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about the bush, they agreed tacitly not to hold back.
"I took Pul-i-Charkhi prison," confided Morgultsev. "What about you?"
"I took the palace..."
"Amin's palace?!" Morgultsev almost choked. He glanced at the captain
who sat there, head bowed and staring at the floor. He didn't even look up
when he affirmed: "Exactly."
There were all sorts of rumors about Amin's palace. It was said that
the Ninth company of the Vitebsk division stormed the palace, others said
the KGB had sent a special task force.
They shared the last of the spirit, clinked glasses: "Cheers!", then
breathed out almost simultaneously, tossed down their drinks and sniffed
black bread as a follow-up.
"I was in the Muslim battalion," continued the captain. "Ever heard of
it?"
"Sure," lied Mogultsev. He decided not to ask for details. It was
probably some kind of special unit. "And you saw Amin himself?"
"Yes ... only he was dead..."
"..?..."
The captain remained silent, weighing the pros and cons of saying any
more.
"He was lying on the floor in just his undershirt and shorts, there was
a large red spot over his heart. We had to make sure he was really dead. But
when we tugged his left arm, it came off..."
Morgultsev broke out in a cold sweat. "Why is he telling me this? Why
did I tell him about the prison? I should have kept my stupid trap shut!"
He could not fall asleep, the words of the captain from the "Muslim
battalion" were very frightening:
"It was like we were on a platter in front of them during the storming,
they could have shot us to pieces with no trouble. It was a miracle we broke
through, especially when we realized what had happened. After all, we'd
killed a head of state! They loaded us into a plane, we thought we were done
for. Who knows what they might decided to do with us?...They could simply
poison the lot of us. Why leave witnesses? The unit was dissolved and we
were all assigned to different places..."
Over breakfast Morgultsev felt as if his head would burst at any
moment, his eyes refused to stay open. Morgultsev greeted the captain, but
he turned away and pretended not to recognize him. "Talked too much!"
Morgultsev decided that from now on he would keep his tongue on a padlock.
There was no need to boast and brag about the prison!
Morgultsev was put up for the "Red Banner" order for his part in the
taking of Pul-i-Charkhi. He was promoted to senior lieutenant ahead of time.
Then it seemed as though someone had jinxed him! Everything started falling
apart in his hitherto quite successfully unfolding life, as if he had
slipped on the top of a hill and rolled down the slope. First, his wife left
him. She had found someone else while Morgultsev was serving in Afghanistan.
Not someone from the unit, but a civilian who took her away from Vitebsk.
Morgultsev started drinking heavily, received frequent reprimands from
the battalion commander, found no pleasure in his work. The Political
Section subjected him to psychological pressure, pestering him to mend his
ways.
He was young and hot-tempered, telling people where to go in no
uncertain terms, was too quick to resort to fisticuffs before considering
whom he was telling to fuck off or whose nose he was punching. Then he
landed in real trouble: the "grandpas" beat him up within an inch of his
life.
It took a few years for things to improve. He married again, had a
daughter. Then he asked to be posted back to Afghanistan.
He never discussed his family problems, but everyone knew anyway. Who
got divorced or married, who had remarried, who had children and where -
there are no secrets in the army.
Morgultsev had a picture drawn by the son of his first marriage pinned
to the wall in his room. Once a month he sent the boy short letters and
asked officers going on leave to post the boy a small package of presents
once they were in the Soviet Union. The drawing was full of birdlike
airplanes dropping icicle-bombs, burning tiny tanks with swastikas on their
armor which were being crushed by tanks bearing red stars, and people with
machine guns ran between them. In the right hand corner Morgultsev's son had
written: "I drew this myself Dad plees send me chooing gum" ....
+ + +
The days flew by unnoticed, running into weeks and months. Raids,
combat, injury and death of soldiers and officers - he adapted himself to
the Afghan rhythm which turned every severed life into something prosaic;
death could be tragic, accidental, heroic, but it no longer horrified
Sharagin as it had in the early months; death became a routine occurrence
and was accepted as one of the inevitabilities of war.
Sharagin fished out two new stars from a glass of vodka when they were
"washing down" his promotion to senior lieutenant. He was due for a reward.
Morgultsev signed the orders, glanced slyly at Sharagin and asked
off-handedly:
"Do you like sweaty women and warm vodka?"
"Are you kidding?!"
"Then you'll be going on leave in winter."
"Why winter?" protested Sharagin, disappointed. "Come on...!"
"Someone's got to go. Zebrev's already been. It's too early for
Yepimakhov, he's still got to get into the swing of things here. So you'll
have to be the one. It's your turn..."
"Can't we make it a bit later? Like closer to spring?"
"Later-shmater! Dismissed, comrade senior lieutenant!"
"In that case, I'm going into town tomorrow!"
... what else? I can't go home empty-handed!.
"I don't want to know anything about that," answered Morgultsev,
covering his ass just in case.
Once over the border, back in the USSR, Sharagin fell into conversation
with an officer in a jeans outfit as they waited by the military ticket
office. Sharagin had spotted him as an "Afghan" from afar.
...stone-washed jeans like that are sold only in Afghanistan ...One
look
at his face and you can tell straight away that he's an army man ...
To an outside observer, the officer and Sharagin looked like twins.
Oleg had bought his first-ever pair of jeans.
The officer was hoping to get on the same plane. They were lucky enough
to be admitted on the next flight. Sharagin followed his companion's advice
and decided to do the unthinkable: draw money off his bank account and take
his family to the seaside.
He and Lena had so much catching up to do, all the feelings that could
not be fully expressed in letters, the anxieties, the warmth - all this they
would relive. It would be better to do all this by the sea rather than in
the parents' apartment. Afterwards, there would be time to visit relatives,
spend a week or two with his mother and father, go fishing with his
grandfather. He had almost a month and a half - plenty of time for
everything!
"You'll always find a place to stay. If push comes to shove, you can
rent a room. The main thing is to have money!" urged the jeans-clad officer
over a beer.
Lena had never been on vacation by the sea. For that matter, neither
had he. As for Nastyushka, all she had seen was a stream in the village.
"The sea is like hundreds of rivers," Oleg told her in an effort to
explain.
"Wike two or free livers?"
"More. Lots and lots of rivers. And you can't see the other side."
The money seemed to melt like snow. He had to overpay for their
tickets. It was not the vacation season, nobody flew south at this time of
year, but there was a ticket shortage nonetheless!
... it could only happen in our country! ...
Taxi to the airport, taxi from the airport - just as well he was
earning double all those months in Afghanistan. He'd never dreamed of
anything like that before!
... why regret the expense? I'll earn as much again!..
For the first time in his life, Oleg felt himself a free man.
...because you can't earn a lot back home ... If someone has a lot of
money, he'll start to feel independent and go his own way ...
Previously, Oleg had always felt dependent and without any rights.
... "I know no such other country," a drunken captain had sung once,
parodying the Soviet national anthem, "where a man can be so ...at ease!
attention! eyes right!"
The money gave an illusion of freedom, the chance to choose, inspired
confidence.
Admittedly, they were turned away from the hotel because they had no
prior reservation. Oleg tried to offer a bribe, but he did not have the
knack and it didn't work. Moreover, the hotel manager turned out to be a
very self-righteous citizen and reacted to the offer of money as to a
personal affront. Lena and Nastya hovered outside - the uniformed porter
would not let them into the vestibule.
"You picked the most expensive hotel, of course they don't have any
free rooms," comforted Lena, searching for some justification. "Why, only
foreign tourists live here!"
"To hell with them! We'll try the private sector!" Sharagin flagged
down a passing cab.
"Take us along the waterfront, chief. I'll pay double! If there's a
good restaurant on the way, we'll stop there for lunch. And we need to find
a room, too, but it's got to have a sea view."
"You're on, boss!"
They breezed along and chose the most expensive restaurant. Lena gasped
when she saw the check: all that money, and for what? But Oleg was beaming
with pleasure as he counted out the money and added a bit on top.
Lena could not contain herself any longer:
"Why did you give him more? He overcharged us by about three times
anyway!" She was unaccustomed to throwing money around, she was more used to
stretching every penny from payday to payday. When they were first married
they could barely make ends meet, had to borrow ten rubles here and there at
times, yet here was Oleg now, behaving like a millionaire.
"That was a tip," explained Oleg expansively. Seeing that Lena was
upset by such profligacy he gave her a hug: "Sweetheart, don't think about
the money, we'll have this much again! We'll have everything! We've got our
whole future to look forward to!"
Nastyusha woke first, rousing Mummy and Daddy who lay entwined in
sleep. Oleg held Lena clasped close to him all night.
"Daddy, le's go to the liver!" entreated Nastyusha. The sea foamed and
stormed, dark clouds scudded across the sky, blotting out the sun and the
few people out and about cast curious glances at the unseasonably tanned man
accompanied by a pale-skinned woman and child.
For some reason, Oleg recalled a childhood episode:
Oh, to cross the river clinging to his father's shoulders! Nothing is
frightening when you're with Dad! If only his father were always like this!
Vital, happy, joking and laughing. Not only when he'd had a bit to drink. He
and his friends drank a lot. They were lying on the grass surrounded by
sliced vegetables, sausage and lots of bottles. Some of the men were
accompanied by their wives, some were alone. The officers were relaxing.
Oleg sat nearby fishing, but seeing everything and listening to the adults.
Mama hinted tactfully that maybe it was time to stop drinking, that the men
had overdone things a little, all of them unsteady on their feet, speech
slurred. Mama was upset when the men decided to go for a swim: the water's
not at all warm, you'll catch colds, and why take the child with you?! Never
mind. A future officer needs toughening up. They threw off their clothes and
plunged into the water as though on command, splashing and laughing. One
dived under water and the others guffawed: "He's gone down to spawn!" They
say that a drunk thinks the ocean is no more than knee-deep. The water's not
all that cold, honest, Mum! Oleg, jump on! His father squatted down. Climb
on so you'll be comfortable. Someone broke into song: "From the taiga to the
British seas/ the Red Army can whip anyone at all!" Dad slicing through the
water like a torpedo boat. We'll make it across, hey son? You're not scared?
No? Then off we go! But it was not easy to swim with his son on his back.
Father trod on the bottom, standing on tip-toe, the water already up to his
chin. The current pulled strongly to the right. Oleg shone with happiness.
Mama's worrying over nothing! Wave to her! We're perfectly all right! The
others had climbed out and were wringing their shorts in the bushes, jumping
about on one leg, unable to get the other one in, trying to warm up because
the breeze was quite stiff. They waved their arms around, lit cigarettes,
downed a shot of vodka. Dad kept moving forward stubbornly, then suddenly
went under! Oleg slid off his back, plunged under water, began thrashing
about because he was not yet able to swim properly. Mama shouted from the
river bank, someone ran into the water, swam out to help.
... if only I don't drown!..
And Dad, where was Dad? Oleg was caught by the current and swept along.
Dad was choking and no longer swimming. His face was strangely twisted and
he seemed to be moaning. Cramp...Oleg floundered like a puppy, barely
managing to keep his head above water. He swallowed a lungful of water and
began coughing convulsively. But rescue was near. Somebody reached him,
began pulling him back to shore. And Dad made it back somehow...
Everything's fine! The boy's safe! No tears, please! It wasn't
anybody's fault! These things happen. Who could know that there was a deep
spot which couldn't be crossed on foot? Like dropping into a pit ... Pour
the man a penalty glass and give the boy a good rubdown...
... I must teach Nastyushka to swim! next vacation!..
As bad luck would have it, it began to rain. They ate in a cafe, bought
some fruit at the market. It seemed to Lena that Oleg forgot himself again,
he didn't even haggle over the prices, as if he felt ashamed of chaffering
over one ruble, he just flung money around without a thought! Yet a ruble
here and a ruble there added up to a tidy sum in the end! The traders can
tell at a glance, who has money and who hasn't, and set their prices
accordingly. Lena kept her peace, understanding that Oleg was doing this for
her, for Nastyusha, that he enjoyed giving them a treat, and if she were to
protest that he was throwing away money needlessly, she would only ruin his
pleasure. He would come to his senses soon enough. In a few days' time he
would see what was in his pocket and stop spending carelessly. He would
realize that at this rate, they would be left without funds for the return
journey. Still, they had been to the seaside! Who could say when they would
do this again?
The first home leave in wartime flashes by before you know it. The
heart of an officer fluctuates too much between home and duty, there are too
few victories at his back and too many future expectations. Sharagin felt
torn. Moreover, he had not expected to see his family quite so soon. His
parents were equally amazed, nobody had been expecting him earlier than in a
year's time, if not more, after his departure for Afghanistan.
Naturally, they were overjoyed, but they - both his parents an Lena -
had their own estimates of possible times and had prepared to wait
accordingly. Then suddenly - Oleg phones to say that he's in Tashkent and
will be flying out in two hours' time.
The presents Oleg brought home! Tell me how you've all been without me?
We're managing, son, don't worry about anything, dearest. Father could have
kept his mouth shut, though: who asked him to try and put Oleg "in the know"
when they found themselves alone:
"You have a word with her."
"Who?"
"Lena."
"What about?"
"About that guy who's been hanging around her..."
It was like an unexpected slap in the face. He felt dirty. It was not
like him to doubt Lena, but he couldn't bring himself to ask her directly in
case she took offense. Until he spoke to his mother. Mother explained
everything with feminine simplicity. Yes, there was this lieutenant, not a
local but just passing through, and there's absolutely no cause for concern
and Lena is completely blameless. The lieutenant saw her and fell in love at
first sight. Then he showed up after a while with a bunch of flowers. Lena
only felt sorry for him. Who could blame him? These boys sit around for
months on duty at the rocket launching site, there's nothing else to think
about, so in order not to go crazy, the lieutenant imagined himself in love
with her. Lena had a serious talk with him, and he had not been back since.
After a week by the sea, Nastyusha began to sniff and sneeze, then Lena
caught the cold, then Oleg.
... some home leave!..
"We forgot to throw a coin into the sea!" exclaimed Lena. They went
back to the beach, put down their suitcases and went to the water's edge.
Seagulls mewled dismally under the darkening sky.
"This is so we'll come back again," explained Oleg to his daughter. He
put a twenty kopeck coin into her little hand. "Go on, throw it in. There's
a belief like that."
The coin rattled against the pebbles...
+ + +
A new "son of the regiment" had appeared in Oleg's absence. In fact,
Sharagin never got to see him, as everything was over by the time he
returned. The pup had been adopted by Yepimakhov on a mission, a mixture of
boxer and German shepherd by the looks of him. You couldn't tell straight
away. A gift from the "road brigade". The pup was noisy, naive, funny,
trusting and good-natured. He absolutely oozed affection. Whenever someone
came near or stroked him, he would start to wag his tail like the blades of
a chopper and try to lick them from head to foot. The man dubbed him "son of
the regiment" or just "Son." The puppy rode the armored vehicles like a born
paratrooper. In no time at all, he learned to yap at the Afghans. But what
was to be done with him? It was winter. He'd perish alone. Then again, he
could hardly stay with the platoon. They weren't manning an outpost, but
living within the regiment. The rules here were different. The trained dogs
belonging to the sappers were a different breed, but the "son of the
regiment" was a ragamuffin mongrel.
If Bogdanov got to hear about him, everyone would get it in the neck.
They brought Son into the regiment anyway. Now what? He couldn't be
taken into the barracks, and you could hardly build him a kennel out of a
box in the depths of the vehicle park. They put an old trench-coat inside
for warmth and took turns bringing him food. The most assiduous benefactors
were Myshkovsky and Yepimakhov.
Morgultsev, as was to be expected, frowned and fumed. However, he was
spotted feeding the pup secretly. A soldier told Yepimakhov that the
commander had brought Son a mixture of porridge and canned meat, and tried
teaching him the "Sit!" and "Lie down!" commands. However, the pup was till
too young, so all he did was mess up the commander's uniform with dirty paws
and cover him with saliva in attempts to lick Morgultsev's nose.
We'll keep him for a bit, reasoned Yepimakhov, feed him up and on our
next sortie, we'll find a place for him, fix him up at an outpost.
All would have been well if Son had not been spotted by Bogdanov.
Myshkovsky had time to hide behind a BMP, but Son was unaccustomed to hiding
on what he plainly considered to be his territory. And home territory must
be protected. In fact, it was not that Bogdanov spotted him, but Son got
under his feet. Son knew no distinctions between an ordinary soldier, a
lieutenant or a lieutenant-colonel. And there was no way he could tell a
general from a captain.
The puppy bounded out from under the BMP, guarding the equipment
entrusted to him, and started yapping furiously. Not the way he would at an
Afghan - he was good at distinguishing smells. He was just giving a warning
as if to say - careful! I'm here to keep watch and am awaiting further
orders! Bogdanov, meanwhile, had been talking to someone and, taken aback,
stepped on Son's paw with a heavy boot.
Oh, the squeals of pain! Myshkovsky poked his head out but did not dare
come forward and dived back behind the BMP. Bogdanov had offended Son
deeply, and Son did not forget. That boot had really hurt his paw badly. And
for what reason?
Bogdanov cursed fluently and demanded to know who had brought a dog
into the regiment. Morgultsev had a strip torn off for turning the vehicle
park into a zoo. Bogdanov ordered that all stray dogs be removed from the
territory forthwith.
In his turn, Morgultsev chewed out Yepimakhov, yelled at him and
ordered him to get rid of Son. Yepimakhov pleaded for a few days' grace to
find Son a good home.
Two days later, Son was found dead in the vehicle yard. Someone had
shot him with a pistol.
By tacit consent, nobody discussed the incident, but individually the
men were all upset. Yepimakhov and Myshkovsky vowed to find out who shot
Son. Everything pointed at Bogdanov, but how could you prove it? And even if
you did, what would that change? It was not as though a human being had been
killed. Even when a soldier or an officer dies, you can't always get to the
bottom of all the circumstances surrounding the death, and in this instance,
the victim is only a mongrel.
A sentry confided to Myshkovsky that Bogdanov had come to the park to
check personally that the dog had been removed. "Did you hear a shot?" No,
the sentry had heard nothing, and refused to say any more. So the pup was
gone - big deal! Tell Myshkovsky that you'd heard a shot and he might go and
shoot the lieutenant-colonel. Then there would really be hell to pay!
Everyone would be drawn in, the Special Section, the Prosecutors...
+ + +
Nothing in the regiment had changed over the one and a half months
Sharagin had been away. When he was leaving, he had worried that there might
be battles. What if he were to miss out on something really big? How would
they go off without him?
...that's no good ... unfair...
On the whole, he had not missed much, just a couple of sorties.
... as if I hadn't been on leave .. as if I'd never left.. .
Yepimakhov seemed to have been scorched under fire several times,
bullets whizzing by his ears, but he was all right. The lieutenant held his
head proudly now.
... as though he's just had his first woman ...
Like any conscientious and proud young officer, in the best sense of
those words. Yepimakhov had had to be restrained by the scruff of the neck
at first, until he understood the difference between the romance of victory
and genuine combat. Invariably, someone needed to cool down the ardor of the
new boy to fling himself into battle so that he would not share the fate of
so many half-baked lieutenants arriving in Afghanistan and not living to see
their first home leave. In this one instance, nobody had been looking out
for Yepimakhov. He was simply lucky.
"I've been told that I'm safe from bullets," he said to Sharagin when
Oleg came back.
"Who told you that crap?"
"A gypsy."
"Go on, spit! That's better. And touch wood..."
The newcomer was gradually adapting to military life. He learned to
kill, swear like the proverbial trooper, accept death. His personal
possessions increased: he'd saved up his chits, haggled over wares in the
shops, spent some money in the army trade depot, bought odds and ends -
jeans, souvenirs, knickknacks - in other words, acquired the standard
baggage of a Soviet officer in Afghanistan.
He also found a reliable friend - vodka, that age-proven Russian remedy
for numerous misfortunes and doubts, from sadness and spiritual desolation.
He had expended his youthful enthusiasm, become slightly cynical,
disillusionment ousted his former belief in the saving role of the Soviet
army in Afghanistan.
He did not share his feelings with anyone, Sharagin was the only one in
whom he would confide to any extent when they went outside for a smoke,
especially after a good intake of vodka, when thoughts and tongues become
more eloquent.
They talked about the country in which they had been born, grew up and
which they served.
They talked about the war, which had brought such dissimilar people
together. They agonized over the frequently stupid, uncaring and useless
ways
... that the strength of Russia was being misused...
battalions and regiments are expended, that nobody gave a damn about
the soldiers or the army.
There was only one topic that was never discussed - the return home.
If it is not admissible, in wartime, when you surrender your life
temporarily into the hands of fate, when a situation may make you sacrifice
yourself for a friend, an aim, a principle, to plan and map out a distant
future left behind in another world, with other values. At least not out
loud, because you could be wrong so easily, or just jinx your hopes.
The 40th army or the "Limited Contingent of Soviet forces in
Afghanistan" was yet another illegitimate offspring of the enormous empire
under the name of the Soviet Union. Its parents - the Central Committee of
the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the Ministry of Defense - did
all they could to hide their transgression, and for this reason, most
likely, forbade the Soviet people to mention the child as if it had done
something unworthy, criminal, something that cast a shadow over the entire
family.
Millions of the country's citizens did not know, were not interested
and did not care that there was a war for almost ten years on its southern
boundaries. As for those who served in the Limited Contingent, especially on
the first years after the forces were brought into Afghanistan - they did
not dare tell even their nearest and dearest about what they had been
through and seen, they feared to broach the subject.
Parents of other illegitimate children who did as they wished in more
fortunate and not war-torn countries - Hungary, Poland, the German
Democratic Republic, Mongolia, Czechoslovakia - were more benevolently
inclined.
The 40th army was dispatched to a strange land at the end of 1979 and
it tried, over many years, to win the love and good will of its ageing and
slightly mad parents. The army was sent to an alien place to preserve order,
increase the prestige and might of the empire, work for the growth and
fortune of already endless, immense territories. But because the empire was
not quite ordinary, and actually the last empire of the 20th century, things
were always turning out opposite to plan.
Instead of receiving profit from its subject lands, the empire gave
away its life-blood, shared its last crust, and its strength diminished
accordingly.
The subjects of the great empire did not know why they had to live so
badly, what had happened to the plenty promised them a long, long time ago,
at the dawn of the Soviet power; they believed genuinely in the gods which
thought up and created the empire; the subjects were romantics, naive
people, they liked hearing promises, believed in miracles and in their
hearts believed that that the miracle could occur at any moment, like in the
fairy-tale about the goldfish that promised to grant the fisherman's three
wishes in return for release.
However, they did not really have much choice. They had nothing with
which to compare their empire.
"If you've never watched a Japanese television set, you'll go on
believing that Soviet-made ones are the best in the world," once said
captain Morgultsev bitterly after a walk around the shops.
... he also liked to repeat that "the Soviet wrist-watches are the
fastest in the world, and Soviet paralysis - the most progressive"...
The great empire's army which, in actual fact, had not engaged in any
large-scale military actions for more than 35 years, suddenly decided to
flex its muscles and test its abilities in reality, assure itself that all
the weapons manufactured in recent years worked properly, try out new
technology, field test the commanders' knowledge of the tactical theories
they had studied in military schools and academies; the Soviet army needed a
foe, but as the foe did not attack, it was necessary to think up something
themselves, organize a lengthy march into a far away land, moreover as the
ideologists had, by that time, concluded work on the latest chapter about
global revolution. That chapter was entitled Afghanistan. Convincingly and
simply as always, it maintained that in exceptional cases, to transform a
feudal country into a socialist one without an intermediate capitalist stage
of development.
Muscles tend to stiffen after a long ride on the armor - similarly, the
Army and the Ideology got tired of sitting around with nothing to do, like a
dog on a chain becomes sick of waiting.
Pride forbade apology or retreat - the empire admitted to no mistakes.
So from the first days of its existence, the life of the 40th army went
haywire.
...how was the decision about Afghanistan really reached? No chance of
finding that out! if they goofed - its a damned shame...they shouldn't take
us for such fools! we fought for a couple of years, it became clear that
things were going wrong, so why not change tactics? you can't be blind
stubborn, you have to weasel around .. or stop pussyfooting around and pit
all our strength against them...
... we all understand geopolitics too, even at the level of a platoon
leader, we're not babies... that's what the army's for, that's what the
paratroopers are for - to guard the Motherland from external enemies,
to
strike first, preventively, so to speak, to be able to foresee what the
enemy has in mind and put a stop to it! even a moron could see that two
ideologies collided head-on in little Afghanistan, locked horns and
will
fight unto death ... the more you see, the further you look - nothing
is
all that simple here... we don't know everything .. there are all sorts
of
underwater reefs in this place ... so, all in all, it's better not to
argue
... better not to resist, not to indulge in masochism ... if you don't
know
everything ... you get your orders - forward ... we'll analyze it all
when
we're old, retired ... by that time things will become clear ... I hope
...
as for today, the task is simple - never mind discoursing about the
global
revolution, just kill the spooks ...
... nobody argues, we're just spent cartridges from a small calibre
weapon by comparison with those who call the tune in big time politics
-
with the heavy artillery ... for me, everything falls within the
framework
of the company, I can't even visualize the whole division even if I
try,
but for them - why, they have to see to the whole country, all the
military
areas, industry, know what's going on out there, across the border,
keep
their eyes peeled and their noses to the wind, to get ahead of the
yanks,
not to lose face ...do they see all this? they must! have they taken
everything into account? they have to! then there shouldn't be any
questions! if you must, you must! give us the picture, we'll
understand!
and win! we won't retreat! only keep faith with us and don't go
revising
things later -, opinions and views, let's remain united to the end!
international duty - well, let it be international duty!
half-heartedness
is the most dread thing of all! the most painful, when someone starts
backing down! then the accomplishments and rewards of the Russian
soldier
will not be worth a penny ... if you don't think you can stick it out,
don't get into a fight! ...
In the evenings, the enervating heat eased. The air freshened,
especially in the tree-lined avenues on the territory of the army HQ located
in Amin's former palace, a three-floor edifice with columns, standing on a
high hill on the outskirts of the city and housing the senior command of the
40th army. The daily fuss around HQ died down until sunrise and people
became more relaxed in behavior and dress.
The palace suffered heavy damage in December 1979 when the empire
ordered the liquidation of Hafizullah Amin, the leader of Afghanistan at
that time. Ironically Amin, who had urged the Soviet Union to bring its
forces into his country, was killed by those very forces in their first
strike.
As the years passed, numerous military installations grew up on the
territory adjacent to the palace. A compound covered several square
kilometers. It was guarded assiduously against the Afghans and, as was to be
expected, Soviet power reigned supreme in that one specific part of Kabul.
Feature films were shown in an open-air cinema behind the officers'
quarters so scraps of dialogue floated above the heads of the few couples
strolling down the avenues.
A red "Lada" raced past, bearing some visiting Soviet advisor back to
town.
Four soldiers in bullet-proof vests and helmets, rifles slung over
their shoulders, emerged from the dusk. They were led by a sergeant who was
supervising the changing of the guards. One of the soldiers concealed a
cigarette in his hand, drawing on it surreptitiously from time to time and
blowing out the smoke downwards, over his chin. The men paused outside the
commissary for half a minute, eyes right, gazing at the imported goodies in
the brightly lit, empty interior: shoes, track suits, Japanese
tape-recorders, all inaccessible to them price-wise.
A soldier could hardly gain access to the store in day time, it's not
for the soldiers to roam around shopping, nobody will give them permission
to leave their unit and, in any case, common soldiers have no money to
spend: all they can do is sneak a glance at the imported plenty. Anyone can
wish for a better life, even a common soldier.
"What a brand!"
"To a man in 'Adidas'/Any girl will give her ass!"
"Come on you Siberian hick, keep moving," ordered the sergeant.
After dinner in a circle of fellow-generals and a game of billiards in
the Military Council hotel built at the foot of the palace, Sorokin took his
leave. The meal had been excellent, real home cooking. All the products were
specially supplied and superb meals preceded by hors d'oeuvres were
separately prepared. The waitresses at the Military Council were selected
carefully: friendly, pleasant and easy on the eye.
Sorokin had declined various invitations to visit, having decided to
take a break from sitting around tables and drinking. He wanted to check his
gear and have an early night in order to go on tomorrow's mission with a
clear head. The general donned a track suit and went out into the street,
lit a cigarette and set off for a walk. He relaxed, putting everyday
problems out of his head.
Nobody recognized him, nobody saluted or greeted him, and the general
enjoyed this because it meant that he was here only temporarily, without any
regular duties, unencumbered by responsibilities for day to day matters of
military administration or the troops. At the same time he was immensely
proud of the fact that he was endowed with special powers and
responsibilities, which were known and understood by a very small circle
within the military command in Kabul and Moscow. His responsibilities
concerned party and political issues, and therefore extended to one and all.
Army generals were always divided into categories - popular or
unpopular, known or unknown, important or unimportant. The generals were
also differentiated by the positions they held, by their temperaments and by
the way they had attained their rank and duties.
Sorokin was one of those who came by his shoulder boards due to
Afghanistan. He had experienced the true meaning of war on his own skin,
earned his colonel's rank under fire and not behind a desk in the Chief
Military Political Administration. The next promotion resulted from his
participation in the war because in the 1980s "afghan" officers were the
driving force of the Soviet Army, they were granted precedence and the main
emphasis was on them.
Walking around the HQ territory, Sorokin noted how substantially the
compound had been built and recalled that he had seen figures recently which
estimated the worth of army property in Afghanistan at some hundreds of
millions of rubles. He compared the present conditions with life under
canvas in the first years of the war.
...An entire battalion had become infested with lice. The pests had
come from the division and then - Mamma mia! - all the soldiers, filthy and
unwashed as they were, began scratching furiously. Sorokin had set a day for
them all to go to the bath house, ordered their uniforms burnt, tents shaken
out and bed linen boiled. As for the men - a bath day is a holiday. The
commanders, however, panicked and cursed, because how could they disobey and
order from divisional superiors, especially an order from the head of the
political section? To whom does one complain about a political officer?
Nobody. Sorokin phoned divisional headquarters, reporting that here we are,
we've reached rock bottom, the men are living like pigs; send us new
uniforms, the unit is not combat worthy otherwise. The divisional commander
shouted that Sorokin had gone off his head, that he was a saboteur and would
find himself facing a military tribunal. Sorokin stood his ground: there was
no way back in any case, because piles of shirts and pants were already
burning merrily. This scandal rocked the entire army. However, Sorokin got
what he wanted, new uniforms were duly delivered. What else?! That was the
way Sorokin cared for the men in those trying years, fought for justice,
pressed his point. Not every political officer would have had the guts to do
that!..
Now everything had changed. Naturally, Sorokin was glad that today's
soldiers were well-equipped with decent housing, air conditioners, bath
houses, shops, cinemas, laundries, bakeries, cafes and barbers. At the same
time, he felt pity for those who had huddled freezing under their
trench-coats in that first bitter winter after the entry into Afghanistan,
those ill-equipped officers and men who were ordered "across the river" to
render international assistance. He felt sorry for himself in the first
place, because he had experienced it all personally.
He was proud that he had been one of the trailblazers. Prior to this
trip to Kabul, he had even fancied that his past record would raise his
standing in the eyes of other officers, but was quickly disillusioned.
Sorokin saw that nobody was interested in hearing about the hardships faced
back in 1980. For the colonels and generals he encountered in Kabul now,
Afghanistan existed in the present, occasionally - in the future, as from
time to time people did wonder about what would happen later, was Moscow
likely to order the withdrawal of the Limited Contingent, but nobody cared
much about the past.
Sorokin passed the officers' quarters in front of which stood a lonely
and incongruous small statue of Lenin on a pedestal, then proceeded past the
stone buildings of command staff apartments. A stream of movie-goers
straggled towards him.
There was another covert reason for this evening walk, known only to
himself. Somewhere deep inside he hoped - who knows their luck? - to meet
some attractive member of the opposite sex, of whom there were plenty in the
army cantonment.
Sorokin had spent the previous day smoothing over a certain unpleasant
incident. A Spetsnaz group that had been conducting an aerial survey of the
approaches to Kabul in search of spook caravans had stopped a bus. They had
fired a warning volley from the air, landed to conduct a search, but when
the men disembarked from the chopper, the bus suddenly drove off. The men
leapt back into the chopper and set off in pursuit, opening fire and turning
the bus into a colander. Blood streamed from the door and they discovered
fourteen corpses of allegedly peaceful civilians inside. Passengers who had
remained alive were herded behind a hillock by the group leader, and shot
with a silenced pistol. They did not finish off the driver, though. His jaw
was slack, and they decided that he was already dead. It was too late to do
anything when it emerged that the driver had only been wounded and was now
an eye-witness in the matter. Otherwise, they could have blamed everything
on the spooks.
Sorokin was pleased with the way he had handled this very awkward
situation. His tactic was to defuse it by a number of diplomatic moves at a
meeting with members of the Afghan Central Committee and their advisors,
attributing everything to the known unreliability of the spook-infested area
where the incident had occurred and asserted that their own Afghan
intelligence service expected a caravan carrying surface-to-surface missiles
to pass through on that day. To cap it all, Sorokin remarked pensively that
it might be best to stop all aerial reconnaissance by the Spetsnaz. The
Afghan to whom he said this took fright and, unwilling to accept the
responsibility for any such decision, agreed that the whole incident was due
to an unfortunate misunderstanding and that everyone was fully aware of the
need for reconnaissance and the Spetsnaz.
Sorokin regretted what had happened, but worse things can occur in war.
Why, whole villages had been reduced to rubble by mistake, sometimes
wrongly-given coordinates brought down fire on their own units. It happens.
War is war.
When he returned to the hotel, a new receptionist - a young, striking
brunette - was seated in front of the television set. Soviet programs came
through to Kabul loud and clear.
"Good night," said Sorokin, straightening his back and pulling in his
very slightly incipient belly.
"Good night to you too," she replied with a flutter of painted
eyelashes and turned back to the screen - it was not part of her job to
flirt with transient generals.
Back in his room, Sorokin indulged in a lengthy telephone conversation
over SAC - secret automatic connection - with a friend in the Chief Military
Political Administration in Moscow, from whom he hoped to learn the latest
news and what the weather was like back in the capital. The friend, however,
had more practical matters on his mind:
"I'm going to be down your way soon," he informed Sorokin. The voice at
the other end sounded stifled, as if somebody had gripped the speaker in a
vise and was squeezing out every word with pain. "I want to buy a video
recorder. And a track suit. I've been told that 'Adidas' stuff is available
in Kabul."
"True. You can buy the suits with coupons. There's a colonel at HQ
who's chairman of the party committee and who's in charge of distribution.
All our operating group was supplied by him. There aren't many VCRs, but the
track suits's no problem."
"Alexei, try to get them to set aside a VCR for me, would you? I'll be
flying in next week."
"I'll do my best. I want to ask you something, too. I'm going on a
combat mission tomorrow. Phone my folks, give them my love. Tell them I'm
fine."
As a rule, senior ranking officers, especially the political ones,
could not survive a day without long discussions with distant headquarters,
districts and staff offices. To an outsider, not versed in the ways of the
senior military, it could seem that SAC had been invented specially for
generals, so that they could contact their friends and relatives at any
moment to hear the latest gossip, exchange rumors, suppositions, find out
about the weather and what the fishing was like in this or that corner of
the immense land of the Soviets.
In the morning, while Sorokin was breakfasting, his white "Volga" drew
up outside the hotel. The staff car was equipped with Afghan number plates
and had curtains on the rear window. Sashka, the driver, parked between two
UAZ jeeps. He was in good spirits, as he had finally repaired the car to his
satisfaction. His predecessor had almost ruined the vehicle because he was
waiting for demobilization and did not give a damn about the car, didn't
want to get his hands dirty. Sashka had had to strip the gearbox, regulate
all the valves, change the head gasket, adjust the suspension and jump
through hoops to get the necessary spare parts. Nobody gives away something
"I took Pul-i-Charkhi prison," confided Morgultsev. "What about you?"
"I took the palace..."
"Amin's palace?!" Morgultsev almost choked. He glanced at the captain
who sat there, head bowed and staring at the floor. He didn't even look up
when he affirmed: "Exactly."
There were all sorts of rumors about Amin's palace. It was said that
the Ninth company of the Vitebsk division stormed the palace, others said
the KGB had sent a special task force.
They shared the last of the spirit, clinked glasses: "Cheers!", then
breathed out almost simultaneously, tossed down their drinks and sniffed
black bread as a follow-up.
"I was in the Muslim battalion," continued the captain. "Ever heard of
it?"
"Sure," lied Mogultsev. He decided not to ask for details. It was
probably some kind of special unit. "And you saw Amin himself?"
"Yes ... only he was dead..."
"..?..."
The captain remained silent, weighing the pros and cons of saying any
more.
"He was lying on the floor in just his undershirt and shorts, there was
a large red spot over his heart. We had to make sure he was really dead. But
when we tugged his left arm, it came off..."
Morgultsev broke out in a cold sweat. "Why is he telling me this? Why
did I tell him about the prison? I should have kept my stupid trap shut!"
He could not fall asleep, the words of the captain from the "Muslim
battalion" were very frightening:
"It was like we were on a platter in front of them during the storming,
they could have shot us to pieces with no trouble. It was a miracle we broke
through, especially when we realized what had happened. After all, we'd
killed a head of state! They loaded us into a plane, we thought we were done
for. Who knows what they might decided to do with us?...They could simply
poison the lot of us. Why leave witnesses? The unit was dissolved and we
were all assigned to different places..."
Over breakfast Morgultsev felt as if his head would burst at any
moment, his eyes refused to stay open. Morgultsev greeted the captain, but
he turned away and pretended not to recognize him. "Talked too much!"
Morgultsev decided that from now on he would keep his tongue on a padlock.
There was no need to boast and brag about the prison!
Morgultsev was put up for the "Red Banner" order for his part in the
taking of Pul-i-Charkhi. He was promoted to senior lieutenant ahead of time.
Then it seemed as though someone had jinxed him! Everything started falling
apart in his hitherto quite successfully unfolding life, as if he had
slipped on the top of a hill and rolled down the slope. First, his wife left
him. She had found someone else while Morgultsev was serving in Afghanistan.
Not someone from the unit, but a civilian who took her away from Vitebsk.
Morgultsev started drinking heavily, received frequent reprimands from
the battalion commander, found no pleasure in his work. The Political
Section subjected him to psychological pressure, pestering him to mend his
ways.
He was young and hot-tempered, telling people where to go in no
uncertain terms, was too quick to resort to fisticuffs before considering
whom he was telling to fuck off or whose nose he was punching. Then he
landed in real trouble: the "grandpas" beat him up within an inch of his
life.
It took a few years for things to improve. He married again, had a
daughter. Then he asked to be posted back to Afghanistan.
He never discussed his family problems, but everyone knew anyway. Who
got divorced or married, who had remarried, who had children and where -
there are no secrets in the army.
Morgultsev had a picture drawn by the son of his first marriage pinned
to the wall in his room. Once a month he sent the boy short letters and
asked officers going on leave to post the boy a small package of presents
once they were in the Soviet Union. The drawing was full of birdlike
airplanes dropping icicle-bombs, burning tiny tanks with swastikas on their
armor which were being crushed by tanks bearing red stars, and people with
machine guns ran between them. In the right hand corner Morgultsev's son had
written: "I drew this myself Dad plees send me chooing gum" ....
+ + +
The days flew by unnoticed, running into weeks and months. Raids,
combat, injury and death of soldiers and officers - he adapted himself to
the Afghan rhythm which turned every severed life into something prosaic;
death could be tragic, accidental, heroic, but it no longer horrified
Sharagin as it had in the early months; death became a routine occurrence
and was accepted as one of the inevitabilities of war.
Sharagin fished out two new stars from a glass of vodka when they were
"washing down" his promotion to senior lieutenant. He was due for a reward.
Morgultsev signed the orders, glanced slyly at Sharagin and asked
off-handedly:
"Do you like sweaty women and warm vodka?"
"Are you kidding?!"
"Then you'll be going on leave in winter."
"Why winter?" protested Sharagin, disappointed. "Come on...!"
"Someone's got to go. Zebrev's already been. It's too early for
Yepimakhov, he's still got to get into the swing of things here. So you'll
have to be the one. It's your turn..."
"Can't we make it a bit later? Like closer to spring?"
"Later-shmater! Dismissed, comrade senior lieutenant!"
"In that case, I'm going into town tomorrow!"
... what else? I can't go home empty-handed!.
"I don't want to know anything about that," answered Morgultsev,
covering his ass just in case.
Once over the border, back in the USSR, Sharagin fell into conversation
with an officer in a jeans outfit as they waited by the military ticket
office. Sharagin had spotted him as an "Afghan" from afar.
...stone-washed jeans like that are sold only in Afghanistan ...One
look
at his face and you can tell straight away that he's an army man ...
To an outside observer, the officer and Sharagin looked like twins.
Oleg had bought his first-ever pair of jeans.
The officer was hoping to get on the same plane. They were lucky enough
to be admitted on the next flight. Sharagin followed his companion's advice
and decided to do the unthinkable: draw money off his bank account and take
his family to the seaside.
He and Lena had so much catching up to do, all the feelings that could
not be fully expressed in letters, the anxieties, the warmth - all this they
would relive. It would be better to do all this by the sea rather than in
the parents' apartment. Afterwards, there would be time to visit relatives,
spend a week or two with his mother and father, go fishing with his
grandfather. He had almost a month and a half - plenty of time for
everything!
"You'll always find a place to stay. If push comes to shove, you can
rent a room. The main thing is to have money!" urged the jeans-clad officer
over a beer.
Lena had never been on vacation by the sea. For that matter, neither
had he. As for Nastyushka, all she had seen was a stream in the village.
"The sea is like hundreds of rivers," Oleg told her in an effort to
explain.
"Wike two or free livers?"
"More. Lots and lots of rivers. And you can't see the other side."
The money seemed to melt like snow. He had to overpay for their
tickets. It was not the vacation season, nobody flew south at this time of
year, but there was a ticket shortage nonetheless!
... it could only happen in our country! ...
Taxi to the airport, taxi from the airport - just as well he was
earning double all those months in Afghanistan. He'd never dreamed of
anything like that before!
... why regret the expense? I'll earn as much again!..
For the first time in his life, Oleg felt himself a free man.
...because you can't earn a lot back home ... If someone has a lot of
money, he'll start to feel independent and go his own way ...
Previously, Oleg had always felt dependent and without any rights.
... "I know no such other country," a drunken captain had sung once,
parodying the Soviet national anthem, "where a man can be so ...at ease!
attention! eyes right!"
The money gave an illusion of freedom, the chance to choose, inspired
confidence.
Admittedly, they were turned away from the hotel because they had no
prior reservation. Oleg tried to offer a bribe, but he did not have the
knack and it didn't work. Moreover, the hotel manager turned out to be a
very self-righteous citizen and reacted to the offer of money as to a
personal affront. Lena and Nastya hovered outside - the uniformed porter
would not let them into the vestibule.
"You picked the most expensive hotel, of course they don't have any
free rooms," comforted Lena, searching for some justification. "Why, only
foreign tourists live here!"
"To hell with them! We'll try the private sector!" Sharagin flagged
down a passing cab.
"Take us along the waterfront, chief. I'll pay double! If there's a
good restaurant on the way, we'll stop there for lunch. And we need to find
a room, too, but it's got to have a sea view."
"You're on, boss!"
They breezed along and chose the most expensive restaurant. Lena gasped
when she saw the check: all that money, and for what? But Oleg was beaming
with pleasure as he counted out the money and added a bit on top.
Lena could not contain herself any longer:
"Why did you give him more? He overcharged us by about three times
anyway!" She was unaccustomed to throwing money around, she was more used to
stretching every penny from payday to payday. When they were first married
they could barely make ends meet, had to borrow ten rubles here and there at
times, yet here was Oleg now, behaving like a millionaire.
"That was a tip," explained Oleg expansively. Seeing that Lena was
upset by such profligacy he gave her a hug: "Sweetheart, don't think about
the money, we'll have this much again! We'll have everything! We've got our
whole future to look forward to!"
Nastyusha woke first, rousing Mummy and Daddy who lay entwined in
sleep. Oleg held Lena clasped close to him all night.
"Daddy, le's go to the liver!" entreated Nastyusha. The sea foamed and
stormed, dark clouds scudded across the sky, blotting out the sun and the
few people out and about cast curious glances at the unseasonably tanned man
accompanied by a pale-skinned woman and child.
For some reason, Oleg recalled a childhood episode:
Oh, to cross the river clinging to his father's shoulders! Nothing is
frightening when you're with Dad! If only his father were always like this!
Vital, happy, joking and laughing. Not only when he'd had a bit to drink. He
and his friends drank a lot. They were lying on the grass surrounded by
sliced vegetables, sausage and lots of bottles. Some of the men were
accompanied by their wives, some were alone. The officers were relaxing.
Oleg sat nearby fishing, but seeing everything and listening to the adults.
Mama hinted tactfully that maybe it was time to stop drinking, that the men
had overdone things a little, all of them unsteady on their feet, speech
slurred. Mama was upset when the men decided to go for a swim: the water's
not at all warm, you'll catch colds, and why take the child with you?! Never
mind. A future officer needs toughening up. They threw off their clothes and
plunged into the water as though on command, splashing and laughing. One
dived under water and the others guffawed: "He's gone down to spawn!" They
say that a drunk thinks the ocean is no more than knee-deep. The water's not
all that cold, honest, Mum! Oleg, jump on! His father squatted down. Climb
on so you'll be comfortable. Someone broke into song: "From the taiga to the
British seas/ the Red Army can whip anyone at all!" Dad slicing through the
water like a torpedo boat. We'll make it across, hey son? You're not scared?
No? Then off we go! But it was not easy to swim with his son on his back.
Father trod on the bottom, standing on tip-toe, the water already up to his
chin. The current pulled strongly to the right. Oleg shone with happiness.
Mama's worrying over nothing! Wave to her! We're perfectly all right! The
others had climbed out and were wringing their shorts in the bushes, jumping
about on one leg, unable to get the other one in, trying to warm up because
the breeze was quite stiff. They waved their arms around, lit cigarettes,
downed a shot of vodka. Dad kept moving forward stubbornly, then suddenly
went under! Oleg slid off his back, plunged under water, began thrashing
about because he was not yet able to swim properly. Mama shouted from the
river bank, someone ran into the water, swam out to help.
... if only I don't drown!..
And Dad, where was Dad? Oleg was caught by the current and swept along.
Dad was choking and no longer swimming. His face was strangely twisted and
he seemed to be moaning. Cramp...Oleg floundered like a puppy, barely
managing to keep his head above water. He swallowed a lungful of water and
began coughing convulsively. But rescue was near. Somebody reached him,
began pulling him back to shore. And Dad made it back somehow...
Everything's fine! The boy's safe! No tears, please! It wasn't
anybody's fault! These things happen. Who could know that there was a deep
spot which couldn't be crossed on foot? Like dropping into a pit ... Pour
the man a penalty glass and give the boy a good rubdown...
... I must teach Nastyushka to swim! next vacation!..
As bad luck would have it, it began to rain. They ate in a cafe, bought
some fruit at the market. It seemed to Lena that Oleg forgot himself again,
he didn't even haggle over the prices, as if he felt ashamed of chaffering
over one ruble, he just flung money around without a thought! Yet a ruble
here and a ruble there added up to a tidy sum in the end! The traders can
tell at a glance, who has money and who hasn't, and set their prices
accordingly. Lena kept her peace, understanding that Oleg was doing this for
her, for Nastyusha, that he enjoyed giving them a treat, and if she were to
protest that he was throwing away money needlessly, she would only ruin his
pleasure. He would come to his senses soon enough. In a few days' time he
would see what was in his pocket and stop spending carelessly. He would
realize that at this rate, they would be left without funds for the return
journey. Still, they had been to the seaside! Who could say when they would
do this again?
The first home leave in wartime flashes by before you know it. The
heart of an officer fluctuates too much between home and duty, there are too
few victories at his back and too many future expectations. Sharagin felt
torn. Moreover, he had not expected to see his family quite so soon. His
parents were equally amazed, nobody had been expecting him earlier than in a
year's time, if not more, after his departure for Afghanistan.
Naturally, they were overjoyed, but they - both his parents an Lena -
had their own estimates of possible times and had prepared to wait
accordingly. Then suddenly - Oleg phones to say that he's in Tashkent and
will be flying out in two hours' time.
The presents Oleg brought home! Tell me how you've all been without me?
We're managing, son, don't worry about anything, dearest. Father could have
kept his mouth shut, though: who asked him to try and put Oleg "in the know"
when they found themselves alone:
"You have a word with her."
"Who?"
"Lena."
"What about?"
"About that guy who's been hanging around her..."
It was like an unexpected slap in the face. He felt dirty. It was not
like him to doubt Lena, but he couldn't bring himself to ask her directly in
case she took offense. Until he spoke to his mother. Mother explained
everything with feminine simplicity. Yes, there was this lieutenant, not a
local but just passing through, and there's absolutely no cause for concern
and Lena is completely blameless. The lieutenant saw her and fell in love at
first sight. Then he showed up after a while with a bunch of flowers. Lena
only felt sorry for him. Who could blame him? These boys sit around for
months on duty at the rocket launching site, there's nothing else to think
about, so in order not to go crazy, the lieutenant imagined himself in love
with her. Lena had a serious talk with him, and he had not been back since.
After a week by the sea, Nastyusha began to sniff and sneeze, then Lena
caught the cold, then Oleg.
... some home leave!..
"We forgot to throw a coin into the sea!" exclaimed Lena. They went
back to the beach, put down their suitcases and went to the water's edge.
Seagulls mewled dismally under the darkening sky.
"This is so we'll come back again," explained Oleg to his daughter. He
put a twenty kopeck coin into her little hand. "Go on, throw it in. There's
a belief like that."
The coin rattled against the pebbles...
+ + +
A new "son of the regiment" had appeared in Oleg's absence. In fact,
Sharagin never got to see him, as everything was over by the time he
returned. The pup had been adopted by Yepimakhov on a mission, a mixture of
boxer and German shepherd by the looks of him. You couldn't tell straight
away. A gift from the "road brigade". The pup was noisy, naive, funny,
trusting and good-natured. He absolutely oozed affection. Whenever someone
came near or stroked him, he would start to wag his tail like the blades of
a chopper and try to lick them from head to foot. The man dubbed him "son of
the regiment" or just "Son." The puppy rode the armored vehicles like a born
paratrooper. In no time at all, he learned to yap at the Afghans. But what
was to be done with him? It was winter. He'd perish alone. Then again, he
could hardly stay with the platoon. They weren't manning an outpost, but
living within the regiment. The rules here were different. The trained dogs
belonging to the sappers were a different breed, but the "son of the
regiment" was a ragamuffin mongrel.
If Bogdanov got to hear about him, everyone would get it in the neck.
They brought Son into the regiment anyway. Now what? He couldn't be
taken into the barracks, and you could hardly build him a kennel out of a
box in the depths of the vehicle park. They put an old trench-coat inside
for warmth and took turns bringing him food. The most assiduous benefactors
were Myshkovsky and Yepimakhov.
Morgultsev, as was to be expected, frowned and fumed. However, he was
spotted feeding the pup secretly. A soldier told Yepimakhov that the
commander had brought Son a mixture of porridge and canned meat, and tried
teaching him the "Sit!" and "Lie down!" commands. However, the pup was till
too young, so all he did was mess up the commander's uniform with dirty paws
and cover him with saliva in attempts to lick Morgultsev's nose.
We'll keep him for a bit, reasoned Yepimakhov, feed him up and on our
next sortie, we'll find a place for him, fix him up at an outpost.
All would have been well if Son had not been spotted by Bogdanov.
Myshkovsky had time to hide behind a BMP, but Son was unaccustomed to hiding
on what he plainly considered to be his territory. And home territory must
be protected. In fact, it was not that Bogdanov spotted him, but Son got
under his feet. Son knew no distinctions between an ordinary soldier, a
lieutenant or a lieutenant-colonel. And there was no way he could tell a
general from a captain.
The puppy bounded out from under the BMP, guarding the equipment
entrusted to him, and started yapping furiously. Not the way he would at an
Afghan - he was good at distinguishing smells. He was just giving a warning
as if to say - careful! I'm here to keep watch and am awaiting further
orders! Bogdanov, meanwhile, had been talking to someone and, taken aback,
stepped on Son's paw with a heavy boot.
Oh, the squeals of pain! Myshkovsky poked his head out but did not dare
come forward and dived back behind the BMP. Bogdanov had offended Son
deeply, and Son did not forget. That boot had really hurt his paw badly. And
for what reason?
Bogdanov cursed fluently and demanded to know who had brought a dog
into the regiment. Morgultsev had a strip torn off for turning the vehicle
park into a zoo. Bogdanov ordered that all stray dogs be removed from the
territory forthwith.
In his turn, Morgultsev chewed out Yepimakhov, yelled at him and
ordered him to get rid of Son. Yepimakhov pleaded for a few days' grace to
find Son a good home.
Two days later, Son was found dead in the vehicle yard. Someone had
shot him with a pistol.
By tacit consent, nobody discussed the incident, but individually the
men were all upset. Yepimakhov and Myshkovsky vowed to find out who shot
Son. Everything pointed at Bogdanov, but how could you prove it? And even if
you did, what would that change? It was not as though a human being had been
killed. Even when a soldier or an officer dies, you can't always get to the
bottom of all the circumstances surrounding the death, and in this instance,
the victim is only a mongrel.
A sentry confided to Myshkovsky that Bogdanov had come to the park to
check personally that the dog had been removed. "Did you hear a shot?" No,
the sentry had heard nothing, and refused to say any more. So the pup was
gone - big deal! Tell Myshkovsky that you'd heard a shot and he might go and
shoot the lieutenant-colonel. Then there would really be hell to pay!
Everyone would be drawn in, the Special Section, the Prosecutors...
+ + +
Nothing in the regiment had changed over the one and a half months
Sharagin had been away. When he was leaving, he had worried that there might
be battles. What if he were to miss out on something really big? How would
they go off without him?
...that's no good ... unfair...
On the whole, he had not missed much, just a couple of sorties.
... as if I hadn't been on leave .. as if I'd never left.. .
Yepimakhov seemed to have been scorched under fire several times,
bullets whizzing by his ears, but he was all right. The lieutenant held his
head proudly now.
... as though he's just had his first woman ...
Like any conscientious and proud young officer, in the best sense of
those words. Yepimakhov had had to be restrained by the scruff of the neck
at first, until he understood the difference between the romance of victory
and genuine combat. Invariably, someone needed to cool down the ardor of the
new boy to fling himself into battle so that he would not share the fate of
so many half-baked lieutenants arriving in Afghanistan and not living to see
their first home leave. In this one instance, nobody had been looking out
for Yepimakhov. He was simply lucky.
"I've been told that I'm safe from bullets," he said to Sharagin when
Oleg came back.
"Who told you that crap?"
"A gypsy."
"Go on, spit! That's better. And touch wood..."
The newcomer was gradually adapting to military life. He learned to
kill, swear like the proverbial trooper, accept death. His personal
possessions increased: he'd saved up his chits, haggled over wares in the
shops, spent some money in the army trade depot, bought odds and ends -
jeans, souvenirs, knickknacks - in other words, acquired the standard
baggage of a Soviet officer in Afghanistan.
He also found a reliable friend - vodka, that age-proven Russian remedy
for numerous misfortunes and doubts, from sadness and spiritual desolation.
He had expended his youthful enthusiasm, become slightly cynical,
disillusionment ousted his former belief in the saving role of the Soviet
army in Afghanistan.
He did not share his feelings with anyone, Sharagin was the only one in
whom he would confide to any extent when they went outside for a smoke,
especially after a good intake of vodka, when thoughts and tongues become
more eloquent.
They talked about the country in which they had been born, grew up and
which they served.
They talked about the war, which had brought such dissimilar people
together. They agonized over the frequently stupid, uncaring and useless
ways
... that the strength of Russia was being misused...
battalions and regiments are expended, that nobody gave a damn about
the soldiers or the army.
There was only one topic that was never discussed - the return home.
If it is not admissible, in wartime, when you surrender your life
temporarily into the hands of fate, when a situation may make you sacrifice
yourself for a friend, an aim, a principle, to plan and map out a distant
future left behind in another world, with other values. At least not out
loud, because you could be wrong so easily, or just jinx your hopes.
The 40th army or the "Limited Contingent of Soviet forces in
Afghanistan" was yet another illegitimate offspring of the enormous empire
under the name of the Soviet Union. Its parents - the Central Committee of
the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the Ministry of Defense - did
all they could to hide their transgression, and for this reason, most
likely, forbade the Soviet people to mention the child as if it had done
something unworthy, criminal, something that cast a shadow over the entire
family.
Millions of the country's citizens did not know, were not interested
and did not care that there was a war for almost ten years on its southern
boundaries. As for those who served in the Limited Contingent, especially on
the first years after the forces were brought into Afghanistan - they did
not dare tell even their nearest and dearest about what they had been
through and seen, they feared to broach the subject.
Parents of other illegitimate children who did as they wished in more
fortunate and not war-torn countries - Hungary, Poland, the German
Democratic Republic, Mongolia, Czechoslovakia - were more benevolently
inclined.
The 40th army was dispatched to a strange land at the end of 1979 and
it tried, over many years, to win the love and good will of its ageing and
slightly mad parents. The army was sent to an alien place to preserve order,
increase the prestige and might of the empire, work for the growth and
fortune of already endless, immense territories. But because the empire was
not quite ordinary, and actually the last empire of the 20th century, things
were always turning out opposite to plan.
Instead of receiving profit from its subject lands, the empire gave
away its life-blood, shared its last crust, and its strength diminished
accordingly.
The subjects of the great empire did not know why they had to live so
badly, what had happened to the plenty promised them a long, long time ago,
at the dawn of the Soviet power; they believed genuinely in the gods which
thought up and created the empire; the subjects were romantics, naive
people, they liked hearing promises, believed in miracles and in their
hearts believed that that the miracle could occur at any moment, like in the
fairy-tale about the goldfish that promised to grant the fisherman's three
wishes in return for release.
However, they did not really have much choice. They had nothing with
which to compare their empire.
"If you've never watched a Japanese television set, you'll go on
believing that Soviet-made ones are the best in the world," once said
captain Morgultsev bitterly after a walk around the shops.
... he also liked to repeat that "the Soviet wrist-watches are the
fastest in the world, and Soviet paralysis - the most progressive"...
The great empire's army which, in actual fact, had not engaged in any
large-scale military actions for more than 35 years, suddenly decided to
flex its muscles and test its abilities in reality, assure itself that all
the weapons manufactured in recent years worked properly, try out new
technology, field test the commanders' knowledge of the tactical theories
they had studied in military schools and academies; the Soviet army needed a
foe, but as the foe did not attack, it was necessary to think up something
themselves, organize a lengthy march into a far away land, moreover as the
ideologists had, by that time, concluded work on the latest chapter about
global revolution. That chapter was entitled Afghanistan. Convincingly and
simply as always, it maintained that in exceptional cases, to transform a
feudal country into a socialist one without an intermediate capitalist stage
of development.
Muscles tend to stiffen after a long ride on the armor - similarly, the
Army and the Ideology got tired of sitting around with nothing to do, like a
dog on a chain becomes sick of waiting.
Pride forbade apology or retreat - the empire admitted to no mistakes.
So from the first days of its existence, the life of the 40th army went
haywire.
...how was the decision about Afghanistan really reached? No chance of
finding that out! if they goofed - its a damned shame...they shouldn't take
us for such fools! we fought for a couple of years, it became clear that
things were going wrong, so why not change tactics? you can't be blind
stubborn, you have to weasel around .. or stop pussyfooting around and pit
all our strength against them...
... we all understand geopolitics too, even at the level of a platoon
leader, we're not babies... that's what the army's for, that's what the
paratroopers are for - to guard the Motherland from external enemies,
to
strike first, preventively, so to speak, to be able to foresee what the
enemy has in mind and put a stop to it! even a moron could see that two
ideologies collided head-on in little Afghanistan, locked horns and
will
fight unto death ... the more you see, the further you look - nothing
is
all that simple here... we don't know everything .. there are all sorts
of
underwater reefs in this place ... so, all in all, it's better not to
argue
... better not to resist, not to indulge in masochism ... if you don't
know
everything ... you get your orders - forward ... we'll analyze it all
when
we're old, retired ... by that time things will become clear ... I hope
...
as for today, the task is simple - never mind discoursing about the
global
revolution, just kill the spooks ...
... nobody argues, we're just spent cartridges from a small calibre
weapon by comparison with those who call the tune in big time politics
-
with the heavy artillery ... for me, everything falls within the
framework
of the company, I can't even visualize the whole division even if I
try,
but for them - why, they have to see to the whole country, all the
military
areas, industry, know what's going on out there, across the border,
keep
their eyes peeled and their noses to the wind, to get ahead of the
yanks,
not to lose face ...do they see all this? they must! have they taken
everything into account? they have to! then there shouldn't be any
questions! if you must, you must! give us the picture, we'll
understand!
and win! we won't retreat! only keep faith with us and don't go
revising
things later -, opinions and views, let's remain united to the end!
international duty - well, let it be international duty!
half-heartedness
is the most dread thing of all! the most painful, when someone starts
backing down! then the accomplishments and rewards of the Russian
soldier
will not be worth a penny ... if you don't think you can stick it out,
don't get into a fight! ...
In the evenings, the enervating heat eased. The air freshened,
especially in the tree-lined avenues on the territory of the army HQ located
in Amin's former palace, a three-floor edifice with columns, standing on a
high hill on the outskirts of the city and housing the senior command of the
40th army. The daily fuss around HQ died down until sunrise and people
became more relaxed in behavior and dress.
The palace suffered heavy damage in December 1979 when the empire
ordered the liquidation of Hafizullah Amin, the leader of Afghanistan at
that time. Ironically Amin, who had urged the Soviet Union to bring its
forces into his country, was killed by those very forces in their first
strike.
As the years passed, numerous military installations grew up on the
territory adjacent to the palace. A compound covered several square
kilometers. It was guarded assiduously against the Afghans and, as was to be
expected, Soviet power reigned supreme in that one specific part of Kabul.
Feature films were shown in an open-air cinema behind the officers'
quarters so scraps of dialogue floated above the heads of the few couples
strolling down the avenues.
A red "Lada" raced past, bearing some visiting Soviet advisor back to
town.
Four soldiers in bullet-proof vests and helmets, rifles slung over
their shoulders, emerged from the dusk. They were led by a sergeant who was
supervising the changing of the guards. One of the soldiers concealed a
cigarette in his hand, drawing on it surreptitiously from time to time and
blowing out the smoke downwards, over his chin. The men paused outside the
commissary for half a minute, eyes right, gazing at the imported goodies in
the brightly lit, empty interior: shoes, track suits, Japanese
tape-recorders, all inaccessible to them price-wise.
A soldier could hardly gain access to the store in day time, it's not
for the soldiers to roam around shopping, nobody will give them permission
to leave their unit and, in any case, common soldiers have no money to
spend: all they can do is sneak a glance at the imported plenty. Anyone can
wish for a better life, even a common soldier.
"What a brand!"
"To a man in 'Adidas'/Any girl will give her ass!"
"Come on you Siberian hick, keep moving," ordered the sergeant.
After dinner in a circle of fellow-generals and a game of billiards in
the Military Council hotel built at the foot of the palace, Sorokin took his
leave. The meal had been excellent, real home cooking. All the products were
specially supplied and superb meals preceded by hors d'oeuvres were
separately prepared. The waitresses at the Military Council were selected
carefully: friendly, pleasant and easy on the eye.
Sorokin had declined various invitations to visit, having decided to
take a break from sitting around tables and drinking. He wanted to check his
gear and have an early night in order to go on tomorrow's mission with a
clear head. The general donned a track suit and went out into the street,
lit a cigarette and set off for a walk. He relaxed, putting everyday
problems out of his head.
Nobody recognized him, nobody saluted or greeted him, and the general
enjoyed this because it meant that he was here only temporarily, without any
regular duties, unencumbered by responsibilities for day to day matters of
military administration or the troops. At the same time he was immensely
proud of the fact that he was endowed with special powers and
responsibilities, which were known and understood by a very small circle
within the military command in Kabul and Moscow. His responsibilities
concerned party and political issues, and therefore extended to one and all.
Army generals were always divided into categories - popular or
unpopular, known or unknown, important or unimportant. The generals were
also differentiated by the positions they held, by their temperaments and by
the way they had attained their rank and duties.
Sorokin was one of those who came by his shoulder boards due to
Afghanistan. He had experienced the true meaning of war on his own skin,
earned his colonel's rank under fire and not behind a desk in the Chief
Military Political Administration. The next promotion resulted from his
participation in the war because in the 1980s "afghan" officers were the
driving force of the Soviet Army, they were granted precedence and the main
emphasis was on them.
Walking around the HQ territory, Sorokin noted how substantially the
compound had been built and recalled that he had seen figures recently which
estimated the worth of army property in Afghanistan at some hundreds of
millions of rubles. He compared the present conditions with life under
canvas in the first years of the war.
...An entire battalion had become infested with lice. The pests had
come from the division and then - Mamma mia! - all the soldiers, filthy and
unwashed as they were, began scratching furiously. Sorokin had set a day for
them all to go to the bath house, ordered their uniforms burnt, tents shaken
out and bed linen boiled. As for the men - a bath day is a holiday. The
commanders, however, panicked and cursed, because how could they disobey and
order from divisional superiors, especially an order from the head of the
political section? To whom does one complain about a political officer?
Nobody. Sorokin phoned divisional headquarters, reporting that here we are,
we've reached rock bottom, the men are living like pigs; send us new
uniforms, the unit is not combat worthy otherwise. The divisional commander
shouted that Sorokin had gone off his head, that he was a saboteur and would
find himself facing a military tribunal. Sorokin stood his ground: there was
no way back in any case, because piles of shirts and pants were already
burning merrily. This scandal rocked the entire army. However, Sorokin got
what he wanted, new uniforms were duly delivered. What else?! That was the
way Sorokin cared for the men in those trying years, fought for justice,
pressed his point. Not every political officer would have had the guts to do
that!..
Now everything had changed. Naturally, Sorokin was glad that today's
soldiers were well-equipped with decent housing, air conditioners, bath
houses, shops, cinemas, laundries, bakeries, cafes and barbers. At the same
time, he felt pity for those who had huddled freezing under their
trench-coats in that first bitter winter after the entry into Afghanistan,
those ill-equipped officers and men who were ordered "across the river" to
render international assistance. He felt sorry for himself in the first
place, because he had experienced it all personally.
He was proud that he had been one of the trailblazers. Prior to this
trip to Kabul, he had even fancied that his past record would raise his
standing in the eyes of other officers, but was quickly disillusioned.
Sorokin saw that nobody was interested in hearing about the hardships faced
back in 1980. For the colonels and generals he encountered in Kabul now,
Afghanistan existed in the present, occasionally - in the future, as from
time to time people did wonder about what would happen later, was Moscow
likely to order the withdrawal of the Limited Contingent, but nobody cared
much about the past.
Sorokin passed the officers' quarters in front of which stood a lonely
and incongruous small statue of Lenin on a pedestal, then proceeded past the
stone buildings of command staff apartments. A stream of movie-goers
straggled towards him.
There was another covert reason for this evening walk, known only to
himself. Somewhere deep inside he hoped - who knows their luck? - to meet
some attractive member of the opposite sex, of whom there were plenty in the
army cantonment.
Sorokin had spent the previous day smoothing over a certain unpleasant
incident. A Spetsnaz group that had been conducting an aerial survey of the
approaches to Kabul in search of spook caravans had stopped a bus. They had
fired a warning volley from the air, landed to conduct a search, but when
the men disembarked from the chopper, the bus suddenly drove off. The men
leapt back into the chopper and set off in pursuit, opening fire and turning
the bus into a colander. Blood streamed from the door and they discovered
fourteen corpses of allegedly peaceful civilians inside. Passengers who had
remained alive were herded behind a hillock by the group leader, and shot
with a silenced pistol. They did not finish off the driver, though. His jaw
was slack, and they decided that he was already dead. It was too late to do
anything when it emerged that the driver had only been wounded and was now
an eye-witness in the matter. Otherwise, they could have blamed everything
on the spooks.
Sorokin was pleased with the way he had handled this very awkward
situation. His tactic was to defuse it by a number of diplomatic moves at a
meeting with members of the Afghan Central Committee and their advisors,
attributing everything to the known unreliability of the spook-infested area
where the incident had occurred and asserted that their own Afghan
intelligence service expected a caravan carrying surface-to-surface missiles
to pass through on that day. To cap it all, Sorokin remarked pensively that
it might be best to stop all aerial reconnaissance by the Spetsnaz. The
Afghan to whom he said this took fright and, unwilling to accept the
responsibility for any such decision, agreed that the whole incident was due
to an unfortunate misunderstanding and that everyone was fully aware of the
need for reconnaissance and the Spetsnaz.
Sorokin regretted what had happened, but worse things can occur in war.
Why, whole villages had been reduced to rubble by mistake, sometimes
wrongly-given coordinates brought down fire on their own units. It happens.
War is war.
When he returned to the hotel, a new receptionist - a young, striking
brunette - was seated in front of the television set. Soviet programs came
through to Kabul loud and clear.
"Good night," said Sorokin, straightening his back and pulling in his
very slightly incipient belly.
"Good night to you too," she replied with a flutter of painted
eyelashes and turned back to the screen - it was not part of her job to
flirt with transient generals.
Back in his room, Sorokin indulged in a lengthy telephone conversation
over SAC - secret automatic connection - with a friend in the Chief Military
Political Administration in Moscow, from whom he hoped to learn the latest
news and what the weather was like back in the capital. The friend, however,
had more practical matters on his mind:
"I'm going to be down your way soon," he informed Sorokin. The voice at
the other end sounded stifled, as if somebody had gripped the speaker in a
vise and was squeezing out every word with pain. "I want to buy a video
recorder. And a track suit. I've been told that 'Adidas' stuff is available
in Kabul."
"True. You can buy the suits with coupons. There's a colonel at HQ
who's chairman of the party committee and who's in charge of distribution.
All our operating group was supplied by him. There aren't many VCRs, but the
track suits's no problem."
"Alexei, try to get them to set aside a VCR for me, would you? I'll be
flying in next week."
"I'll do my best. I want to ask you something, too. I'm going on a
combat mission tomorrow. Phone my folks, give them my love. Tell them I'm
fine."
As a rule, senior ranking officers, especially the political ones,
could not survive a day without long discussions with distant headquarters,
districts and staff offices. To an outsider, not versed in the ways of the
senior military, it could seem that SAC had been invented specially for
generals, so that they could contact their friends and relatives at any
moment to hear the latest gossip, exchange rumors, suppositions, find out
about the weather and what the fishing was like in this or that corner of
the immense land of the Soviets.
In the morning, while Sorokin was breakfasting, his white "Volga" drew
up outside the hotel. The staff car was equipped with Afghan number plates
and had curtains on the rear window. Sashka, the driver, parked between two
UAZ jeeps. He was in good spirits, as he had finally repaired the car to his
satisfaction. His predecessor had almost ruined the vehicle because he was
waiting for demobilization and did not give a damn about the car, didn't
want to get his hands dirty. Sashka had had to strip the gearbox, regulate
all the valves, change the head gasket, adjust the suspension and jump
through hoops to get the necessary spare parts. Nobody gives away something