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for nothing. His "Volga" was not the only general's car around, there were
plenty of others and they were all in demand by people of no lesser rank.
Bringing the car up to scratch had taken a lot of time, Sashka slaved
over it in the motor pool even at night. If the car was at all mobile, it
was in use during the day so he had no choice.
Sashka was listening to the music which issued loudly and squeakily
from the cassette player between the seats. He had no idea who was singing
about what as the song was in English, but he liked the catchy tune and the
refrain, which mentioned some Mary Magdalene or other. Sashka listened and
his simple, uncomplicated soldier's head was full of dreams about his return
home to his obscure village in the Arkhangelsk region where he would stride
around in a pair of "Montana" jeans which he had not yet purchased but which
were the most popular although not cheap for a soldier, and sport a smart
pen and a quartz watch. The pen was already bought. All his friends would
die of envy!
Dreams of civilian life were interrupted when a black "Volga" pulled up
by the hotel. The driver climbed out and crooked a lazy finger at Sashka:
come here! Sashka switched off the player. He hated that short-legged
Moldavian who was to be demobbed soon, and therefore considered it his right
to steal whatever he could from the motor pool. He and his pals were expert
at disposing of the stolen goods.
Sashka's position was very unenviable, a soldier still a long way from
the end of his term of service and thus with no choice but to obey a
"grandpa." The Moldavian clapped him on the shoulder:
"Where's your guy going today?"
"To the airport," replied Sashka cautiously, expecting some kind of
set-up.
"I've slipped a little something into the boot of your car."
"Why? I've told you - I can't-" pleaded Sashka miserably.
"Yes, you can," said the Moldavian threateningly. "I'm a step away from
going home, fuck it, it's time I started doing my shopping. Can a "grandpa"
run any risks? Nobody will dream of suspecting you. You're an honest lad. If
you don't sell the stuff - don't bother coming back. You'd be better off
with the spooks."
Sashka did not know how to steal, how to lie, and had no desire to take
part in any machinations. Before he'd been assigned a driver, he had been
free of problems. He knew and saw that the long-servers and even men from
his own call-up who were more daring and enterprising than himself stole
spare parts and took them into town for sale. There was word that the
previous week three entire air conditioners had been spirited away. What if
the Moldavian had put an air conditioner in the boot of the "Volga"? Or a
stolen machine gun or ammunition?
"You go to Kitabula, you know where his workshop is, give him the
goods."
" ? "
"I'm not going to argue with you peasant! Stupid Arkhangelsk asshole!"
"But they'll stop me at the checkpoint-" began Sashka, but before he
had time to finish, the Moldavian struck him on the ear with a clenched
fist, strongly enough for Sashka to see stars for a moment.
"They won't stop you with a general in the car" - the Moldavian headed
back towards his own vehicle, "here he comes now."
Sorokin, as a member of the small but all-powerful group of Soviet
military men who called the shots in Afghanistan, differed markedly from his
divisional and staff peers. Firstly, he bore himself very independently,
knowing that he had only a handful of direct superiors. With these, he
behaved almost as an equal, or deliberately demonstrated devotion and
respect if that particular individual was close to a marshal's stars. The
general's clothing stood out, too: he liked to sport camouflage which,
although meant for the field, nevertheless looked good on him, reminiscent
of summer kit, was better cut, and had gold shoulder boards and narrow red
stripes down the trouser-legs.
Sorokin paused briefly on the hotel steps, discussing something with
two other generals, then each went to his own car to start the day's work.
Sashka's hands were shaking, so he gripped the steering wheel as hard
as he could. How the hell did he get into this mess? There was nothing he
could do. Starting a conflict with the "grandpas" in the motor pool was out
of the question. Yet if he were to do what the Moldavian wanted, he's be
loaded with stolen goods the next day, too. He would have no respite until
he found himself in deep trouble. Why, oh why had they put him behind the
wheel of this car!
"Morning, Sasha," said Sorokin, climbing into the back. He had gathered
a small bag of stuff to take with him. It was his long-standing habit to
address drivers by their first name, and not by their surnames. "We'll go to
HQ first."
"Good morning, comrade general," replied Sashka, rubbing his ear.
"What's the matter with your ear?"
"Some bug or other bit me-"
"Oh- well, let's go!"
An unhealthy-looking, thin captain was on duty outside the office of
the head of the Political Section of the army and member of the Military
Council. The captain was flicking through the latest reports in the logbook.
His attention was caught by a report from the Kandahar brigade, that a
certain commander had punished a soldier by putting him in a fuel drum for
half a day in an outside temperature of plus 50 degrees, after which
everyone had forgotten all about the miscreant. Twenty four hours later, the
soldier died. In another unit, a soldier had hung himself in the store room.
The report gave the soldiers name, date of birth and stated that no factors
concerning harassment were discovered in connection with the suicide, that
he had not earned the respect of his peers. The report concluded with the
names and addresses of the parents of the deceased.
The captain read these reports in order to be aware of what was
happening in other units, for his own information and out of curiosity, so
that when he went off duty he would have something to tell his pals,
especially stories like the one about the soldier in the fuel drum. Some
sauna! Fancy the commander forgetting all about him!
He opened a newspaper, yawned from boredom, then saw a drably clad,
plump middle aged woman coming down the corridor:
"Excuse me, but who are you? " he asked phlegmatically and cracked his
knuckles.
"Actually, I need to see the head of the Military Council-"
"He's very busy right now. Actually, why do you need to see him?"
"I'm a milkmaid."
"I understand that you're from the "Milkmaid" retorted the captain
snidely, thinking about the call signal from headquarters of the garrison
stationed at Pul-i-Khumri in the north of Afghanistan. "But what do you want
to see him about?"
"I'm a milkmaid," repeated the woman, standing uncertainly and somewhat
guiltily by the captain's desk.
"Yes, I know, I've only just been speaking to the duty officer at
"Milkmaid." It must have taken you a long time to get here. The convoys to
Kabul take a while," continued the captain with unpleasant, false
commiseration.
"What convoy?" Heavens, I walked here, it's just a step. I'm from the
residence," she explained. "From the army general's residence, I'm a
milkmaid. There."
The captain was at a total loss. From the residence? A milkmaid?
"We've got a cow there, you see, to have fresh milk for Fyodor
Konstantinovich. He likes everything to be very fresh, you see, he's on this
strict diet, and the doctor says that Fyodor Konstantinovich can eat only
fresh food, boiled meat, fresh milk, you see. So the thing is, you see, I
promised to bring your general here some milk, you see-"
The captain burst out laughing.
"A milkmaid! And here I was wondering what brought you here?!"
"Yes, I'm a milkmaid, you see."
At that moment the door opened and the general himself came out,
accompanied by Sorokin and a man wearing the uniform of an Afghan advisor.
The captain sprang to his feet.
"Well, Alexei Glebovich," said the general to Sorokin, "I wish you a
successful trip. I'll be off on combat mission myself in a few days, we'll
meet up there. All the best. And to you, too," he added shaking hands with
the advisor in Afghan uniform. "You're off to see the commander now? Good,
good. Drop by, give me a call any time. Always at your service-Yes? You want
to see me?"
"I've come about the milk-"
"Ah! Excellent!"
"I'm absolutely exhausted," confided the advisor as he and Sorokin
descended the winding staircase.
The general couldn't quite see why the advisor was complaining of
tiredness. He certainly didn't smell of alcohol. And at this early hour,
too.
"Time to go on leave," continued the advisor. "The only pleasure I have
is coming here - to see my army buddies, have a dip in the swimming pool,
spend some time in the sauna - and everything here is fine as far as the
fair sex is concerned. You military men are lucky. It's absolute Paradise
here!"
"Yes, it might look like that-But the workload is enormous. Saunas are
saunas, but there's no time to rest," replied Sorokin, bending the truth.
"I've only been to the sauna once since I got here. You know how it is - a
quick shower before bed, and that's it."
"Well, let's go now."
"Sorry, but as you heard the general say, I'm off on a combat mission,"
said Sorokin with excessive pride.
"Next time, then-. I wanted to drop in on the commander. Do you know
him?"
"Very well indeed. We fought together back in '80."
"Of course, you told me last time. Why not go and see him together? A
courtesy visit," winked the advisor.
Whatever rank one serves in, one has a master at that level. And it is
not the Minister of Defense, as some may think, who is the lord and master
of the Armed Forces. In the army, the boss is the commander. For a common
soldier, it's the platoon or company commander, for a platoon leader or a
company commander it's the commander of the battalion, the commander of the
battalion is subservient to the commander of the regiment, and the latter -
to the commander of the division. Then comes the commander of the army.
Commanders of the 40th army changed every couple of years. Therefore it
would be wrong to single out any particular individual. One brought in
troops, another took them out, yet another built and fought and so on. Each
had his own pluses and minuses, but irrespective of anything, every
commander was the viceroy of the distant great power, the master of an
estate on which, beyond any doubt, Soviet directives and laws were in force.
The viceroy was assisted by party and political structures that kept an
eagle eye on the men to ensure that everyone prayed to one God only - the
Communist Party of the Soviet Union, that not a shadow of doubt crossed
their minds concerning the correctness of the choice made by their
grandparents.
For some of the men the horizon is determined by the battalion, for
others - the regiment, others think within the framework of a division, and
very few who serve in headquarters think in terms of an army comprised of
hundreds of thousands. For those close to headquarters, the commander was
always a mere mortal.
The lower army ranks had no time to wonder or discuss where this or
that general lives, with whom he lives, what car he uses to drive to work,
what he eats for dinner and which bath house he patronizes. For them, the
level of the commander is inaccessible.
The people at the bottom of the ladder, whose feet supported the weight
of the entire army machine, know that it is not done to criticize their
commanders, - history would laugh at them later if they were inadequate or
foolish, - these people at the top of the iceberg must be cared for and
nurtured, they must be objects of pride, because their resonant names were
more likely to go down in history than the names of those who served in the
same battalion, and some five or ten years later it would be nice to recall
that one served under such and such a commander, stress that he would visit
once, regiment frequently, that we knew him, saw him in combat more than
once and that he was one hell of a guy!
The commander of the 40th army had returned from the battle command
center where he had taken early morning reports, and was now engaged on
urgent matters concerning the imminent large operation. He was concluding a
telephone conversation with someone and gestured the advisor and the general
to come in and sit down.
Sorokin made a mental note that the commander was once again acting in
a not too friendly manner, for all that they used the familiar "you" form of
address. Furthermore, twice in the past few days the commander had not
called Sorokin "Alyosha", but "Alexei Glebovich" indicating clearly that no
particular buddy stuff was to be expected. His rise had been too swift in
recent years, he had become too far removed from his old comrades in arms.
Still, Sorokin hoped that during his stay in Kabul there would be a chance
to share a bottle, just the two of them, and indulge in some nostalgic
reminiscences about those early years. Then everything would get back to
normal.
"Over here, please," said the commander, wanting to get rid of his
visitors as quickly as possible. "Viktor Konstantinovich, and you too,
Alexei Glebovich. Come and take a look."
He led them over to the window and pulled back the white tulle
curtains, allowing a view of a summer house with a pointed roof. Right
behind it was a swimming pool with sky-blue water, covered completely by
camouflage netting. Some home-made deckchairs stood to the left, behind the
pine trees. A fat man in striped trunks lay sunning himself, while a second
man swam in the pool, pushing himself strongly away from the sides. A small
table was covered with various kinds of bottles.
"Don't lose any time, Viktor Konstantinovich, go down to the pool, I'll
have my adjutant escort you there. I'm really sorry, but there's no way I
can go there myself today. I'm absolutely snowed under with work."
After saying his good-byes to the commander and the advisor, Sorokin
made his way to the party commission chairman and went inside.
"Alexei Glebovich! Do sit down! I want to copy some Afghan songs. I
could make you a copy too, if you like?"
"Why not?"
The stout colonel who issued coupons for imported technology and
'Adidas' track suits unsealed a block of "Sony" tapes purchased in an Afghan
shop, and began to put stickers on every cassette to indicate sides A and B,
and on which one could write the name of the content.
"Yes, I'll certainly manage that!"
It was impossible to refuse a request for coupons from a general, let
alone a general from an operative group of the Ministry of Defense, but the
chairman, sly fox that he was, managed to give the conversation such a turn
that Sorokin found himself in the role of a supplicant.
"Come in any time, comrade general. Always happy to be of service,"
invited the chairman in parting.
Ask a trifling favor, and find yourself indebted, thought Sorokin
angrily. That sonofabitch will call in the favor, you can bet on that.
"There goes the younger generation," said the duty officer in the main
vestibule to his partner, following Sorokin with his eyes. "Some sharp
dresser! Thinks a lot of himself." He waited until the general got into his
car. "Before, generals were all five minutes to their retirement date.
Nowadays it's all different, Yura. They barely have time to put on their
colonel's shoulder boards before placing an order for those of a general.
That's all due to Afghanistan, pal. If it weren't for the war, where would
the army get new blood? You have to think here, run risks, but those old
farts at the top couldn't handle it, this is no office job, or paper
shuffling or spending a weekend with the grandchildren at their dacha. You
mark my words, Yura, those elders in the Kremlin will soon feel the pressure
of new forces, they're already being squeezed with perestroikas and
accelerations. How can they speed themselves up?
There were two roads leading to Kabul from staff headquarters. The
first was meant for the higher ranks and served as a kind of parade entrance
to the HQ of the 40th. It started from the front of the Amin palace, passed
the residence where the operative group of the Ministry of Defense worked
and where Fyodor Konstantinovich, the personal representative of the
Minister of Defense and for whom a cow plus a milkmaid had been flown in on
a special freight run, lived.
The road came to an asphalt-surfaced square surrounding the Afghan
Ministry of Defense. Another road came out on this square, too, one that was
virtually unknown to the army brass because generals, like lords and masters
of old, did not like to travel along dusty, uneven roads, they did not look
at the rear entrance which was designated for lesser beings, the
insignificant, the servants.
However, the general opted for this particular road, which began
between the officers' houses, the commissary and the cafe, and was manned by
two checkpoints.
They passed the first checkpoint, the thin chimneys of the boiler house
which protruded like matches above the single-storey barrackss, the sports
field, then the second checkpoint and took the downward slope, leaving
behind the shoddy museum of the Afghan armed forces, filled with obsolete,
disintegrating Soviet military technology, covered with a thick layer of
green paint. A sort of crossroads popularly referred to simply as "the
cross" was directly behind the museum. To the left of it lay a road leading
to two regiments - the paratroops and the motorized infantry - and the goods
depot with its enormous storage hangars. A long line of military vehicles
had passed through here early in the morning. Now they were replaced by
numerous Kamaz trucks, which raised clouds of dust in their wake.
A swarm of bare-legged urchins "attacked" the trucks. The more agile
would seize the tailboards, pull back the canvas cover and throw out
everything they could reach. Others ran behind the truck, catching whatever
they could and disappearing into alleyways.
"Just look at them! Look what they're doing, the rotten little
beggars!" cried Sorokin. "The cheek!-"
Such pirate raids by Afghan kids were carried out frequently on Soviet
columns, and were accomplished so swiftly that the truck drivers did not
have time to react in most cases.
Sashka couldn't care less at the moment, even though he dutifully made
noises indicating agreement. Sashka was thinking his own soldier's thoughts
about the load hidden in the boot and caught himself on the thought that
those kids must be making a bundle and maybe he, since he had already been
dragged into this shady matter, should demand a cut, even a tiny one, for
the risk he was running, instead of a mere "thanks!" You can't spread
"thanks" on a piece of bread, after all.
A handful of modest container-shops on wheels clustered around the
"cross" selling the traditional selection of shawls, "stone-washed" jeans
outfits, pens to suit every taste, sunglasses and "biters", nail clippers
which were a favorite gift back home; you could buy a bottle of vodka at the
"cross" at any time of the day or night. The shops were decorated with
notices in mutilated Russian such as "Mischa-empori-shope", posters
depicting black-browed Indian beauties or heroes of American action movies
such as Rambo, with mountainous biceps, streamlined torsos and cartridge
belts slung across their chests.
Several more container shops stood behind the Coca-Cola factory with
its yard full of hundreds of cases of empty bottles. The road at this point
was particularly bad, the general's car and the trucks bouncing along the
uneven surface. They slowed down in order not to wreck their suspension,
crawling past the military traffic police post lurking behind a wall. It was
here that the dust they had raised caught up with the trucks and hung in a
thick pall inside their cabins.
From time to time the shop owners would come out with shovels and throw
some water on the road from surrounding puddles in an effort to damp down
the yellow, choking dust.
The general's "Volga" came out by the Afghan Ministry of Defense, drove
around its perimeter and sped along the tree-lined Dar-ul-Aman, the lengthy
strip of asphalt leading to the center of Kabul.
Various ministries and other official buildings, schools, shops and
bakeries and private villas flashed by.
Sashka glanced at the general in the rear view mirror from time to
time.
Sorokin looked about forty years of age. He was in good shape, but had
aged early, gray-haired and with red veins on and around his nose.
The general was puffing on a cigarette and speaking in a slightly
hoarse voice, more to himself than the river:
"There's another road parallel to this one, a bit narrower, that leads
to the Institute of Polytechnics. .. ever driven down it?"
"Of course I know it, comrade general, " replied Sashka. "It's called
"the 'spooker'. We're not allowed to use it."
"-.'spooker,, hmmm-we almost got burned alive there in '80-"
They passed the fork where soldiers from the Tsarandoi, the Afghan
militia, stopped and searched vehicles. One soldier made a move to flag down
the "Volga", but noticed the uniformed Soviet driver behind the wheel just
in time.
They drove past villas, then the Soviet embassy with its two-meter high
walls. A lone ancient armored car with the hood up stood in a vacant lot
near the embassy - Afghan soldiers on guard duty.
There were some shops to the left of the embassy, and Sashka caught a
few glimpses of jeans hung out for sale.
They passed the bridge over the small Kabul River, which crossed the
capital in a murky, brownish-green stream. Local women washed clothing along
the banks of the half-dry riverbed, bathed children, rinsed dishes, people
cleaned cars and if the natives had refrained from urinating in the river,
it would certainly have dried completely by now.
At the end of the street, where it entered the city square, a huge
portrait-poster of the start of the century Afghan king, Amanullah Khan, was
prominently displayed. He had luxuriant whiskers, was dressed in a field
jacket with red tabs. Soviet military men and civilians working in Kabul
would argue as to who it was really - hero of the Russian civil war Blucher
or Beria, and were honestly puzzled why the Afghans had such a reverent
attitude to Soviet leaders of the Stalin era. By the end of the discussion
they usually agreed that the Afghan people, just like Soviet citizens,
respect strong personalities and an iron hand, and sadly miss those times
when order reigned supreme.
Sorokin smoked all the way to the airport, immersed in recollections
about the introduction of the armed forces, about a lieutenant-colonel's
life.
...They had been pushing a division down long wintry roads through the
tunnel towards the Salang pass, choking from diesel and petrol fumes. The
winding road was made even narrower by snowdrifts along its sides, the
vehicles skidded on the icy surface. The column of tanks and APCs got stuck.
They pushed a broken down truck off the road into the precipice.
Sorokin remembered how he had been driving through unfamiliar Kabul and
wanted nothing so much as to eat some mandarins. On every corner there were
rough wooden two-wheeled carts full of crates of mandarins. He told the
driver of the APC to stop, hopped out and approached one of the vendors. All
he had in his pocket were Soviet rubles. He offered the man five rubles. The
vendor turned the unknown blue note around in his hands, handed it back.
Sorokin offered ten rubles, with the same result. Damn you, he thought,
pulling out a twenty five ruble note from the bottom of his pocket. The
seller shook his head again .
Then there was that time when he had gone into town in a new UAZ jeep,
and was stopped by a crowd of girls, several hundred of them, near Kabul
University. They dragged him out of the jeep, smeared him and his driver
with some kind of paint and threw rotten tomatoes and eggs at them.
When you talked about it, everything was crystal clear: international
aid, defense of the southern borders. The party said one thing, but the
reality was quite different, and one had to live with this ambiguity.
Almost got burned alive- It was in February, on the eve of Soviet Army
Day. He was then a member of the Military Council and had been in
conference. They were returning late to the division, it was already dark,
and they decided to take a short cut along the 'spooker' as Sashka called
it: straight for the Institute of Polytechnics, then left to the grain silo
and down, along the fringes of Kabul and straight to the division, the
"Teply Stan" (Warm Haven) district as it had been named by the Soviets.
The 'spooker' was quite empty, not a single oncoming car. All the
streets were empty, the shops closed even though at that time they were
usually open, and shafts of light from kerosene lamps speared out into the
dark street.
Sorokin rode the armor, legs dangling down into the open hatch, eyes
half-shut against the bitter wind. The APC took a sharp bend and began to
brake - ahead of them, about a hundred meters away, a crowd of Afghans
blocked the road.
"Is it some holiday of theirs, or what?" called Sorokin down the hatch
to the lieutenant who sat in the command seat inside the APC. "Slow down as
much as possible, easy does it. They'll move!"
The crowd engulfed the APC and would not let it pass any further. What
an idiotic situation! For a few moments, Sorokin lost his composure. He
tried to smile in a friendly manner, waved his hand, but the response was
frankly hostile. Suddenly, the crowd boiled into motion, like a stormy sea,
roaring its hatred of the Soviet military.
"Allah akbar! Allah akbar!" screamed the crowd. Sorokin seized the
machine gun hanging on the open hatch, slipped off the safety catch, pulled
the breech and fired a shot in the air. Something struck him on the back of
the head, felt like a stick, just as well he was wearing a fur hat, it
absorbed the blow. Rocks flew. He fired a few more warning shots into the
air. The crowd continued to press in on the APC. Quickly and therefore
clumsily, Sorokin scrambled down into the vehicle - for a moment he
panicked, thinking he was stuck - to hide from the rocks and seal the hatch.
Noses pressed to the triplex, they waited tensely. Dull blows sounded all
around. The crowd was attacking the APC with stones, shovels, hoes. Someone
jumped on top of the vehicle, pounding his heel against the closed hatch.
The homogenous, infuriated mob, faces distorted with hate, ringed the APC on
all sides.
About five minutes went by. The lieutenant was first of the three to
break the silence:
"They're coming with torches!"
Someone from the mob threw a bottle of either kerosene or petrol at the
APC, then the flaming torch. The armor burst into flame on top, the fire
running swiftly along the streaks of inflammable liquid. The mob retreated
from the vehicle.
A smell of smoke penetrated the cabin. The lieutenant awaited orders.
Rivulets of sweat ran down the lieutenant-colonel's face.
"We'll burn, comrade colonel," warned the lieutenant finally
"Take your choice, son," said Sorokin to the driver mechanic. "Either
we roast alive, or we go forward."
Wisps of smoke appeared in the cabin. The lieutenant began to cough.
The engine roared into life and the APC lurched forward. There was a
shout, then another and another. The vehicle gathered speed and velocity,
bouncing over human bodies like ruts on a country road.
About two hundred meters further along they broke out and raced full
speed, banging into and overturning oncoming cars, through the dark city.
Once on the territory of the division, the soldier driver clambered out
of the cabin and made his way directly to the barracks, forgetting to switch
off the engine. It seemed to Sorokin that the young man had gone gray all of
a sudden-.
The "Volga" stopped on one of the central streets, making way for an
open-bodied "Toyota." The car was filled to the brim with chunks of
butchered camels. A Khazara boy aged about nine lay on the mountain of
bloody carcasses. He was incredibly dirty and clad in a much-mended blue
nylon jacket. The meat must have still been warm, and he laughed happily,
waving at passers-by and calling out something.
Choppers filled the air above the landing strip, affording cover to a
descending Il-76. The plane was spiraling down, weaving through the sky and
leaving a trail of curlicues behind it - trails of decoys, like the ones
being released from the choppers.
The guard on the gates of the airport looked questioningly at the
"Volga" with its Afghan number plates. One of the paratroopers remained
standing by the gates with their welded-on red star, the other approached
the car lazily and peered in from under his helmet.
"What's taking you so long?" barked Sashka.
'Where's the car from?"
" It's general Sorokin's car from army HQ. C'mon, open those gates-"
"I can't admit a car with Afghan plates."
"See this pass?" demanded Sashka, thrusting a cardboard square under
the guard's nose.
"Another one's needed for entry to the airdrome."
"Will you quit stalling?!"
"Wait a moment, I'll have to report -"
"Idiots!" muttered Sashka, who was accustomed to more respect from
guards.
"I'm sorry, comrade general," said the guard returning from his post,
"but I can't let the car through."
"Never mind." Sorokin got out of the car. "I'll let you know when to
pick me up, I think I'll be back in three or four days. See you then! Take
care!"
"Don't worry comrade general, Alexei Glebovich, everything will be in
order. I'll go straight back to HQ now." Sashka did not look at the general
when he uttered those final words. He had trouble with barefaced lying.
What if they catch me? Worried Sashka. I'll go to the shop, and what if
there's a patrol nearby, or the Afghans report on me? What will I tell the
general? He trusts me. All right, he decided finally. I'll go just this
once, never again. Just deliver this stuff. But if they make me take stolen
goods from HQ again-.No, let them take me off driving duty, let them beat me
up, but I'm not taking anything again. And I don't need any money!
Sorokin made his way towards a single-storey wooden building next to
landing place.
"Comrade general, we take off in twenty minutes."
"Fine."
While he waited, another two Il-76s landed, rolled forward to park on
the concrete apron and disgorged their passengers.
Two UAZ jeeps carrying senior officers drew up. The officers saluted
the general respectfully and came up to greet him. They stood there smoking.
"We were coming back from Jalalabad once," said a colonel, "and had a
monkey with us for the divisional commander. A birthday present. We had it
in a bag, but it managed to get out somehow. Well, I thought, there's
nowhere it can go, the doors are shut. We took off, and that damned monkey
shot off and got through to the pilot's cabin. There it was, over the
pilots' heads, grabbing everything in sight and flipping switches. Can you
imagine it? There you are, flying along, and this blasted ape goes and
switches off the engines or something. Mind you, the first pilot kept his
head, grabbed the monkey and tossed it to hell and gone out of the window.
Two more choppers were brought up, Sorokin entered the first and took a
soft seat by the window.
The senior pilot greeted Sorokin, saluted smartly and introduced
himself as major Mitrofanov.
Sorokin nodded.
"Put on your parachute, please, general."
"I fly without a parachute. If they knock us down, it's not likely to
help."
"Sorry, sir, but otherwise we can't take off."
"Very well, then," agreed Sorokin, fumbling with the straps. "Show me
how to get this thing on!"
The choppers passed over the villages clinging to the outskirts of
Kabul, swept above the hills. A couple of Mi-24s flew in front, providing
cover, greenish-brown-gray camouflaged "crocodiles." They soon caught up
with the column, followed the road. Peering out of the window, the general
watched the rails snaking through the valley, interrupted in places by
groups of cars. Everything reminded him of those first years in Afghanistan,
but at the same time, it all looked different, somehow more orderly and
better planned.
Its a good army, thought the general, only you need to get everything
properly organized. We had it a hundred times harder because when we came in
there was nothing. Yes, today's 40th is completely different. Strong,
experienced, with sound rear services. Look at the way they equip operations
now, they know everything, reconnaissance is reliable, the Spetsnaz is
active, there is cooperation with Afghan special structures, all is taken
into account. We've certainly learned a lot! The only bad thing is that the
political situation hasn't changed, it's getting worse. The rebels have
grown in strength in these years, too. If the West wasn't helping them with
arms, money and military advisors, we would have crushed this blasted
counter-revolution long ago with our strength! The way it works out is that
victory seems to be a mere step away, but you still can't see the end of the
war. How long is it going to take? We've learned to fight them in the
mountains, too, but can we be certain of a final victory? So a year, two,
three will pass. Then what? Then the Afghans will have to learn to defend
their revolution themselves. We'll help them build up a strong army, and
then let them go at it! It looks as though we'll have to pull out anyway. We
can't stay here forever! This isn't Germany, or Poland or Hungary
The general's thoughts turned to inadequacies. Specifically
inadequacies. There were and could be no problems in the Soviet Army.
Sorokin realized this as soon as he was promoted to colonel. If you've got
problems, you're no good as a political officer. There were problems in
companies, battalions, regiments. It was permissible now to discuss only
matters that still needed perfecting.
Why do we worry most about the men's outward appearance, the neatness
of the paths in the compound, bright tents with portraits of Lenin and
quotes from party congresses instead of the essence of the matter, wondered
the general.
However, despite knowing the deficiencies of the army, occasionally
criticizing them in his own mind or in a circle of very close friends, the
general had no intention - and he did not conceal this - of trying to right
any wrongs, stupidities and window-dressing. He hadn't worked his way up to
general only to wreck his career by an open display of dissatisfaction.
He criticized mentally, noted numerous lapses, and was proud that he,
unlike the aging generals back home, understood and was concerned by the
fact that not everything was ideal in the Soviet army. He comforted himself
with the hope that the time would come when he would climb a bit higher up
the hierarchical ladder, and then get down to the business of putting things
to rights.
In fact, though, the general contradicted his own thoughts on the spot,
has there ever been a time when EVERYTHING we had was ideal? Is it possible
to correct EVERYTHING? That takes a great deal of time and effort. If I
were, say, head of the Chief Political Directorate, maybe I could try to
improve EVERYTHING, or at least a great deal. And anyway, not EVERYTHING is
all that bad even now.
The officers at the command post looked like fantastic spotted
creatures flecked by rings of sunlight under the canopy of the camouflage
netting. Sorokin was told that the column from Kabul was making good time,
more than twenty vehicles had broken down on the way, two soldiers died in
an accident - their APC fell into a precipice - and a major was almost
crushed by two APCs when he stood smoking between them: he had been taken to
hospital in a critical condition. It was also reported that the main force
was expected to arrive by evening.
There were still a few days to go before the operation: all the forces
committed to it had to be brought up, concentrated in the necessary areas
according to the approved plans, regrouped if need be, reconnaissance data
had to be studied and analyzed, the area had to be worked over politically
and when the critical mass was ready, when all was set out like pieces on a
chess-board, then the game could begin.
The "crocodiles" rose above the hillocks, slicing the grayish-blue
morning air with their blades, dropped altitude closer to the road along
which army vehicles wove like a steel streamlet; then, some three kilometers
further, the choppers veered to the left, and flying almost at zero
altitude, examined a ruined village by the road, sniffing it out as if it
were a rotting carcass in the heat, then slid like predators into the depths
of the valley.
Senior lieutenant Sharagin noticed them from afar, when he turned to
get some matches from the men; and while he tried to strike one, cupping his
hands around it against the wind, he noticed the choppers as he made the
first few drags. They were pretty sure of themselves, he thought, as he
watched them fly under the cover of the "blocks" on the sides of the road -
BMPs with guns aimed towards the mountains and soldiers who had dug in,
lying belly up, on their sides, on their stomachs. The choppers circled the
dead village and swooped away. Sharagin, who had automatically been watching
the walls and a stand of trees relaxed after the survey by the choppers and
looked ahead, over the column where it disappeared from sight in the
foothills.
... hostile soil, the territory of war...
He knew the spooks wouldn't dare attack the army on the march; a
solitary column - yes, a string of "fillers" - petrol tankers carrying fuel
to distant garrisons or a company hemmed in by mountains - that they'd go
for, but an army was more than they could handle. However, writing off the
possibility of danger would be wrong and criminal, and in any case, the
dangers were all very different in this war. If something happened to just
one of the men, it would be a mote of dust for the army, a mark in the daily
tally of losses, but for Oleg it would be a real person.
Lots of men died or got hurt on any march, not necessarily through
being shot or ambushed, but through their own carelessness or stupidity.
Larger-bodied choppers with windows - Mi-8s - followed the "crocodiles"
as though trying to catch up with them, looking for all the world like
tadpoles.
"Probably delivering the brass, hey comrade senior lieutenant?" asked
private Sychev for the sake of saying something, following the choppers with
his eyes. Actually, he did not so much say as shout in order that the
commander could hear him through the noise of engines and the earphones. He
crouched on the tower of the BMP with the cannon protruding between his
legs, which gave him the appearance of a sexual giant. "Maybe they've got
the commander of the division on board?"
"In that case, snap to attention and salute him, Sychev," replied
Sharagin ironically. "And stay that way until we arrive. You just might get
a medal."
"Yeah, the Order of saint Fucker with a twirl on the back," guffawed
junior sergeant Myshkovsky.
... jokers! A year ago they were all milksops - was a time when I
called their whole contingent that, yet now they're grandpas: Myshak, Sych,
Chiri-they've grown, straightened their backs, matured, the sons of bitches,
they've become the backbone of my army - a soldier remains blinkered only
until his first taste of combat, then he starts to think about how to
survive, starts using his head and making the little gray cells do their
job....
It was expected that their division commander would arrive to watch how
the paratroops battalions would move out of Kabul. That was why that morning
the paratroopers went out as if on parade, cleaning, tidying and enhancing
themselves until the last minute. They traveled the first kilometers feeling
tense - expecting the division commander, although as soon as the main army
column spread out on the road behind the large, dusty field after the
infectious diseases hospital, all tidiness vanished in the fumes and dust
that swirled around the vehicles and settled on freshly-laundered uniforms,
columns and undershirts.
The Soviet warriors saddled their armored steeds, and moved out;
motorized infantry and paratroops, artillery and communications, sappers and
medics; all were clad differently: faded camouflage fatigues, mountain
outfits, "sands", tattered camouflage cloaks. Regulation footwear mingled
with brown "trophy" spook boots, and a scattering of "Kimry," the best of
the worst sneakers created towards the end of the century by domestic
industry.
Engines roared into life, the column moved forward, the wind whipped
the men's faces. A long journey faced the men on the armor and in the trucks
with bulletproof vests draped over their windows. All that day, they would
be swallowing greasy diesel fumes and dust whipped up by the passage of the
first vehicles, covering them from head to foot and getting into clothes and
eyes.
Earlier on, recalled Sharagin, the regimental leadership fussed
unnecessarily, afraid that the division commander would descend with a
lightning inspection on the eve of the pullout. Because of this, all the
preparations for the operation were nervous, tense, and all directives,
orders and comments were accompanied by shouts and fists, which would
supposedly teach sloppy youngsters, toughen up and discipline lazy soldiers.
The fist of the grandpas was pitiless, felling and numbing, that of the
commanders - hard, sharp and usually timely and fair.
Preparations for the operation began well in advance. The orders came a
week earlier, but even so it had been clear that fighting would soon be
inevitable, that an operation against the spooks was being planned. Everyone
in the regiment, from the commander to the waitresses in the mess hall
talked about it. Even the shopkeepers in Kabul, warming food on primus
stoves, would ask shopping officers for how long they would be going into
the mountains, and wished them well, expressing sympathy. The transports
stood ready, patched up as much as possible, weapons had been cleaned at
least sixteen times, ammunition was loaded and political instruction carried
out. The officers, who traditionally "wet the head" of forthcoming combat
operations had recovered from their hangovers; the men had stocked up on
cookies, juices and jam from the regimental commissary and stolen bread and
sandwich spread from the kitchen or the commissary, depending on who had
friends where; they had already secreted sacks of potatoes, written off and
stolen spare parts and anything else that wasn't nailed down for exchange or
sale to the Afghans - a small but appreciated bit of extra cash.
It would be nice to get a bit of sleep and rest before going out on
combat mission, but no: instead of that, you have the officers making you
run around. Darkness outside, the stars are still bright, then the alarm
sounds and the regiment has to leap to its feet. The men rush out in full
kit, scramble into the vehicles, then sit there like idiots for one hour,
two: during the day the sun melts the asphalt - the company commander
decided that it was necessary to hold a drill session: "Le-- -- e-f' face!
Left! Left! Left, right, left! Start singing!"
Those new to the war - privates or fresh lieutenants - find it hard to
understand why this stupid square-bashing is required. You'd think they
weren't in Afghanistan but some showcase garrison in the Union, as though
they weren't going into combat in a day or two, but simply had to drive
"boxes" through Red Square.
It is no secret that the commander determines what one's service shall
be like. If the commander's a fool, then his foolishness will affect the
plenty of others and they were all in demand by people of no lesser rank.
Bringing the car up to scratch had taken a lot of time, Sashka slaved
over it in the motor pool even at night. If the car was at all mobile, it
was in use during the day so he had no choice.
Sashka was listening to the music which issued loudly and squeakily
from the cassette player between the seats. He had no idea who was singing
about what as the song was in English, but he liked the catchy tune and the
refrain, which mentioned some Mary Magdalene or other. Sashka listened and
his simple, uncomplicated soldier's head was full of dreams about his return
home to his obscure village in the Arkhangelsk region where he would stride
around in a pair of "Montana" jeans which he had not yet purchased but which
were the most popular although not cheap for a soldier, and sport a smart
pen and a quartz watch. The pen was already bought. All his friends would
die of envy!
Dreams of civilian life were interrupted when a black "Volga" pulled up
by the hotel. The driver climbed out and crooked a lazy finger at Sashka:
come here! Sashka switched off the player. He hated that short-legged
Moldavian who was to be demobbed soon, and therefore considered it his right
to steal whatever he could from the motor pool. He and his pals were expert
at disposing of the stolen goods.
Sashka's position was very unenviable, a soldier still a long way from
the end of his term of service and thus with no choice but to obey a
"grandpa." The Moldavian clapped him on the shoulder:
"Where's your guy going today?"
"To the airport," replied Sashka cautiously, expecting some kind of
set-up.
"I've slipped a little something into the boot of your car."
"Why? I've told you - I can't-" pleaded Sashka miserably.
"Yes, you can," said the Moldavian threateningly. "I'm a step away from
going home, fuck it, it's time I started doing my shopping. Can a "grandpa"
run any risks? Nobody will dream of suspecting you. You're an honest lad. If
you don't sell the stuff - don't bother coming back. You'd be better off
with the spooks."
Sashka did not know how to steal, how to lie, and had no desire to take
part in any machinations. Before he'd been assigned a driver, he had been
free of problems. He knew and saw that the long-servers and even men from
his own call-up who were more daring and enterprising than himself stole
spare parts and took them into town for sale. There was word that the
previous week three entire air conditioners had been spirited away. What if
the Moldavian had put an air conditioner in the boot of the "Volga"? Or a
stolen machine gun or ammunition?
"You go to Kitabula, you know where his workshop is, give him the
goods."
" ? "
"I'm not going to argue with you peasant! Stupid Arkhangelsk asshole!"
"But they'll stop me at the checkpoint-" began Sashka, but before he
had time to finish, the Moldavian struck him on the ear with a clenched
fist, strongly enough for Sashka to see stars for a moment.
"They won't stop you with a general in the car" - the Moldavian headed
back towards his own vehicle, "here he comes now."
Sorokin, as a member of the small but all-powerful group of Soviet
military men who called the shots in Afghanistan, differed markedly from his
divisional and staff peers. Firstly, he bore himself very independently,
knowing that he had only a handful of direct superiors. With these, he
behaved almost as an equal, or deliberately demonstrated devotion and
respect if that particular individual was close to a marshal's stars. The
general's clothing stood out, too: he liked to sport camouflage which,
although meant for the field, nevertheless looked good on him, reminiscent
of summer kit, was better cut, and had gold shoulder boards and narrow red
stripes down the trouser-legs.
Sorokin paused briefly on the hotel steps, discussing something with
two other generals, then each went to his own car to start the day's work.
Sashka's hands were shaking, so he gripped the steering wheel as hard
as he could. How the hell did he get into this mess? There was nothing he
could do. Starting a conflict with the "grandpas" in the motor pool was out
of the question. Yet if he were to do what the Moldavian wanted, he's be
loaded with stolen goods the next day, too. He would have no respite until
he found himself in deep trouble. Why, oh why had they put him behind the
wheel of this car!
"Morning, Sasha," said Sorokin, climbing into the back. He had gathered
a small bag of stuff to take with him. It was his long-standing habit to
address drivers by their first name, and not by their surnames. "We'll go to
HQ first."
"Good morning, comrade general," replied Sashka, rubbing his ear.
"What's the matter with your ear?"
"Some bug or other bit me-"
"Oh- well, let's go!"
An unhealthy-looking, thin captain was on duty outside the office of
the head of the Political Section of the army and member of the Military
Council. The captain was flicking through the latest reports in the logbook.
His attention was caught by a report from the Kandahar brigade, that a
certain commander had punished a soldier by putting him in a fuel drum for
half a day in an outside temperature of plus 50 degrees, after which
everyone had forgotten all about the miscreant. Twenty four hours later, the
soldier died. In another unit, a soldier had hung himself in the store room.
The report gave the soldiers name, date of birth and stated that no factors
concerning harassment were discovered in connection with the suicide, that
he had not earned the respect of his peers. The report concluded with the
names and addresses of the parents of the deceased.
The captain read these reports in order to be aware of what was
happening in other units, for his own information and out of curiosity, so
that when he went off duty he would have something to tell his pals,
especially stories like the one about the soldier in the fuel drum. Some
sauna! Fancy the commander forgetting all about him!
He opened a newspaper, yawned from boredom, then saw a drably clad,
plump middle aged woman coming down the corridor:
"Excuse me, but who are you? " he asked phlegmatically and cracked his
knuckles.
"Actually, I need to see the head of the Military Council-"
"He's very busy right now. Actually, why do you need to see him?"
"I'm a milkmaid."
"I understand that you're from the "Milkmaid" retorted the captain
snidely, thinking about the call signal from headquarters of the garrison
stationed at Pul-i-Khumri in the north of Afghanistan. "But what do you want
to see him about?"
"I'm a milkmaid," repeated the woman, standing uncertainly and somewhat
guiltily by the captain's desk.
"Yes, I know, I've only just been speaking to the duty officer at
"Milkmaid." It must have taken you a long time to get here. The convoys to
Kabul take a while," continued the captain with unpleasant, false
commiseration.
"What convoy?" Heavens, I walked here, it's just a step. I'm from the
residence," she explained. "From the army general's residence, I'm a
milkmaid. There."
The captain was at a total loss. From the residence? A milkmaid?
"We've got a cow there, you see, to have fresh milk for Fyodor
Konstantinovich. He likes everything to be very fresh, you see, he's on this
strict diet, and the doctor says that Fyodor Konstantinovich can eat only
fresh food, boiled meat, fresh milk, you see. So the thing is, you see, I
promised to bring your general here some milk, you see-"
The captain burst out laughing.
"A milkmaid! And here I was wondering what brought you here?!"
"Yes, I'm a milkmaid, you see."
At that moment the door opened and the general himself came out,
accompanied by Sorokin and a man wearing the uniform of an Afghan advisor.
The captain sprang to his feet.
"Well, Alexei Glebovich," said the general to Sorokin, "I wish you a
successful trip. I'll be off on combat mission myself in a few days, we'll
meet up there. All the best. And to you, too," he added shaking hands with
the advisor in Afghan uniform. "You're off to see the commander now? Good,
good. Drop by, give me a call any time. Always at your service-Yes? You want
to see me?"
"I've come about the milk-"
"Ah! Excellent!"
"I'm absolutely exhausted," confided the advisor as he and Sorokin
descended the winding staircase.
The general couldn't quite see why the advisor was complaining of
tiredness. He certainly didn't smell of alcohol. And at this early hour,
too.
"Time to go on leave," continued the advisor. "The only pleasure I have
is coming here - to see my army buddies, have a dip in the swimming pool,
spend some time in the sauna - and everything here is fine as far as the
fair sex is concerned. You military men are lucky. It's absolute Paradise
here!"
"Yes, it might look like that-But the workload is enormous. Saunas are
saunas, but there's no time to rest," replied Sorokin, bending the truth.
"I've only been to the sauna once since I got here. You know how it is - a
quick shower before bed, and that's it."
"Well, let's go now."
"Sorry, but as you heard the general say, I'm off on a combat mission,"
said Sorokin with excessive pride.
"Next time, then-. I wanted to drop in on the commander. Do you know
him?"
"Very well indeed. We fought together back in '80."
"Of course, you told me last time. Why not go and see him together? A
courtesy visit," winked the advisor.
Whatever rank one serves in, one has a master at that level. And it is
not the Minister of Defense, as some may think, who is the lord and master
of the Armed Forces. In the army, the boss is the commander. For a common
soldier, it's the platoon or company commander, for a platoon leader or a
company commander it's the commander of the battalion, the commander of the
battalion is subservient to the commander of the regiment, and the latter -
to the commander of the division. Then comes the commander of the army.
Commanders of the 40th army changed every couple of years. Therefore it
would be wrong to single out any particular individual. One brought in
troops, another took them out, yet another built and fought and so on. Each
had his own pluses and minuses, but irrespective of anything, every
commander was the viceroy of the distant great power, the master of an
estate on which, beyond any doubt, Soviet directives and laws were in force.
The viceroy was assisted by party and political structures that kept an
eagle eye on the men to ensure that everyone prayed to one God only - the
Communist Party of the Soviet Union, that not a shadow of doubt crossed
their minds concerning the correctness of the choice made by their
grandparents.
For some of the men the horizon is determined by the battalion, for
others - the regiment, others think within the framework of a division, and
very few who serve in headquarters think in terms of an army comprised of
hundreds of thousands. For those close to headquarters, the commander was
always a mere mortal.
The lower army ranks had no time to wonder or discuss where this or
that general lives, with whom he lives, what car he uses to drive to work,
what he eats for dinner and which bath house he patronizes. For them, the
level of the commander is inaccessible.
The people at the bottom of the ladder, whose feet supported the weight
of the entire army machine, know that it is not done to criticize their
commanders, - history would laugh at them later if they were inadequate or
foolish, - these people at the top of the iceberg must be cared for and
nurtured, they must be objects of pride, because their resonant names were
more likely to go down in history than the names of those who served in the
same battalion, and some five or ten years later it would be nice to recall
that one served under such and such a commander, stress that he would visit
once, regiment frequently, that we knew him, saw him in combat more than
once and that he was one hell of a guy!
The commander of the 40th army had returned from the battle command
center where he had taken early morning reports, and was now engaged on
urgent matters concerning the imminent large operation. He was concluding a
telephone conversation with someone and gestured the advisor and the general
to come in and sit down.
Sorokin made a mental note that the commander was once again acting in
a not too friendly manner, for all that they used the familiar "you" form of
address. Furthermore, twice in the past few days the commander had not
called Sorokin "Alyosha", but "Alexei Glebovich" indicating clearly that no
particular buddy stuff was to be expected. His rise had been too swift in
recent years, he had become too far removed from his old comrades in arms.
Still, Sorokin hoped that during his stay in Kabul there would be a chance
to share a bottle, just the two of them, and indulge in some nostalgic
reminiscences about those early years. Then everything would get back to
normal.
"Over here, please," said the commander, wanting to get rid of his
visitors as quickly as possible. "Viktor Konstantinovich, and you too,
Alexei Glebovich. Come and take a look."
He led them over to the window and pulled back the white tulle
curtains, allowing a view of a summer house with a pointed roof. Right
behind it was a swimming pool with sky-blue water, covered completely by
camouflage netting. Some home-made deckchairs stood to the left, behind the
pine trees. A fat man in striped trunks lay sunning himself, while a second
man swam in the pool, pushing himself strongly away from the sides. A small
table was covered with various kinds of bottles.
"Don't lose any time, Viktor Konstantinovich, go down to the pool, I'll
have my adjutant escort you there. I'm really sorry, but there's no way I
can go there myself today. I'm absolutely snowed under with work."
After saying his good-byes to the commander and the advisor, Sorokin
made his way to the party commission chairman and went inside.
"Alexei Glebovich! Do sit down! I want to copy some Afghan songs. I
could make you a copy too, if you like?"
"Why not?"
The stout colonel who issued coupons for imported technology and
'Adidas' track suits unsealed a block of "Sony" tapes purchased in an Afghan
shop, and began to put stickers on every cassette to indicate sides A and B,
and on which one could write the name of the content.
"Yes, I'll certainly manage that!"
It was impossible to refuse a request for coupons from a general, let
alone a general from an operative group of the Ministry of Defense, but the
chairman, sly fox that he was, managed to give the conversation such a turn
that Sorokin found himself in the role of a supplicant.
"Come in any time, comrade general. Always happy to be of service,"
invited the chairman in parting.
Ask a trifling favor, and find yourself indebted, thought Sorokin
angrily. That sonofabitch will call in the favor, you can bet on that.
"There goes the younger generation," said the duty officer in the main
vestibule to his partner, following Sorokin with his eyes. "Some sharp
dresser! Thinks a lot of himself." He waited until the general got into his
car. "Before, generals were all five minutes to their retirement date.
Nowadays it's all different, Yura. They barely have time to put on their
colonel's shoulder boards before placing an order for those of a general.
That's all due to Afghanistan, pal. If it weren't for the war, where would
the army get new blood? You have to think here, run risks, but those old
farts at the top couldn't handle it, this is no office job, or paper
shuffling or spending a weekend with the grandchildren at their dacha. You
mark my words, Yura, those elders in the Kremlin will soon feel the pressure
of new forces, they're already being squeezed with perestroikas and
accelerations. How can they speed themselves up?
There were two roads leading to Kabul from staff headquarters. The
first was meant for the higher ranks and served as a kind of parade entrance
to the HQ of the 40th. It started from the front of the Amin palace, passed
the residence where the operative group of the Ministry of Defense worked
and where Fyodor Konstantinovich, the personal representative of the
Minister of Defense and for whom a cow plus a milkmaid had been flown in on
a special freight run, lived.
The road came to an asphalt-surfaced square surrounding the Afghan
Ministry of Defense. Another road came out on this square, too, one that was
virtually unknown to the army brass because generals, like lords and masters
of old, did not like to travel along dusty, uneven roads, they did not look
at the rear entrance which was designated for lesser beings, the
insignificant, the servants.
However, the general opted for this particular road, which began
between the officers' houses, the commissary and the cafe, and was manned by
two checkpoints.
They passed the first checkpoint, the thin chimneys of the boiler house
which protruded like matches above the single-storey barrackss, the sports
field, then the second checkpoint and took the downward slope, leaving
behind the shoddy museum of the Afghan armed forces, filled with obsolete,
disintegrating Soviet military technology, covered with a thick layer of
green paint. A sort of crossroads popularly referred to simply as "the
cross" was directly behind the museum. To the left of it lay a road leading
to two regiments - the paratroops and the motorized infantry - and the goods
depot with its enormous storage hangars. A long line of military vehicles
had passed through here early in the morning. Now they were replaced by
numerous Kamaz trucks, which raised clouds of dust in their wake.
A swarm of bare-legged urchins "attacked" the trucks. The more agile
would seize the tailboards, pull back the canvas cover and throw out
everything they could reach. Others ran behind the truck, catching whatever
they could and disappearing into alleyways.
"Just look at them! Look what they're doing, the rotten little
beggars!" cried Sorokin. "The cheek!-"
Such pirate raids by Afghan kids were carried out frequently on Soviet
columns, and were accomplished so swiftly that the truck drivers did not
have time to react in most cases.
Sashka couldn't care less at the moment, even though he dutifully made
noises indicating agreement. Sashka was thinking his own soldier's thoughts
about the load hidden in the boot and caught himself on the thought that
those kids must be making a bundle and maybe he, since he had already been
dragged into this shady matter, should demand a cut, even a tiny one, for
the risk he was running, instead of a mere "thanks!" You can't spread
"thanks" on a piece of bread, after all.
A handful of modest container-shops on wheels clustered around the
"cross" selling the traditional selection of shawls, "stone-washed" jeans
outfits, pens to suit every taste, sunglasses and "biters", nail clippers
which were a favorite gift back home; you could buy a bottle of vodka at the
"cross" at any time of the day or night. The shops were decorated with
notices in mutilated Russian such as "Mischa-empori-shope", posters
depicting black-browed Indian beauties or heroes of American action movies
such as Rambo, with mountainous biceps, streamlined torsos and cartridge
belts slung across their chests.
Several more container shops stood behind the Coca-Cola factory with
its yard full of hundreds of cases of empty bottles. The road at this point
was particularly bad, the general's car and the trucks bouncing along the
uneven surface. They slowed down in order not to wreck their suspension,
crawling past the military traffic police post lurking behind a wall. It was
here that the dust they had raised caught up with the trucks and hung in a
thick pall inside their cabins.
From time to time the shop owners would come out with shovels and throw
some water on the road from surrounding puddles in an effort to damp down
the yellow, choking dust.
The general's "Volga" came out by the Afghan Ministry of Defense, drove
around its perimeter and sped along the tree-lined Dar-ul-Aman, the lengthy
strip of asphalt leading to the center of Kabul.
Various ministries and other official buildings, schools, shops and
bakeries and private villas flashed by.
Sashka glanced at the general in the rear view mirror from time to
time.
Sorokin looked about forty years of age. He was in good shape, but had
aged early, gray-haired and with red veins on and around his nose.
The general was puffing on a cigarette and speaking in a slightly
hoarse voice, more to himself than the river:
"There's another road parallel to this one, a bit narrower, that leads
to the Institute of Polytechnics. .. ever driven down it?"
"Of course I know it, comrade general, " replied Sashka. "It's called
"the 'spooker'. We're not allowed to use it."
"-.'spooker,, hmmm-we almost got burned alive there in '80-"
They passed the fork where soldiers from the Tsarandoi, the Afghan
militia, stopped and searched vehicles. One soldier made a move to flag down
the "Volga", but noticed the uniformed Soviet driver behind the wheel just
in time.
They drove past villas, then the Soviet embassy with its two-meter high
walls. A lone ancient armored car with the hood up stood in a vacant lot
near the embassy - Afghan soldiers on guard duty.
There were some shops to the left of the embassy, and Sashka caught a
few glimpses of jeans hung out for sale.
They passed the bridge over the small Kabul River, which crossed the
capital in a murky, brownish-green stream. Local women washed clothing along
the banks of the half-dry riverbed, bathed children, rinsed dishes, people
cleaned cars and if the natives had refrained from urinating in the river,
it would certainly have dried completely by now.
At the end of the street, where it entered the city square, a huge
portrait-poster of the start of the century Afghan king, Amanullah Khan, was
prominently displayed. He had luxuriant whiskers, was dressed in a field
jacket with red tabs. Soviet military men and civilians working in Kabul
would argue as to who it was really - hero of the Russian civil war Blucher
or Beria, and were honestly puzzled why the Afghans had such a reverent
attitude to Soviet leaders of the Stalin era. By the end of the discussion
they usually agreed that the Afghan people, just like Soviet citizens,
respect strong personalities and an iron hand, and sadly miss those times
when order reigned supreme.
Sorokin smoked all the way to the airport, immersed in recollections
about the introduction of the armed forces, about a lieutenant-colonel's
life.
...They had been pushing a division down long wintry roads through the
tunnel towards the Salang pass, choking from diesel and petrol fumes. The
winding road was made even narrower by snowdrifts along its sides, the
vehicles skidded on the icy surface. The column of tanks and APCs got stuck.
They pushed a broken down truck off the road into the precipice.
Sorokin remembered how he had been driving through unfamiliar Kabul and
wanted nothing so much as to eat some mandarins. On every corner there were
rough wooden two-wheeled carts full of crates of mandarins. He told the
driver of the APC to stop, hopped out and approached one of the vendors. All
he had in his pocket were Soviet rubles. He offered the man five rubles. The
vendor turned the unknown blue note around in his hands, handed it back.
Sorokin offered ten rubles, with the same result. Damn you, he thought,
pulling out a twenty five ruble note from the bottom of his pocket. The
seller shook his head again .
Then there was that time when he had gone into town in a new UAZ jeep,
and was stopped by a crowd of girls, several hundred of them, near Kabul
University. They dragged him out of the jeep, smeared him and his driver
with some kind of paint and threw rotten tomatoes and eggs at them.
When you talked about it, everything was crystal clear: international
aid, defense of the southern borders. The party said one thing, but the
reality was quite different, and one had to live with this ambiguity.
Almost got burned alive- It was in February, on the eve of Soviet Army
Day. He was then a member of the Military Council and had been in
conference. They were returning late to the division, it was already dark,
and they decided to take a short cut along the 'spooker' as Sashka called
it: straight for the Institute of Polytechnics, then left to the grain silo
and down, along the fringes of Kabul and straight to the division, the
"Teply Stan" (Warm Haven) district as it had been named by the Soviets.
The 'spooker' was quite empty, not a single oncoming car. All the
streets were empty, the shops closed even though at that time they were
usually open, and shafts of light from kerosene lamps speared out into the
dark street.
Sorokin rode the armor, legs dangling down into the open hatch, eyes
half-shut against the bitter wind. The APC took a sharp bend and began to
brake - ahead of them, about a hundred meters away, a crowd of Afghans
blocked the road.
"Is it some holiday of theirs, or what?" called Sorokin down the hatch
to the lieutenant who sat in the command seat inside the APC. "Slow down as
much as possible, easy does it. They'll move!"
The crowd engulfed the APC and would not let it pass any further. What
an idiotic situation! For a few moments, Sorokin lost his composure. He
tried to smile in a friendly manner, waved his hand, but the response was
frankly hostile. Suddenly, the crowd boiled into motion, like a stormy sea,
roaring its hatred of the Soviet military.
"Allah akbar! Allah akbar!" screamed the crowd. Sorokin seized the
machine gun hanging on the open hatch, slipped off the safety catch, pulled
the breech and fired a shot in the air. Something struck him on the back of
the head, felt like a stick, just as well he was wearing a fur hat, it
absorbed the blow. Rocks flew. He fired a few more warning shots into the
air. The crowd continued to press in on the APC. Quickly and therefore
clumsily, Sorokin scrambled down into the vehicle - for a moment he
panicked, thinking he was stuck - to hide from the rocks and seal the hatch.
Noses pressed to the triplex, they waited tensely. Dull blows sounded all
around. The crowd was attacking the APC with stones, shovels, hoes. Someone
jumped on top of the vehicle, pounding his heel against the closed hatch.
The homogenous, infuriated mob, faces distorted with hate, ringed the APC on
all sides.
About five minutes went by. The lieutenant was first of the three to
break the silence:
"They're coming with torches!"
Someone from the mob threw a bottle of either kerosene or petrol at the
APC, then the flaming torch. The armor burst into flame on top, the fire
running swiftly along the streaks of inflammable liquid. The mob retreated
from the vehicle.
A smell of smoke penetrated the cabin. The lieutenant awaited orders.
Rivulets of sweat ran down the lieutenant-colonel's face.
"We'll burn, comrade colonel," warned the lieutenant finally
"Take your choice, son," said Sorokin to the driver mechanic. "Either
we roast alive, or we go forward."
Wisps of smoke appeared in the cabin. The lieutenant began to cough.
The engine roared into life and the APC lurched forward. There was a
shout, then another and another. The vehicle gathered speed and velocity,
bouncing over human bodies like ruts on a country road.
About two hundred meters further along they broke out and raced full
speed, banging into and overturning oncoming cars, through the dark city.
Once on the territory of the division, the soldier driver clambered out
of the cabin and made his way directly to the barracks, forgetting to switch
off the engine. It seemed to Sorokin that the young man had gone gray all of
a sudden-.
The "Volga" stopped on one of the central streets, making way for an
open-bodied "Toyota." The car was filled to the brim with chunks of
butchered camels. A Khazara boy aged about nine lay on the mountain of
bloody carcasses. He was incredibly dirty and clad in a much-mended blue
nylon jacket. The meat must have still been warm, and he laughed happily,
waving at passers-by and calling out something.
Choppers filled the air above the landing strip, affording cover to a
descending Il-76. The plane was spiraling down, weaving through the sky and
leaving a trail of curlicues behind it - trails of decoys, like the ones
being released from the choppers.
The guard on the gates of the airport looked questioningly at the
"Volga" with its Afghan number plates. One of the paratroopers remained
standing by the gates with their welded-on red star, the other approached
the car lazily and peered in from under his helmet.
"What's taking you so long?" barked Sashka.
'Where's the car from?"
" It's general Sorokin's car from army HQ. C'mon, open those gates-"
"I can't admit a car with Afghan plates."
"See this pass?" demanded Sashka, thrusting a cardboard square under
the guard's nose.
"Another one's needed for entry to the airdrome."
"Will you quit stalling?!"
"Wait a moment, I'll have to report -"
"Idiots!" muttered Sashka, who was accustomed to more respect from
guards.
"I'm sorry, comrade general," said the guard returning from his post,
"but I can't let the car through."
"Never mind." Sorokin got out of the car. "I'll let you know when to
pick me up, I think I'll be back in three or four days. See you then! Take
care!"
"Don't worry comrade general, Alexei Glebovich, everything will be in
order. I'll go straight back to HQ now." Sashka did not look at the general
when he uttered those final words. He had trouble with barefaced lying.
What if they catch me? Worried Sashka. I'll go to the shop, and what if
there's a patrol nearby, or the Afghans report on me? What will I tell the
general? He trusts me. All right, he decided finally. I'll go just this
once, never again. Just deliver this stuff. But if they make me take stolen
goods from HQ again-.No, let them take me off driving duty, let them beat me
up, but I'm not taking anything again. And I don't need any money!
Sorokin made his way towards a single-storey wooden building next to
landing place.
"Comrade general, we take off in twenty minutes."
"Fine."
While he waited, another two Il-76s landed, rolled forward to park on
the concrete apron and disgorged their passengers.
Two UAZ jeeps carrying senior officers drew up. The officers saluted
the general respectfully and came up to greet him. They stood there smoking.
"We were coming back from Jalalabad once," said a colonel, "and had a
monkey with us for the divisional commander. A birthday present. We had it
in a bag, but it managed to get out somehow. Well, I thought, there's
nowhere it can go, the doors are shut. We took off, and that damned monkey
shot off and got through to the pilot's cabin. There it was, over the
pilots' heads, grabbing everything in sight and flipping switches. Can you
imagine it? There you are, flying along, and this blasted ape goes and
switches off the engines or something. Mind you, the first pilot kept his
head, grabbed the monkey and tossed it to hell and gone out of the window.
Two more choppers were brought up, Sorokin entered the first and took a
soft seat by the window.
The senior pilot greeted Sorokin, saluted smartly and introduced
himself as major Mitrofanov.
Sorokin nodded.
"Put on your parachute, please, general."
"I fly without a parachute. If they knock us down, it's not likely to
help."
"Sorry, sir, but otherwise we can't take off."
"Very well, then," agreed Sorokin, fumbling with the straps. "Show me
how to get this thing on!"
The choppers passed over the villages clinging to the outskirts of
Kabul, swept above the hills. A couple of Mi-24s flew in front, providing
cover, greenish-brown-gray camouflaged "crocodiles." They soon caught up
with the column, followed the road. Peering out of the window, the general
watched the rails snaking through the valley, interrupted in places by
groups of cars. Everything reminded him of those first years in Afghanistan,
but at the same time, it all looked different, somehow more orderly and
better planned.
Its a good army, thought the general, only you need to get everything
properly organized. We had it a hundred times harder because when we came in
there was nothing. Yes, today's 40th is completely different. Strong,
experienced, with sound rear services. Look at the way they equip operations
now, they know everything, reconnaissance is reliable, the Spetsnaz is
active, there is cooperation with Afghan special structures, all is taken
into account. We've certainly learned a lot! The only bad thing is that the
political situation hasn't changed, it's getting worse. The rebels have
grown in strength in these years, too. If the West wasn't helping them with
arms, money and military advisors, we would have crushed this blasted
counter-revolution long ago with our strength! The way it works out is that
victory seems to be a mere step away, but you still can't see the end of the
war. How long is it going to take? We've learned to fight them in the
mountains, too, but can we be certain of a final victory? So a year, two,
three will pass. Then what? Then the Afghans will have to learn to defend
their revolution themselves. We'll help them build up a strong army, and
then let them go at it! It looks as though we'll have to pull out anyway. We
can't stay here forever! This isn't Germany, or Poland or Hungary
The general's thoughts turned to inadequacies. Specifically
inadequacies. There were and could be no problems in the Soviet Army.
Sorokin realized this as soon as he was promoted to colonel. If you've got
problems, you're no good as a political officer. There were problems in
companies, battalions, regiments. It was permissible now to discuss only
matters that still needed perfecting.
Why do we worry most about the men's outward appearance, the neatness
of the paths in the compound, bright tents with portraits of Lenin and
quotes from party congresses instead of the essence of the matter, wondered
the general.
However, despite knowing the deficiencies of the army, occasionally
criticizing them in his own mind or in a circle of very close friends, the
general had no intention - and he did not conceal this - of trying to right
any wrongs, stupidities and window-dressing. He hadn't worked his way up to
general only to wreck his career by an open display of dissatisfaction.
He criticized mentally, noted numerous lapses, and was proud that he,
unlike the aging generals back home, understood and was concerned by the
fact that not everything was ideal in the Soviet army. He comforted himself
with the hope that the time would come when he would climb a bit higher up
the hierarchical ladder, and then get down to the business of putting things
to rights.
In fact, though, the general contradicted his own thoughts on the spot,
has there ever been a time when EVERYTHING we had was ideal? Is it possible
to correct EVERYTHING? That takes a great deal of time and effort. If I
were, say, head of the Chief Political Directorate, maybe I could try to
improve EVERYTHING, or at least a great deal. And anyway, not EVERYTHING is
all that bad even now.
The officers at the command post looked like fantastic spotted
creatures flecked by rings of sunlight under the canopy of the camouflage
netting. Sorokin was told that the column from Kabul was making good time,
more than twenty vehicles had broken down on the way, two soldiers died in
an accident - their APC fell into a precipice - and a major was almost
crushed by two APCs when he stood smoking between them: he had been taken to
hospital in a critical condition. It was also reported that the main force
was expected to arrive by evening.
There were still a few days to go before the operation: all the forces
committed to it had to be brought up, concentrated in the necessary areas
according to the approved plans, regrouped if need be, reconnaissance data
had to be studied and analyzed, the area had to be worked over politically
and when the critical mass was ready, when all was set out like pieces on a
chess-board, then the game could begin.
The "crocodiles" rose above the hillocks, slicing the grayish-blue
morning air with their blades, dropped altitude closer to the road along
which army vehicles wove like a steel streamlet; then, some three kilometers
further, the choppers veered to the left, and flying almost at zero
altitude, examined a ruined village by the road, sniffing it out as if it
were a rotting carcass in the heat, then slid like predators into the depths
of the valley.
Senior lieutenant Sharagin noticed them from afar, when he turned to
get some matches from the men; and while he tried to strike one, cupping his
hands around it against the wind, he noticed the choppers as he made the
first few drags. They were pretty sure of themselves, he thought, as he
watched them fly under the cover of the "blocks" on the sides of the road -
BMPs with guns aimed towards the mountains and soldiers who had dug in,
lying belly up, on their sides, on their stomachs. The choppers circled the
dead village and swooped away. Sharagin, who had automatically been watching
the walls and a stand of trees relaxed after the survey by the choppers and
looked ahead, over the column where it disappeared from sight in the
foothills.
... hostile soil, the territory of war...
He knew the spooks wouldn't dare attack the army on the march; a
solitary column - yes, a string of "fillers" - petrol tankers carrying fuel
to distant garrisons or a company hemmed in by mountains - that they'd go
for, but an army was more than they could handle. However, writing off the
possibility of danger would be wrong and criminal, and in any case, the
dangers were all very different in this war. If something happened to just
one of the men, it would be a mote of dust for the army, a mark in the daily
tally of losses, but for Oleg it would be a real person.
Lots of men died or got hurt on any march, not necessarily through
being shot or ambushed, but through their own carelessness or stupidity.
Larger-bodied choppers with windows - Mi-8s - followed the "crocodiles"
as though trying to catch up with them, looking for all the world like
tadpoles.
"Probably delivering the brass, hey comrade senior lieutenant?" asked
private Sychev for the sake of saying something, following the choppers with
his eyes. Actually, he did not so much say as shout in order that the
commander could hear him through the noise of engines and the earphones. He
crouched on the tower of the BMP with the cannon protruding between his
legs, which gave him the appearance of a sexual giant. "Maybe they've got
the commander of the division on board?"
"In that case, snap to attention and salute him, Sychev," replied
Sharagin ironically. "And stay that way until we arrive. You just might get
a medal."
"Yeah, the Order of saint Fucker with a twirl on the back," guffawed
junior sergeant Myshkovsky.
... jokers! A year ago they were all milksops - was a time when I
called their whole contingent that, yet now they're grandpas: Myshak, Sych,
Chiri-they've grown, straightened their backs, matured, the sons of bitches,
they've become the backbone of my army - a soldier remains blinkered only
until his first taste of combat, then he starts to think about how to
survive, starts using his head and making the little gray cells do their
job....
It was expected that their division commander would arrive to watch how
the paratroops battalions would move out of Kabul. That was why that morning
the paratroopers went out as if on parade, cleaning, tidying and enhancing
themselves until the last minute. They traveled the first kilometers feeling
tense - expecting the division commander, although as soon as the main army
column spread out on the road behind the large, dusty field after the
infectious diseases hospital, all tidiness vanished in the fumes and dust
that swirled around the vehicles and settled on freshly-laundered uniforms,
columns and undershirts.
The Soviet warriors saddled their armored steeds, and moved out;
motorized infantry and paratroops, artillery and communications, sappers and
medics; all were clad differently: faded camouflage fatigues, mountain
outfits, "sands", tattered camouflage cloaks. Regulation footwear mingled
with brown "trophy" spook boots, and a scattering of "Kimry," the best of
the worst sneakers created towards the end of the century by domestic
industry.
Engines roared into life, the column moved forward, the wind whipped
the men's faces. A long journey faced the men on the armor and in the trucks
with bulletproof vests draped over their windows. All that day, they would
be swallowing greasy diesel fumes and dust whipped up by the passage of the
first vehicles, covering them from head to foot and getting into clothes and
eyes.
Earlier on, recalled Sharagin, the regimental leadership fussed
unnecessarily, afraid that the division commander would descend with a
lightning inspection on the eve of the pullout. Because of this, all the
preparations for the operation were nervous, tense, and all directives,
orders and comments were accompanied by shouts and fists, which would
supposedly teach sloppy youngsters, toughen up and discipline lazy soldiers.
The fist of the grandpas was pitiless, felling and numbing, that of the
commanders - hard, sharp and usually timely and fair.
Preparations for the operation began well in advance. The orders came a
week earlier, but even so it had been clear that fighting would soon be
inevitable, that an operation against the spooks was being planned. Everyone
in the regiment, from the commander to the waitresses in the mess hall
talked about it. Even the shopkeepers in Kabul, warming food on primus
stoves, would ask shopping officers for how long they would be going into
the mountains, and wished them well, expressing sympathy. The transports
stood ready, patched up as much as possible, weapons had been cleaned at
least sixteen times, ammunition was loaded and political instruction carried
out. The officers, who traditionally "wet the head" of forthcoming combat
operations had recovered from their hangovers; the men had stocked up on
cookies, juices and jam from the regimental commissary and stolen bread and
sandwich spread from the kitchen or the commissary, depending on who had
friends where; they had already secreted sacks of potatoes, written off and
stolen spare parts and anything else that wasn't nailed down for exchange or
sale to the Afghans - a small but appreciated bit of extra cash.
It would be nice to get a bit of sleep and rest before going out on
combat mission, but no: instead of that, you have the officers making you
run around. Darkness outside, the stars are still bright, then the alarm
sounds and the regiment has to leap to its feet. The men rush out in full
kit, scramble into the vehicles, then sit there like idiots for one hour,
two: during the day the sun melts the asphalt - the company commander
decided that it was necessary to hold a drill session: "Le-- -- e-f' face!
Left! Left! Left, right, left! Start singing!"
Those new to the war - privates or fresh lieutenants - find it hard to
understand why this stupid square-bashing is required. You'd think they
weren't in Afghanistan but some showcase garrison in the Union, as though
they weren't going into combat in a day or two, but simply had to drive
"boxes" through Red Square.
It is no secret that the commander determines what one's service shall
be like. If the commander's a fool, then his foolishness will affect the