do you mean, comrade colonel?"
"I think I've made myself quite clear, lieutenant!"
They made Morgultsev come down from the watchtower he had climbed to
watch the filming - there should be no accidental appearance of a Soviet
officer in the film. He sent a couple of soldiers for the armchair out of
the prison governor's office and had himself a front row view of the
proceedings.
"Just try convincing someone that we took Pul-i-Charkhi after this,"
said one of the men in bitter disappointment. "Nobody will believe it for a
moment!"
"Too fucking right!" agreed Morgultsev, equally put out.
They never saw Uncle Fedya again. It was said that he was killed
several months later. Where? Under what circumstances? Nobody knew for sure.
Maybe they're lying and maybe he really was killed. He's a KGB man, after
all. You'll never get the truth out of them.... decided Morgultsev.
In the first years of the war, asking questions was dangerous, people
were afraid of everything. Once, when Morgultsev was in hospital after being
wounded, he sat drinking spirit with a captain. A black-haired, swarthy
Tatar or Tadjik. He remembered that the captain had a very long nose which
was broken in several places.
They drank a lot. With alcohol-induced frankness, they swapped
information about where they had been, what they had done in Afghanistan.
Fate had landed them both in Kabul in December 1979. After a bit of beating
the situation. He was gripped by revolutionary fervor. Even the officers of
the agitprop group kept a wary eye on the surrounding hillsides, at the
armed men who mingled with the crowd of locals.
"Who's that with a machine-gun and worry-beads?" asked Yepimakhov,
suddenly feeling a stab of unease. "Is that a spook?"
The skinny Uzbek who was the agitprop interpreter, a small man who
looked like a ruffled sparrow, glanced at him with narrowed eyes:
"Don't use that word. It means "enemy." That man over there, ' he
indicated the armed Afghan with a jerk of his head, "belongs to the
self-defense unit."
"Oh...I see...."
"You new here?"
"Yes... My name's Nikolai." Yepimakhov held out his hand.
"Tulkun." The interpreter's hand was small and limp.
"Look Tulkun, could you tell me a couple of phrases that I could say to
these people?"
"What phrases?" asked the Uzbek, still eyeing him distrustfully.
"Well, something like 'how are you doing? or 'is everything in
order?"', that type of thing'"
The Afghans usually say: "Djurasti, cheturasti?'"
Yepimakhov wrote this down in a small notebook, then repeated the words
aloud. The armed Afghan from the self-defense brigade beamed at him.
"Djurasti, cheturasti, grow your dick until your old age-sti,
chopper-sti will come here-sti, and that will be fuck-all-sti for you-sti!"
mocked senior warrant officer Pashkov.
"I would advise you," said the interpreter when Pashkov was out of
earshot, "to learn some verses from the Koran."
"Why?"
"They could come in useful.
Yepimakhov dutifully wrote out a long sentence dictated by the
interpreter:
"And what does this all mean?"
"It means that there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.
" The interpreter took Yepimakhov by the arm, lowering his voice
confidentially. "If you get captured, keep saying that over and over. The
spooks won't kill you then... Excuse me, I have to go and help the doctor.
We can talk later."
"Capture?" repeated Yepimakhov, stunned. "I've no intention of being
captured by the bandits! I'd never plead for mercy like that Uzbek!..."
Sharagin felt strange, taking part in this charitable agitprop venture.
He sat on the sun-warmed armor and smoked, eyes roving over the surrounding
slopes, the armed Afghans, the activities of the agitprop brigade staff.
... Morgultsev is right when he says that "the only good Afghan is a
dead one" ... all these Afghan villages are hazardous ... you have to keep
your eyes peeled every second with these bearded bastards ... turn your
back, and you'll get a knife in it before you know it ...
... that's how we screwed up over Afghanistan! Instead of bombing the
shit out of them, they play Mister Nice Guy with them, thinking that a sack
of grain's enough to make an Afghan our friend! ... What utter crap! ...
Dream on!..."
He was used to fighting the Afghans, not visiting their villages and
playing namby-pamby. Just look!
... Doctor Dolittle in a nice white coat giving them a medical
check-up. It's enough to make you die laughing. He's lucky he's got an armed
soldier beside him, you can never know what to expect from these monkeys.
They say 'this village supports the people's power regime' ... the hell it
does! Simply the men have all gone off into the mountains or to Pakistan,
where they're being trained to lay mines, what else can they do? There's no
work for them, and they've forgotten how to work the land!... then the men
will return, and the village will belong to the spooks again...look at that
old guy all covered with sores and skin ulcer's pushing his way through to
the table with the medicines ... back home he wouldn't be allowed inside a
hospital, but would be packed off to a leper colony ... and you, old man,
probably go out into the fields every day ... Dolittle there puts some
lotion on a piece of cotton-wool and swabs down the sores, not afraid of
infection" "there you go," he tells the oldster through the interpreter.
"There you go. Next!"... dekhkane, what a word - sounds similar to our
Russian 'workers and peasants'! Dekh-kane-ne! Whole village is turning out
by the looks of it, they believe that this is all it takes - a swab of
something or a pill, and all their ills will be cured! Blessed are those who
have faith! That junior lieutenant who's the interpreter can barely keep up
translating their babble: hepatitis, ulcers, blood pressure, diarrhea, the
clap ....good for you, Grandpa! Says he's got the clap, but I bet his
soldier still stands at attention, otherwise why would he bother looking to
be cured, probably has a nice new young bride lined up, polygamy's not a
problem here ... Bravo, Dolittle! Nothing you can't handle! Calm and
collected, helps all the natives, gives one a packet of powder, breaks a
pill in half for the other and tells him that one half's for the diarrhea,
and the other half for headaches.
...the spooks are pleased the Russian doctor's cured them, gave them
three tablets and made them well...that nurse they've got with them is
something, though! I wouldn't mind traveling around villages for weeks just
for her... she's examining the local women ... shoving a stethoscope under a
raised burqa... I can imagine the filth underneath! Probably hasn't washed
since the day she was born ... you can't see her face...probably she's
uglier than a hundred Chinese... the nurse is monitoring her heartbeats:
tick-tock, tick-tock... can't tell the woman's age - could be anything from
twenty five to sixty five... they all have equally shriveled hands, and the
rest is under those robes...
... hey, nursie, you'd be better off monitoring my heart! ... there
they go over by the truck, sacks of grain going one after the other, and
just watch the spooks grabbing those free galoshes... not everyone back
home's got shoes, and we've been living without decent roads for centuries!
dirt everywhere, any town you name, it'd be better if they gave out free
galoshes to our own Soviet citizens: here you are, instead of asphalt on the
roads! a pair of galoshes for every Soviet family!... like hell! the Afghans
need them more, you see... the friendly Afghan people! we're helping the
revolution ...if we didn't throw everything away to these so-called allies
in the socialist camp and in our struggle, we'd have a chance to live like
normal human beings ... hey, the natives have started a fight, what do they
call them? saksauls? aksakals? elders? going at each other like angry
roosters, give them a chance and they'll work up a real Waterloo! grain
being issued by the sack-load, all free of charge!.. ah, they've put on a
movie... what in hell's the point? a Russian movie at that, a classical
masterpiece ... 'Anna Karenina' isn't it? dubbed of course, but are these
creeps likely to have any idea about what's being shown on the screen? ...
hey, they've shown only one part, and are wrapping up...some agitation and
propaganda exercise! ...and over there, they've got native songs blasting
out over a loudspeaker and are handing out leaflets ... it'd be better if
they printed more books back home instead of these leaflets, you can only
get proper books with special cards, and the amount of paper they've wasted
on these leaflets would be enough to print the entire works of Dumas, I
bet!... tell me, what use are these leaflets for the natives? they're all
illiterate, anyway! They haven't even learned to wipe their asses with
paper! they squat for just a piss!....
... the lieutenant who was interpreting for Doctor Dolittle's talking
to the elders now ... why don't we bring out a piano-accordion, sing some
songs do a little dance for them, maybe then they won't start shooting at
our backs when we leave this bloody village! we'll all get ourselves killed
with this idiotic agitprop do-gooding!...
"Show's finally over," said Morgultsev, not hiding his relief.
They crawled back towards the surfaced main road and returned to the
regional center. The commanding officers of the agitprop brigade retreated
to confer with Afghan activists in a one-storey barracks.
... bet they've gone off to eat pilaf ... and we have to sit around and
wait, like beggars on the threshold...
Impudent, pestering natives began sneaking around the army vehicles
like flies. Some of them were fluent in Russian swear-words. Weaving around,
prying, staring, they try to sell something to the Russians: two offering
wares, four hanging around looking out for something to steal.
... blink an eyelid, and they'll dismantle the BMP in five minutes flat
...
... that sonofabitch isn't as high as the vehicle wheel, but he's ready
to try and lug it off on his back ...
"I'll show you baksheesh in a moment!" roared private Chirikov, and
rattled a grenade menacingly.
... those bastards aren't even a little bit scared, they know that
nobody'll shoot them here ...
A red and white civilian bus pulled up on the other side of the road
from Sharagin's vehicle. A few minutes later it drove off, leaving an old
Afghan with a girl aged four or five sitting on his back, her arms around
his neck. Bending his trembling knees, the old man set the girl down and
stood there, looking around and seeming at a total loss. To the right, a
group of Indian traders sat in a group drinking tea, on the left - bearded
men with machine guns were exchanging greetings, hugging one another and
touching cheeks.
... either they're spooks that are observing a cease-fire agreement, or
they're so-called people's militia, who are also spooks , but today they're
for the Kabul regime, and tomorrow against it ...
Hesitantly, bowing like a slave and cringing, the old man approached
the traders, paused beside them and mumbled something, indicating the little
girl with his hand. The traders eyed him contemptuously and shrugged. They
turned away from him, but the old man did not go away. He milled around
indecisively, turning his head this way and that, finally stopping a
passer-by. The passer-by did not want to listen.
... that child looks sick ... or maybe she's sleepy ... Nastyushka, I
wonder what my little Nastyushka's doing right now?
He imagined her romping around in the grass in little white knickers,
surrounded by butterflies, while Lena lay nearby on a blanket, reading and
enjoying the sunshine ....
Sharagin watched the confused old man, who disappeared and reappeared
through passing traffic. He shifted from one foot to another on the spot and
glancing at the little girl, who was leaning over at a strange angle towards
the traders.
... what if that were my Nastyusha?..
"Gerasimov?..."
"Sir!"
"Run down and get me an interpreter from the agitprop brigade. Not that
Uzbek, though, there's a Russian junior lieutenant there. Tell him to find
out from the old man ... Which one? That one that's crossing the road! Tell
him to find out what's wrong with that little girl. Got that? On the double!
Savatyev and Sychev - you come with me. You keep a watch here," he added to
Yepimakhov, who had just come up.
Had anyone asked Sharagin right then why he was concerning himself with
the old man's problems, he would probably have been unable to answer, it was
just that at this specific time, he thought of nothing else and, moreover,
it looked as though the child was crying.
The old Afghan replied with a torrent of words, gesticulating wildly
with typical peasant incoherence.
"His grand-daughter's been wounded. Got a bullet in the shoulder. She
needs a doctor," translated the junior lieutenant.
The soldiers carried the child across the road and put her down near
the BMP and the vehicles of the agitprop people.
"Chirikov!"
"Sir!"
"Find the doctor!"
"Yessir!"
Sharagin turned back to the interpreter and explained, as if justifying
himself:
"I thought she might have got travel-sick on the bus. Then I saw her
keeling over...."
Chirikov returned alone.
"Where's that Dolittle?" demanded Sharagin in displeased tones.
"He's over there, comrade lieutenant, having dinner with the Afghans
... Says he'll come soon..."
A crowd of some thirty curious Afghans gathered around in a circle,
pushing to get a look, clambering on to each other's shoulders.
"Chase 'em off!" ordered Sharagin.
Private Burkov aimed his gun at the Afghans, snapped the bolt. The kids
jumped back, but were unafraid. They mocked the Russian soldiers.
The girl sat there, crying quietly. The doctor arrived finally, rolled
up the torn sleeve and took a cursory look at the thin arm bandaged with
dirty rags covered with dried spots of blood.
It looked as though the bullet entered the shoulder and was lodged
below the shoulder-blade. The interpreter repeated the old man's account of
what had happened:
"She was working in the fields in the topmost village. The spooks often
fire on the Russian outpost, the Russians fire back, and the civilians get
the worst of it. This was a stray bullet. The field's right in the middle of
the crossfire... She was hit about three hours ago."
- poor little thing, in pain for three hours ...
The doctor put on a new dressing, gave the child a painkiller
injection, and told the interpreter to tell the old man that the girl must
be taken to hospital at once, and have an operation.
"Tell him that the bullet may have grazed one of her lungs, and there's
damage to the blood vessels. Tell him to hurry. That wound could turn
septic."
"I don't know how to say that ..."
"Well, tell him simply that she's got to have an urgent operation. Tell
him to take her to Kabul. Otherwise she'll die!"
"He says he's got no money."
"Oh, shit!" spat the doctor. "What's it got to do with me? Am I a
doctor, or a taxi driver? Am I supposed to operate on her here with my
bayonet knife?!"
"Hang on," interrupted Sharagin. "Are there any sacks of grain left?"
"Probably," nodded the interpreter.
"Give him a sack. Any car will take him to Kabul in exchange for that."
"That should be discussed with the commander..."
"What's there to discuss? How many bags did you give away to the spooks
in that village?! I'll go and speak to your commander myself. Where is he?
"Here he comes now. Captain Nenashev. "
The commander of the agitprop unit needed no persuasion, turned out to
be a right kind of guy. He understood what was happening at once and ordered
a bag of grain unloaded.
In the time it took to flag down a car, haggle with the driver and
bring a sack of grain from the truck, the doctor scribbled something on a
scrap of paper which he handed to the interpreter:
"Tell him to go to the Soviet hospital in Kabul and give them this
note. I've written down what's necessary..."
In the morning, the agitprop commander decided to visit some more
villages in order to "get rid of" the remaining humanitarian aid in the
trucks, then return to Kabul with a glowing report about the latest
successful propaganda action.
Once again, nobody asked the paratroopers whether they wanted to trek
from village to village, or not. They were assigned to guard and were under
the orders of the political workers, so they were bored and had nothing to
do from early morning onwards.
They pitched camp in a field behind the Soviet checkpoint.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov was becoming used to life on the armor, and had
by now a close look at the Afghans. He placed the troops in position quite
confidently and fairly sensibly, assigned sentries for the night. There was
a definitely commanding note in his voice now, even though it was still a
bit overdone and too loud, imitative, but even that was not bad. The main
thing was to keep the troops on their toes and respect the voice of their
commanding officer.
...so that they'll hear his voice in their dreams alongside their
mothers'...
The "elephants" were nobody's fools, either, if they should notice a
blind spot or a hint of indecisiveness, it would be the end for that
officer's authority, the old-timers would be on his back in a flash. They
know their own worth, move around sloppily, know how to avoid duty and are
masters of kibitzing.
At first they traded knowing winks, why show initiative? We'll wait
until we get orders, let the "finch" jump around for a bit, sweat some,
realize that he's nothing without us; was the attitude of the "grandpas"
toward the new commander.
Yepimakhov was not confused. He issued a string of orders, did not take
offense at silly questions and jibes, pretended not to notice them and
showed a strict face. His expression seemed to indicate that he was very
displeased with the men, but was holding back. Still, the implication was
clear that he would have no hesitation in giving someone a punch in the face
if he decided to do so. The "grandpas" had not seen him like this before,
decided that it wasn't worth pushing their luck and, like king Solomon,
settled on a compromise solution: they stripped to the waist and, snapping
their braces, loudly repeated Yepimakhov's orders to the finches and
dippers. Those, in turn, bared their torsos, spat on their hands and started
shoveling, breathing in the aroma of freshly-turned earth. These lowest of
the low had no way of understanding the likes of their new commander in any
case, nor did they have the time - pick up shovels and dig! put your backs
into it! get it all done before dark
The first missile landed about one hundred meters from the camp.
Yepimakhov turned and saw a pillar of smoke. Five seconds later a second
surface-to-surface missile came closer. First he heard its whistling
approach and decided, for some strange reason, that the next one would hit
the camp squarely and he would be killed.
Yepimakhov was dumbfounded, milled around and shouted to the men to
take cover, even though most of them had already done so. He looked around
frantically for a safe place. The third missile hit the ground about fifty
meters away, the earth shuddered, and its movement under his feet filled
Yepimakhov with terror.
The following hits were scattered in the field behind the camp.
As soon as it formed, fear, deep, animal fear, engulfed the
lieutenant's heart, mixed up his thoughts, drained all resolve and assumed
confidence. He fought the all-pervading fear, with the natural impulse to
hide, to flee from danger. He shook all over, knees buckling, but stood his
ground, repeating over and over: "You're an officer, you don't have the
right to be afraid, you're an officer, you don't have the right to be
afraid."
All in all, only seven missiles came over the hill. Sharagin counted
the explosions. Taking cover, just in case, behind the armored bulk of the
BMP, he and the officers of the agitprop group tried to estimate where the
missiles were coming from.
The spooks were clearly shooting at random. Most likely they had
spotted the Soviet convoy traveling and then breaking camp from some vantage
point, and decided to have a go.
There was another explosion further away, somewhere behind them on the
road leading to Kabul. Really alarmed this time, Sharagin and the agitprop
officers spun around as if on command. For a moment they wondered if the
spooks were coming at them from two different directions. There was a
chatter of machine gun fire from the road. It was comforting to know that
there was a Soviet outpost nearby, a reliable shield on one flank at least.
Captain Morgultsev became nervous, lit a cigarette and went off to
contact Zebrev's platoon. Returning, he gestured Sharagin aside:
"Zebrev's lost a "box"...
"Where?"
"On the road."
"Shall we go there now? Any losses?" asked Sharagin, getting ready to
move fast.
"Calm down, everything's all right," said Morgultsev in hushed,
conspiratorial tones. "No losses. But one vehicle's burned out. I'll go and
sort it out myself."
When the firing stopped and it was quiet again, Yepimakhov peered out
from behind the armor, and realized at once, to his profound embarrassment,
that there was no point in celebrating victory over fear after such
cowardice.
He looked around covertly, had anyone noticed his confusion? He had no
doubt that he looked pathetic and lost. But nobody seemed to be laughing.
However, this did not make things any better. Deep contempt seared the proud
heart of the would-be hero.
"Our boys will have their firing point targeted by now and will give
the spooks a nice dose of artillery," Yepimakhov heard someone say in the
group of officers standing nearby.
"You don't say? Optimistic, aren't you?" Sharagin lit a cigarette from
someone else's and glanced briefly at Yepimakhov. He could guess why the
lieutenant did not look too happy, but showed no trace either by word or
gesture. "They came from behind that hill," he went on casually. "Do you
think anyone's still there? Those spooks would have jumped into a waiting
Toyota and disappeared. Talk about chasing ghosts in a fog...!"
Yepimakhov sat beside Sharagin immersed in his own thoughts, poking his
rice pudding with a fork.
... nothing surprising in that the kid got scared ... it would be
stranger if he hadn't ... if you're afraid, it means you're no fool ...
he'll get used to it ... people get used to everything ... I read somewhere
that the Irish say you can even get used to being hanged ...
An APC was approaching the camp rapidly along the deeply worn ruts in
the road. A major in an earphone helmet, the battalion commander of the
nearest outpost jumped down. He looked like a native of Turkmenistan.
"Where's the company commander?" he shouted furiously. "Ah, there you
are! sitting here drinking tea while one of your BMPs is on fire!"
"Why are you yelling at me?" demanded captain Morgultsev, getting to
his feet. "I know all about that BMP, I've just got back from there. The
spooks hit it with a grenade launcher. Got it right in the oil tank!"
"What fucking rocket launcher! What fucking spooks!" continued the
outpost commander, raising his voice even higher. "Over the past months, the
spooks haven't hit a single column, a single vehicle! I've got an agreement
with the leader of the local gang! So don't give me any crap, captain! I
drove past your three BMPs and saw for myself that the last one had broken
down, the men were trying to repair it ... You set it on fire yourselves!"
"Don't say that comrade major," replied Morgultsev, speaking very
deliberately. "There's no call to slander my officers like that," he went on
with growing irritation, his face turning red. "Everyone heard that shot
from the grenade launcher! "
The major was not ready to back down - "Where are your wounded? Eh? No
answer, captain? It's impossible that someone isn't at least shell-shocked
after that!"
The war of words continued. The major and captain were no longer the
only combatants, they were looking for supporters among the surrounding
officers and agitprop personnel: who had the more convincing argument?
The major pulled off his helmet, exposing a cleanly shaven head.
... there was time when I went around bald, just like that ...
grinned Sharagin.
... looks like the head of a prick! ...
The outpost commander kept shoving his hands in his pockets and then
pulling them out again, gesticulated, poking a finger at Morgultsev, and
then in the direction of the burning BMP, which could not be seen from that
spot.
"What are you smiling about, captain? Admit that you simply wanted to
write off a faulty vehicle as destroyed in battle! It won't work, youngster.
Where have you ever seen anyone attack a BMP that way?!"
"Comrade major," said Morgultsev unpleasantly. "This is my second term
of service in Afghanistan, It's happened to me three times..."
"If you needed to write off that BMP," interrupted the major, "you
could have said so to me. I'd have shown you where to drive it over a mine,
there's a whole shitload of them around!"
Explosions were heard from somewhere beyond the outpost, about one and
a half kilometers away from the camp. It was the explosives in the burning
BMP going up. The major spat in disgust:
"I had a meeting with the head of the gang only yesterday. We agreed
that the spooks wouldn't hit anything along my stretch of the road."
"Does that mean you'd rather believe a spook than a Soviet officer?"
"Listen," whispered Sharagin, "sic our political officer on to him. Let
him give this jerk a brainwashing."
"The hell with him," replied Morgultsev with a dismissing wave.
"Captain, I can hardly believe my eyes, " continued the major, cooling
down visibly. "First there's a broken down BMP on the road, and then it's
attacked by spooks. And no losses at all! Everyone's alive and well!
Congratulations, captain! Tell me, have you thought about what happens next?
This is an emergency! What am I to say to the leader of the gang? Fucking
rangers, damn your eyes! Foraging out to taste a bit of combat, do a bit of
shooting, and I have to pick up the pieces! You'll be off to Kabul tomorrow,
but I have to stay on here..."
Little by little, he lost steam having shouted himself out. Breathing
heavily, the major turned to the officers present, as though seeking their
support:
"I come driving up, but they've already taken up positions and opened
fire on several villages. I asked them who they were shooting at, and they
said that there must be spooks behind the walls. They thought someone had
fired on them, you see! So here I am, walking around without a bullet-proof
vest and trying to get those fucking rangers to stop! Their senior
lieutenant, what's his name ...
"Senior lieutenant Zebrev," prompted Morgultsev.
"That's right, Zebrev. The fusillade he started, you wouldn't believe!
And what if one of your rangers killed or wounded some villagers, hey
captain? That means the whole gang will come down to the road tomorrow and
hit a whole column in revenge! What then?!"
"Come with me, comrade major," said Morgultsev, drawing the outpost
commander away from unnecessary witnesses. They wandered around the camp,
arguing, for about five minutes. The major remained stubborn:
"No, I'll report that the vehicle went up in flames for unknown
reasons. Let a commission come and investigate the matter. And I'll put a
guard around the BMP so that none of your rangers can take a shot at it from
a grenade launcher."
The incident was not discussed in the company. Everyone kept quiet
... just like inside a tank ...
It was clear to all what had happened to the BMP. A routine occurrence
in war. Why wag your tongue for nothing?
Only Yepimakhov, through naivete and lack of knowledge of the
realities, entertained suspicions all evening, and, when night descended on
the camp, protest burst forth from the breast of the young internationalist.
He wanted to sort things out, discuss what had happened with his friend:
" I simply can't understand it, "he confided in a low voice. "On one
hand, if the spooks really hit the BMP, then everyone's a hero, right? They
could be put up for medals! But if the major's right - and you and I both
saw on our way back that Zebrev and his platoon stayed on the road and began
poking around in the BMP's engine, well that would be sabotage, wouldn't it,
it could mean prison. That would mean we're ruining our own equipment,
right? Can you imagine the scandal for the whole regiment!..."
"It's not that simple," replied Sharagin thoughtfully. "The whole
affair will be swept under the carpet, you'll see."
- who wants to go into combat with defective equipment! ... you can't
fix it, you can't write it off - get rid of it! otherwise it will fail you
in battle ...
"But if there were no spooks about, then it's dishonest ... unfair ...I
never thought Morgultsev could do something like that!..."
"You're still new here. Don't judge people. You can talk about what's
fair or unfair back home... when the war's over..."
Captain Morgultsev was equally troubled. He walked around the camp,
stopping here and there, smoking one cigarette after another.
"I sure hit a snag, damn it all to hell! Screw that obstinate Turkmeni
asshole! "
That was the story of Mogultsev's life - medals, then reprimands! From
king to peasant!
He was a lieutenant when he arrived in Afghanistan for the first time.
Nobody was asked whether they wanted to go there or not. The Motherland made
that decision for one and all.
Shortly before departure, in December '79, they spent more than a week
training in the forests of Belorussia. The cold was intense, you wouldn't
wish it on your worst enemy. It was cold like this that beat the Germans and
the French in their times. Only the Russians could take it, and even so, a
few soldiers would be out every day with frostbitten fingers, toes or ears.
The officers felt intuitively that this training was not just like
that, there was something brewing. They spent the evenings discussing their
suppositions, exchanging views. Afghanistan was never mentioned, nobody had
any idea about this country then. Iran was mentioned frequently as it was
there, out of all the countries bordering on the Soviet Union, that there
was unrest. The thought of Iran cheered everyone up. They joked that it
wouldn't be bad to fly south for the winter.
Time passed. The men began to talk of home. Time to get the tree
decorated for New Year!
"Even if we miss out on New Year, we'll celebrate on the 23rd of
February," sighed the officers.
Fate decreed otherwise.
The AN-12 gathered height and set course for the Urals. Lieutenant
Morgultsev worked this out easily by looking at the stars. After a five hour
flight they landed in Shadrinsk. The pilots were taken off for a meal while
the paratroopers made do with dry rations with the temperature at minus 30.
They took off again, and arrived in Andizhan some four hours later, where
they remained on the airstrip for one and a half days.
By this time, there were no secrets - commanders were issued orders,
ammunition and maps ...of the Afghan capital.
The regimental HQ commander pronounced: "..Your task is to help a
friendly country, protect it from reactionary forces ... The situation is
extremely dangerous. Bands of insurgents have seized the airdrome ..."
After these words, the pilots flatly refused to fly. Flying is out of
the question in such circumstances, they said. A parachute drop - OK, but as
for landing on a strip held by insurgents - no way! Whoever heard of such a
thing! No commander would issue an order like that!
"Look, guys," squirmed the HQ commander, "I only said that to scare the
men a bit ... the airdrome is safe, everything's in our hands!"
They landed in Kabul at dawn. A strike force prepared for a lightning
victory, but there was no enemy to conquer. The enemy had gone to ground.
What was the enemy planning, how did he intend to outwit them?
Plane after plane came in, disgorging men and materiel.
A very serious operation was under way.
"So much for southern climes," grunted Morgultsev, rubbing his frozen
hands.
The Soviet units dug in, slept in their vehicles under jackets and
greatcoats. The day brought wet snow, moods slumped because of the driving
wind and a depressing feeling of uncertainty.
A cat, unusually striped in three colors, came up to Morgultsev on
frozen paws and rubbed against his muddy boots, mewing pitifully. Trying the
traditional "here kitty-kitty-kitty" routine, Morgultsev tried to pick up
the cat, but it sprang back in fear.
"Don't understand Russian, hey? Well, I don't speak your language.
Still, you're a living creature. Come on, I'll get you something to eat!"
He took an almost empty tin of canned meat from the soldiers.
Shivering, the cat flung itself on the food, frantically licking out the
sides of the can. She did not leave, but remained with the paratroopers.
"First contact with the locals accomplished!" laughed the lieutenant,
then immersed himself in rosy dreams: - We'll be through here in a week or
two, go home, and take this Afghan Murka with us! I've got to bring home at
least one souvenir!
After breakfast, he was summoned to headquarters. A real live general
was there. Morgultsev was given a military advisor who worked in Kabul, and
a map of object No.14, which his platoon was to seize.
This object turned out to be the Pul-i-Charkhi prison, a name the
senior officers had trouble pronouncing.
"Your task is to take object 14 and free political prisoners! According
to our information there are about 120 guards. Comrade Korobeynikov will
instruct you about the object. He's familiar with the layout. Comrade
Korobeynikov will deal with the political prisoners himself. Any questions?"
"No sir!"
"That hireling of American imperialism, Amin, wanted to destroy all the
prisoners in Pul-i-Charkhi," added the head of the Political Section. "The
prison's being guarded by troops loyal to him. They could start executing
the prisoners at any moment. The lives of thousands of people are in
danger!"
"If you fail, it's the military tribunal for you," promised the dour
general in parting. He fixed Morgultsev with a gimlet eye, as though not
trusting, doubting the lieutenant.
Donning medics' white coats, Morgultsev and the advisor set of on a
reconnaissance trip in an ambulance. They passed by the prison, checked out
the territory and returned to the airdrome.
Uncle Fedya - that was the soldiers' nickname for the snub-nosed,
round-faced advisor - unfolded a detailed plan of the prison, they bent over
it and discussed various tactics. Gradually, matters became clearer. In any
case, Morgultsev had seen the prison from the air when his plane was coming
in to land in Kabul. From above it resembled a wheel which had come off a
giant cart and rolled away. That was what he had thought at the time.
They warmed themselves by the fire and thrashed out the details of the
operation. The soldiers were ordered to pay close attention and remember
everything.
"You can fire at will once we're in," said Uncle Fedya. There was a
moment of silence as he looked hard at all the men, so they would realize
this was not an exercise. "No limits! Any disobedience, any doubts - shoot
on the spot. There won't be time for questions!"
"One hundred and twenty guards," calculated Morgultsev. "That's no
pushover. And we're just one platoon. Still, we're paras, we've got the
machines and we've got the guts!"
They moved out in total darkness. The road was blocked by a portable
checkpoint with a makeshift boom, situated in the village closest to
Pul-i-Charkhi. The column stopped. The leading vehicle trained its spotlight
on an Afghan soldier who pointed a bayonet and screamed "Dry-y-y-sh!" at the
top of his lungs.
"Where the fuck did he come from?" ground Uncle Fedya through clenched
teeth. "Light out! Don't shoot! Knife him!..."
"Why's he squealing like a stuck pig?"
"He's shouting 'Halt!' C'mon, lieutenant, do it!"
Morgultsev jumped down and approached the Afghan, extending a friendly
hand:
"We're on the same side, pal! How are things, slob? What are you gaping
at?" He clapped the Afghan on the shoulder: "Come with me! Come on, let's
get off the middle of the road!"
He twisted the soldier's arm up his back with a practiced move, put the
knife to his throat:
"Look, brother, get the shit out of here. I don't want your death on my
conscience, get it? Beat it!"
The soldier fell to his knees, opened his mouth wide in terror, then
scrambled back to his feet and ran.
At Pul-i-Charkhi the road was blocked by an Afghan armored vehicle. It
was quickly knocked out of action when machine gun fire shredded its tires.
There was no return fire. Maybe the Afghans were out of ammunition.
"Get those watchtower lights," ordered Uncle Fedya, and the men did so
promptly with a hail of bullets.
"Everybody mount up!"
The day before, Morgultsev had coaxed a mobile SU-85 installation from
the regimental commander. He meant to use it to break down the massive
prison gates with no loss of time. "We could hardly do that with an armored
vehicle," he argued, "the 'plywood shield of the Motherland' would never do
that job!"
And then what happened? A fool lieutenant went off the road, panicked
and opened fire with solid anti-tank shots. With no orders to do so, the
"Sushka" hit the watchtowers.
"Stop that!" yelled Morgultsev over the radio.
"Yessir!" replied the lieutenant, but thirty seconds later recommenced
firing.
"Idiot!" swore Morgultsev, and turned to the driver-mechanic: "Wreck
those gates!"
The armored vehicle did it! So much for the slur "plywood shield of the
Motherland"! They broke into the prison compound.
"Reverse! Faster!" commanded Morgultsev. He and Uncle Fedya had it all
worked out: they reversed and crushed the wooden structure which served as
the guardhouse.
"Full forward!"
They had to ram another pair of gates in front of the building where
the political prisoners were confined. Bullets flew everywhere, the
atmosphere was total chaos. Luckily, dawn had broken. Through the triplex
glass, Morgultsev could see armed men running hither and thither. Bullets
spattered against the armor like a downpour on a tin roof.
"Start the carousel!"
The armored vehicle spun around, all barrels blazing.
"Time to go," said Morgultsev, touching Uncle Fedya on the shoulder.
They opened the hatch and leapt out.
"Go!"
The soldiers hesitated. Shooting continued, but who was shooting at
whom and where was unclear. Uncle Fedya urged them on:
"We're losing time! Get moving! " and ran towards the entrance of the
building, jumping over corpses.
"Two men stay here!"
The babble of an unknown tongue could be heard in the depths of the
corridor. They flattened themselves against the wall and when steps
approached, Uncle Fedya fired a volley of shots holding his machine gun at
waist level. Someone cried out in the dark, there was the sound of a body
falling.
"Chuck a grenade!"
As soon as the smoke cleared a little, they raced for the far end of
the corridor. Blankets hung across doorways on both sides of the corridor.
One blanket seemed to bulge so Motgultsev pressed the trigger. An old man,
covered in blood and grasping a string of worry-beads fell out into the
corridor.
"Go! Go!" shouted Uncle Fedya. He himself paused for a moment to jam a
new magazine into his gun. "Cover me!"
It must have been even more frightening for the Afghans. How could they
know how many Soviets had stormed the prison, how many were still outside,
what forces were involved in the operation and, in general, what was
happening in Kabul? That was why they did not resist for long. Overall, they
amounted to two hundred plus guards. The paras had killed a small part of
them, the rest surrendered willingly. The Afghans had no intention of
fighting to the last drop of blood.
Hundreds of hands protruded from the bars of the cells, someone waved a
long piece of cloth - an unrolled turban, someone managed to reach a window
and stick out his hand.
Morgultsev should have felt himself a victor or, to be more precise, a
liberator, someone who had saved thousands of human lives. However, he felt
nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he was suddenly scared: swarthy,
bearded strangers watched the Soviet officer from behind bars. Morgultsev
shivered.
They'd saved them! Freed them! But who were these people? Against whom
had they rebelled? What were they punished for? Maybe they were real
criminals? How can anyone tell? Their language is incomprehensible and they
all look suspicious. We've saved and freed them, but what now? No question
of fraternizing with them! Damn it, what kind of friends were they, anyway?
No, let them stay locked up for the time being. It will be safer that way.
Let those who are in the know sort it out and decide which ones to release
and which ones to keep in the slammer! It's not my job. We've done what we
were ordered. If something like this had happened back home - if, for
instance, revolutionaries had to be rescued from prison ... well, that would
be another mater. That would be a sacred duty! But here ...
"Don't let anyone out!" he warned his men. "Are any of our people
wounded?"
"Not in our unit, comrade lieutenant.
"Where's the third unit?"
"No idea, comrade lieutenant," shrugged the soldier.
The third unit had plunged into a sewage pit. When they drove into the
prison yard, the second armored vehicle had veered sharply to the right and,
not knowing where to go in the dark and general confusion, landed straight
into the evil-smelling muck. The exhaust fumes fed back into the cabin and
the men started to choke. They were discovered by chance and just in time.
Someone saw the turret protruding from the pit.
"Shitheads!" railed Morgultsev. "Not paratroopers, but real shitheads!"
The taking of Pul-i-Charkhi lasted less than one hour - 54 minutes, in
fact. Morgultsev had marked the time on his "commander's" watch.
"Object 14 secured," he reported by radio.
Uncle Fedya went off to Kabul, came back with Afghan "comrades" and
began sorting out the prisoners.
Morgultsev's platoon received orders by radio from headquarters: "Stay
and guard the object. You'll be brought food and ammunition."
They posted sentries, took over the warmest building which was heated
by an oil stove as their quarters and draped blankets over the broken
windows.
Morgultsev warmed himself in the sun, the first he had seen since
arrival, drew on a cigarette.
"Comrade lieutenant! There's a whole bunch of journalists arrived, they
say they're from Soviet television. Should we let them in?"
"Sure, why not?"
"There's a whole lot of Afghans, too."
"What Afghans?"
"About three hundred of them by the looks of it."
"So-o-o," drawled Morgultsev. "What do they want here, I wonder?"
He refused flatly to admit anyone into the prison, contacted
headquarters and waited a long time for explanations. Better be safe than
sorry!
"I'm not going to accept the responsibility. Send someone from HQ! Then
I'll let them in."
"The television crew has to film the taking of Pul-i-Charkhi," said the
colonel who arrived eventually.
"No problem. I'll go whistle up my guys."
"You don't understand, comrade lieutenant. The prison was taken by
Afghan soldiers from units that rose against the bloody regime of that
traitor Amin."
"What do you mean, comrade colonel?"
"I think I've made myself quite clear, lieutenant!"
They made Morgultsev come down from the watchtower he had climbed to
watch the filming - there should be no accidental appearance of a Soviet
officer in the film. He sent a couple of soldiers for the armchair out of
the prison governor's office and had himself a front row view of the
proceedings.
"Just try convincing someone that we took Pul-i-Charkhi after this,"
said one of the men in bitter disappointment. "Nobody will believe it for a
moment!"
"Too fucking right!" agreed Morgultsev, equally put out.
They never saw Uncle Fedya again. It was said that he was killed
several months later. Where? Under what circumstances? Nobody knew for sure.
Maybe they're lying and maybe he really was killed. He's a KGB man, after
all. You'll never get the truth out of them.... decided Morgultsev.
In the first years of the war, asking questions was dangerous, people
were afraid of everything. Once, when Morgultsev was in hospital after being
wounded, he sat drinking spirit with a captain. A black-haired, swarthy
Tatar or Tadjik. He remembered that the captain had a very long nose which
was broken in several places.
They drank a lot. With alcohol-induced frankness, they swapped
information about where they had been, what they had done in Afghanistan.
Fate had landed them both in Kabul in December 1979. After a bit of beating