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© Copyright Mikhail Evstafiev
© Translated by Mikhail Evstafiev and Alyona Kozhevnikova
Email: photoobraz@hotmail.com
WWW: http://artofwar.ru/e/ewstafxew_mihail_aleksandrowich/
Date: 22 Feb 2002
Author's guestbook
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Mikhail Evstafiev graduated from the Moscow State University in 1985 with a
Master's degree in International Journalism, worked for two years as a
reporter for a news agency before volunteering to serve in Afghanistan.
During his two-year tour of duty in Afghanistan=he took part in combat
operations, worked as editor of a joint Soviet-Afghan radio station and
wrote for various Soviet magazines. He=spent as much time amongst the
'grunts' of war, out in the firing line, as with the generals. Besides
Afghanistan, he worked in different war zones including Bosnia, Tajikistan,
Nagorny-Karabakh, Georgia, Trans-Dniestria and Chechnya, covered the
break-up of he Soviet Union and two coup attempts in Moscow.
His work has been published in several books.
Because sentence against an evil work is not executed
speedily, therefor the heart of the sons of men is fully
set in them to do evil.
Ecclesiastes, 8:11
For God shall bring every work into judgment, with
every secret thing, whether it be good or it be evil.
Ecclesiastes, 12:14
Head muffled in a blanket, Sayeed Mohammed shivered in the snow,
touched his frostbitten feet with frozen fingers and whined like a forlorn
pup. It had been several days since he left the bomb-devastated village. It
was amazing that he was still alive, that he had not frozen to death during
the past night, which had been a particularly cold one. It must be the will
of Allah!
His cracked lips whispered: "In the name of Allah the merciful and
charitable. The "Lion of Panjsher", the wise Ahmad Shah Massoud has been
right, you should never believe the shuravi. The Russians had promised to
leave Afghanistan for good. Ahmad Shah opened the road to the north, go
ahead, "buru bahai!" Go back to where you came from! The mujaheddin won't
fire a single shot! Not touch a single infidel. Then why had the Russians
proceeded to bomb and shell poor Afghanistan after that? Why had they killed
so many people for nothing?
Sayeed had been caught by the air strike, too, he had not stayed with
his unit but headed for his native village to visit his family.
Finally he saw two kerosene lamps. Two specks of light. The one to the
left shone through the window of their house. The other one was their
neighbor's. Other families did not waste money on kerosene. He had lain
unconscious the whole night. And just as well that he did not regain his
senses earlier. If he had, he would have heard the cries and moans under the
ruined houses, including the voice of his youngest sister, crushed by clay
and rocks. When he came to, a noise like a roaring mountain torrent filled
his ears and its icy water crackled and rang, drowning out weak, dying human
voices. Semi-conscious and slightly disoriented, he remained alone with the
mountains and clouds that flowed across the sky like that phantom river, not
knowing what had happened to the village.
By evening, the moans ceased. There was no need to bury anyone. The
Russians had buried them all. Alive. Unsteady on his legs, Sayeed wandered
around the village which had been transformed into a large graveyard, hoping
at first to find at least someone alive, to dig them out, save them.
Useless. He recalled whose house had stood where, then sat for a long time
by the spot where his family had lived, crying beside the smoldering
timbers, which looked like small islands in the surrounding snow. There was
no sense in staying in the ruined village any longer.
Sayeed picked up a frozen flatcake, bit off a piece leaving the rest
for later, and hobbled down the beaten path, which led to the road. He
turned around and looked. The first time he had left here, people had stood
outside houses which were built in ascending tiers on the mountain slope,
children were on the flat roofs, all of them watching him, seeing him off to
war. Nobody would come looking for him. Nobody would even remember him. In
any case, who would believe that anybody could have survived such a terrible
scourging? Even the mountains and cliffs of Afghanistan cannot always
withstand such onslaught but crumble, fall, and shudder from the bombs
raining from the skies! What chance for mere mortals? And who would think
that the air strike would catch Sayeed Mohammed on the approach to the
village, that the shockwave would hurl the youth back some twenty meters and
that he would fall into a deep snowdrift, missing the sharp rocks? The
Kalashnikov and a full magazine were undamaged, Allah be praised. But Sayeed
did not dare to shoot himself. He hoped for a miracle. He hoped to encounter
some mujaheddin, get to a village or, should the worst come to the worst,
find some shuravi and attack them in order to avenge his family. But where
were they now, those Russians? His feet would not obey him, Sayeed fell many
times, crawled in the snow. He would freeze to death in the mountains and
his clan would come to an end, unavenged. What a stupid death. Why had he
not fallen in the last battle, why had he not gone straight to Paradise?
Sayeed Mohammed is an upstanding Muslim, he obeys the Koran, he prays five
times a day, he fights against the infidels, he knows that a mujahideen has
nothing to fear, that the holy war - jihad - is a direct road to Paradise.
That is what his older brother Ali had always said.
Ali had come back from Pakistan a completely different person. No
longer an impoverished, cowering village lad in galoshes, but confident,
wearing leather shoes with laces, in new clothes, with a submachine gun, a
wad of afghanis and a string of lazuli worry-beads in his hands. Oh, those
beads! It seemed as though the smoothly polished mineral absorbed all the
blueness of the Afghan skies. Ali nibbled a sugar cube, sipped tea and
clicking the beads spoke about Pakistan, about the jihad, about Ahmad Shah
Massoud, about the bloody regime in Kabul, about the hated shuravi who
wanted to enslave Afghanistan.
In time, Ali headed a whole unit, he was respected and somewhat feared.
Ali had made a lot of trouble for the infidel before being killed, sent many
Russian soldiers to their death. Ali had died like a real hero, in battle.
He slipped away from the Russians, brought his squad out of encirclement and
even managed to send the Russians a last greeting from Allah by cutting off
a whole group and giving them one hell of a pounding. He would have killed
them all if Russian reinforcements had not arrived. Ali became a martyr, and
that meant his soul went straight to Paradise, easily and painlessly, not
like those of other people, it just broke away from his body and flew off,
and now he was there, above the leaden sky, where it is always warm, where
it never snows, where there is a bounty of fruits and flowers, where
everyone drinks wine and loves beautiful women. In Paradise, a Muslim is
allowed all that was forbidden on earth. And Sayeed Mohammed would follow
Ali, he would not live to see his fifteenth birthday.
War is good. What would life be without war? He would never see
anything except his native village, toil all day, be hungry and sick. The
war had brought Afghanistan much grief, but it also made Sayeed one of the
mujaheddin, a warrior of Allah! Now all that was in the past. ....
The submachine gun pained his shoulder. How can a child's hands manage
it! It is not easy to compete with adults. His bullets did not reach the
mark, fell into the dust. Shame! Shameful enough to bring tears. They would
all laugh at him. Was it possible that this time, too, he would not kill
anyone? There they are, Russian soldiers, so close! They aren't shooting
back any more. They're out of ammunition. They're retreating from the
village. The mujaheddin are shooting accurately from all sides. One down,
now another. The third would be dead any moment now, and that would be all,
the fun would be over. He must hurry! Sayeed Mohammed braced himself,
targeted the third shuravi, pulled the trigger and wounded him in the left
leg. Finally! Yes, it was his bullet that found the soldier. No doubt about
it! The soldier fell, looked back, got up and lurched away. At Ali's command
the mujaheddin ceased fire, leaving the soldier to Sayeed Mohammed. He's
your game! He won't get far. Finish him off! The mujaheddin rose to their
feet from concealment, squealing with delight like children. Isn't it fun to
shoot at a moving target! To kill one of the infidels is a sacred task
"Aim at his back," advised Ali. "Got him! Good lad!" It looked as
though the fleeing soldier had received an invisible whiplash across his
back. The next shot made the soldier clasp his right arm against his body,
the bullet must have gone clean through. Sayeed Mohammed aimed again and
again, firing one shot after another, the shuravi was a tough one, he simply
wouldn't die. Fell, got up, went on. Another bullet struck, the soldier kept
crawling, they'd got him, he was squirming in agony. The final shot, and it
was over, the soldier lay motionless. "Let's go!" cried Sayeed Mohammed,
eyes shining with elation, slung the rifle over his shoulder proudly and
marched obediently after his brother. The soldier lay on his stomach. Blood
flowed from his nostrils. His face, his curly black hair, his tanned skin
and blood-spattered sweatshirt were powdered with dust.
"You shot well," praised his brother and took the dead man's submachine
gun. Sayeed Mohammed saw the approving glances of the other mujaheddin. "Cut
off a finger," said his brother, handing him a big knife. "He's your first
shuravi."
Sayeed Mohammed walked around the dead soldier, squatted by his head,
lifted the limp left hand, spread out the fingers, chose the index as the
easiest to cut off, laid the knife against the center, pressed down and
sliced through skin. The tip of the knife sank into the ground. He didn't
have enough strength. Sayeed Mohammed pressed down again, harder, a bone
snapped ...
Fog descended on the mountain pass a blizzard began to blow. His
camel-hair hat and blanket were covered in snow. Snowflakes lay on his thick
dark brows and long eyelashes and on his barely visible first trace of a
mustache. In an hour or so the snow would bury him and he would have no
strength to withstand the cold. He would never get up again, he would soon
freeze completely, fall asleep, stop thinking and hoping for rescue, he was
already no longer remembering his family, his older brother. No, Ali would
always be beside him, he would wait for him, take him by the hand and lead
him into Paradise. He had always followed his older brother.
Another sound joined the wailing of the snowstorm. Fear held Sayeed
Mohammed rigid more than the cold and snow. A helicopter! Was it possible
that the Russians had returned to finish off those who had remained alive
after the bombing? Could they possibly know that he was still alive? How?
Why did the shuravi hate the Afghans so much? Why had they come to
Afghanistan? Why had they been killing innocent Afghan people for so many
years? He would never surrender, he knew what the Russians do with
prisoners!
...A few years ago Sayeed Mohammed had pulled his head between his
shoulders, like now, closed his eyes and shuddered at the growing sound of
approaching choppers. From a distance they had looked like a flock of black
birds, noisy, frightening and merciless to the mujaheddin. He prepared to
run and save himself, hide, dig in, disappear. Ali had taken his hand and
they hid in a dry watercourse. Peering out at the terrifying choppers that
filled the sky they saw, through a pair of binoculars, how the shuravi
landed behind the village, how they ran out and took up defensive positions.
The village elders approached the senior shuravi, a tall, heavily-built
and not very young general in camouflage uniform, which looked like the
green and brown patterns on the choppers. The elders behaved as if the
general were a king or God, bowing and scraping before him and, after
parlaying, surrendered the bodies of three Soviet advisors and the
mujaheddin who had killed them into the bargain. Everything had turned out
just as Ali predicted. Yet what else could they do? The shuravi had
threatened a storming bomb attack on the entire district otherwise.
"Look!" commanded Ali, and said the word that made all the mujaheddin
shudder: "Spetsnaz." Sayeed stared through the binoculars. The soldiers
looked like any other soldiers? Perhaps a bit more lithe and agile.
Certainly nothing ferocious. They had same assault rifles, the same light
brown hair. Why do the mujaheddin fear and hate this "Spetsnaz" so much?
While they waited for the general, the soldiers unbound the hands of one of
the mujaheddin and laid a loaded submachine gun before him.
"Pick it up, you bastard!"
Sayeed and his brother were too far away to hear what the Spetsnaz guy
was saying, and they would not have understood his foreign tongue even if
they had been closer. They saw only the officer's contemptuously twisted
mouth. He was lean, wearing sneakers, beige trousers and beige battle jacket
with sleeves rolled up and with tattoos on his forearms. He stepped back,
pointing at the submachine gun.
"I've only got a knife, and even that's not real." The Spetsnaz man
flexed his muscles, showing a Bowie knife tattooed on his skin. "Take it!"
He shoved the gun closer to the prisoner with his foot. "Shit yourself, eh?"
The Afghan crouched, his eyes fixed on the Kalashnikov. A last chance, he
had been given a last chance to fight back. He looked sideways at the
shuravi, baring uneven yellow teeth in a grin and then, when the officer
turned away casually, as though he had forgotten all about the weapon
offered to the prisoner and seemed to be more interested in the chopper
patrolling in circles overhead, the prisoner made his decision. But the men
in Spetsnaz are not stupid enough to let themselves be tricked by some dumb
Afghan peasant! The officer gave a satisfied snort when a soldier standing
ready at the Afghan's back brought his rifle butt down on the head of the
prisoner as he lunged forward.
"Thought you could escape, spook?" The officer flung himself toward the
Afghan who was struggling to his feet and knocked him out.
"Stop that!"
"He was trying to escape, comrade major," said the tattooed Russian,
justifying himself before a senior officer in dark glasses.
"Move out!"
The blades of the choppers sliced through the hot air, the choppers
rose one after another and flew off. Sayeed Mohammed and Ali got up, shook
themselves and, without a word, startled in unison when a figure of a man
detached itself from the chopper flying a little to the right, and fell to
earth like a stone...
A helicopter circled beside Sayeed Mohammed, frighteningly close. He
flung the blanket away, snapped off the safety catch. "There is no God but
Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet!" Here it was, the heaven-sent trial! A
chance to avenge his brother, his relatives, himself. The roar increased. It
seemed to him that everything around him shook, as though there were an
earthquake. The chopper had clearly gone off course, gotten lost, and was
searching and circling in the growing darkness. Obviously, the chopper
wanted to be saved, just like Sayeed Mohammed. The chopper flew toward him,
above him, to his right and to his left. If only it would come closer!
Sayeed Mohammed prayed that Allah should send the helicopter right at him!
Then he would not die alone, for nothing! He was ready for battle! He had a
trusty friend - the Kalashnikov. He would avenge his brother! Sayeed
Mohammed laid a frozen finger, like a hook, around the trigger, raised
himself a little and when something dark seemed to appear very close, and
that dark blob started to crawl over him like a monster wanting to swallow
the pitiful, freezing victim and he could see the blur of the pilot's face
through the glass canopy, he shuddered as the Kalashnikov released a string
of bullets and cried: "Allah akbar!!" rejoicing at his victory over the
Russians in the moment before death....
Planes appeared out of nowhere. They simply swelled like white drops in
the sky and slid down, like oblique streaks of rain on a window; and
probably because these planes were hurrying to land, afraid of being shot
down by an invisible but omnipresent enemy, in their haste they scattered
gleaming flares that sparkled like Bengal lights and burned out quickly,
leaving a brief reminder of themselves as white trails of smoke above Kabul.
The soldiers messing around in the repair park, and those who were
cleaning their weapons and enjoying the warm sun bared to the waist or in
undershirts, and those who were drilling in the square, and those who were
washing down military vehicles looked up from time to time, expecting to see
these heavy transport planes, nicknamed "cattle carriers"; they waited for
them the way people wait for a ship from the mainland, which they are
unlikely to board this time, but catch at least a distant glimpse of the
ship docking, and indulge in unlimited dreams.
The early morning arrival of the IL-76s had become a daily routine. The
passage of these airborne mediators between the USSR and Afghanistan could
be seen from practically every Soviet garrison and, if the flights were
canceled for some reason , everyone felt sad and deprived, as though maybe,
back there in the Motherland, the "limited contingent" sent to Afghanistan
had been forgotten.
Those who had carried out a long tour of duty watched the planes in
anticipation of their imminent demobilization, and dreamed up sweet
fantasies of civilian life. Those only half way through their service would
sigh, all they could hope for was a letter from home. Those who were new in
the service still had vivid memories of the flight in the belly of such a
transport aircraft and that awful feeling of impending doom when the plane,
packed with people like brainless cattle, exhausted by the night-time
flight, indefinite lengthy delays, customs control and border crossing had
just begun to catnap when they were snapped back into awareness, barely an
hour after takeoff, by the steep plunge of the plane from a height of some
seven thousand or more meters, as if it had hit a sudden air-pocket or had
been struck by an enemy rocket, a "Stinger" missile or some such. In fact
the plane, shooting out dozens of heat emanating decoy targets, was making a
steep, spiraling descent in order to land.
When the plane taxied down the landing strip, the ramp would open,
letting in a rush of unfamiliar Afghan mountain air and the sight of an
alien, and therefore alarming, mountainous landscape. From this moment on,
the countdown began, measuring the fated time in Afghanistan for the new
arrivals, a time which, for some, meant the last months of their life.
The newly-arrived soldiers, officers and non-coms, including women,
obviously felt awkward, and stared around in barely concealed curiosity and
unease, squinting in the strong mountain sunshine. Those who were returning
from leave, or military business, or medical treatment could be spotted
immediately: they knew why they had come here and which way to head from the
landing strip. They were returning to a place that had become familiar,
home. The soldiers arriving at the Kabul airdrome had identical haircuts,
were equally puzzled, equally without rights, wearing identical uniforms,
and depersonalized by this sameness; in long, often badly fitting
greatcoats, heavy, uncomfortable "shit-squasher" boots" and similar
kit-bags, they all looked the same from a distance. They were delivered here
like ammunition: like little missiles in the guise of soldiers if you did
not look too closely, expendable material, which differed only in size and
caliber.
Hardly anyone throughout the breadth of the great and mighty Soviet
Union took the lives of the soldiers, officers, non-coms, lieutenants, first
lieutenants and captains seriously. Insignificant units of humanity, of whom
there was still an endless supply! So there was nothing to feel sorry about.
The soldiers arriving in Kabul were faceless, just like thousands of
other young men dragged in for two years, torn out of their usual lives in
order to learn suffering, patience and survival until such time as the
Motherland would consider that they had paid in full for the care and happy
childhood she had lavished on them, and sent them replacements which had
grown up in the meantime.
"They're flying, comrade senior lieutenant. Two flights have landed,"
reported junior sergeant Titov to the officer who lay on his bunk in
hopeless and dreary anticipation of his replacement's arrival. Dressed
correctly in uniform, he was watching the progress of the flies crawling on
the ceiling and turned an irritated eye on his junior.
"So what, Titov?"
"I wouldn't know, comrade senior lieutenant..."
"I said, so what that they're flying?"
"...you told me to report when any planes land ... So I'm reporting..."
"What does that tone of voice mean? Hey? Bloody homo stallion! " The
officer turned his head and stared Titov in the face. "Who the hell do you
think you're talking to? Dismissed, Titov! Close the door!"
"What?"
"Close the door on your way out! And don't bother me again! Straighten
up, you lump! Wake me only for two reasons: when my replacement arrives, or
if the Soviet forces pull out of Afghanistan! Got that?"
"Yessir."
"Get lost!"
Titov, a hulk far superior in strength and size than the officer, bent
obediently, like a lackey reprimanded by a demanding master and backed out
of the room. Knowing the senior lieutenant's fiery temper, and having had
his liver and kidneys bashed, like all the other soldiers, when the
lieutenant was in a bad mood for some reason or no reason at all, he decided
that discretion was better than pre-demobilization impudence. He closed the
door quietly behind him, straightened his shoulders and, like a werewolf
under a full moon, immediately became a merciless "grandpa" the severe boss
of the barracks.
Venting his spleen for the humiliation he had just endured - the
offensive words had carried clearly to the young soldiers on duty, Titov
kicked the slow and inefficient private Myshkovsky, who was swabbing the
floor with a mop:
"You fucking leaky rubber! When were you supposed to finish cleaning?!"
The pail fell over with a clatter and murky water spread in a pool on
the plywood floor of the barracks.
"I'll make you lick the latrines clean with your tongue, Myshara!
Useless turd!" yelled Titov at the top of his voice, so that everyone would
hear.
"Junior sergeant Titov!" The commander's voice cut across Titov's
railing.
"Do you understand, worm?" continued Titov regardless. "Down on the
ground and do ten pushups! Fast! Fast! I'm warning you, Myshara!" He pressed
the soldier's head down with his boot, and added in a slightly lower voice:
"I'll finish you off!"
"!" came the commander's voice again..
"What's the MPF, Myshara?" Titov pressed own even harder with his boot.
"The Military Paratroop Forces ..."
"The MPF are the shield of the Motherland, greenhorn! And you don't
deserve to be a rivet in that shield! "
Myshkovsky continued to lie prone in fear. The boots of the
all-powerful "grandpa" stamped off in the direction of the common room.
"Junior sergeant Titov reporting as ordered" he stated with barely
concealed insolence, addressing lieutenant Sharagin, who was having his head
shaved bald. Legs crossed, he sat immobile on a small bedside chest. His
shoulders were draped with a bedsheet bearing the stamp of the Ministry of
Defense - a purple star. A uniform with the red armband of the officer
responsible for the company lay on a nearby shelf.
Lieutenant Sharagin was studying his new appearance in a small, cracked
mirror. The mirror reflected gray-blue eyes, a clean-shaven chin with a
fresh razor nick, a straight nose, a thick mustache. There were only a few
patches of hair remaining on his head to be scraped off by the barber's
blade wielded by sergeant Panasyuk. The white skin exposed was in sharp
contrast with the deep mountain tan and seemed to be stretched tightly over
his cranium, like the skin of a drum.
That was exactly how Sharagin wanted to see himself - with a shaved
head.
Mother Nature had slacked a little when working on the lieutenant's
face, giving him unremarkable, standard features, devoid of any
individuality, a kind of Russian universality.
Still watching his own reflection, Sharagin maintained a theatrical
pause before asking casually:
"What's with senior lieutenant Chistyakov?"
Titov stood behind him, leaning against the door frame and twirling a
bunch of keys on a chain:
"The comrade senior lieutenant ordered that nobody should wake him."
"We're just about done," said the sergeant who was carrying out the
responsible duty of barber.
"What a waste of talent!" said Titov, poking fun at his comrade.
"Instead of exposing your ass to enemy fire, you would have been better off
as company barber, eh Panas?"
"Fuck off, Tit! I apologize for the bad language, comrade lieutenant,
but Tit doesn't understand anything else, otherwise he'll fucking drive you
into the ground, the way Pol Pot did with Kampuchea. Ha, ha, ha!..."
"Pay attention, comrade sergeant," snapped lieutenant Sharagin, "Be
careful when you're shaving your commanding officer!"
Unlike the large, dull and brutish junior sergeant Titov, Sharagin
detected traces of humanity in Panasyuk, which had not all faded during his
term of service. Panasyuk was from the Altai region, skinny as a Belorussian
peasant , tall as a flagpole, wiry and hardy. Panasyuk liked to joke, smoked
like a chimney, suffered paroxysms of smoker's cough, swore after every
second word, and when he laughed, deep and untimely wrinkles appeared on his
forehead and under his eyes. He usually spoke in a long, drawling voice,
like a Catholic priest's intonation: "Whatcha worrying for, comrade
lieutenant? Leave it to me - everything'll be hunky-dory."
"Somebody cleaned out the food store last night," said Sharagin,
catching Titov's shifty eyes in the mirror. "It better not be anyone from
our company - I'll beat their brains out!"
"Everyone was asleep last night, comrade lieutenant, Titov responded
earnestly.
Sergeant Panasyuk confirmed that it wasn't anyone from their company,
and wiped Sharagin's neck with a thin cotton towel:
"Done!"
Another thing lieutenant Sharagin appreciated in Panasyuk was that
although the sergeant was hard on the men, he never mocked them
deliberately, did not turn their service into a nightmare and, most
importantly, restrained the other "grandpas" to the best of his ability.
... especially louts like Titov...
thought Sharagin. "Initiation" rites such as, for instance,
"registration" during which the new recruits were beaten on their bare
backsides with leather slippers so hard that the next day they were unable
to sit down and only rub their black-and-blue buttocks, were held in deepest
secrecy. This was part of the unspoken soldiers' ritual, and with all the
will in the world the commanding officers would not be able to spot or
prevent it. So Sharagin did not waste any regrets on that score. It was
beyond his power to break the long-standing
"youth-"finch"-"dipper"-"grandpa" tradition of relations in the ranks. There
was no changing the unchangeable.
Unreasoning impulsive cruelty, anger alongside a childish naivete,
sentimentality, unexpected kindness, pity, valor, sympathy which turns
easily into hatred (though not for long) - all these traits existed side by
side, from times immemorial, in officers and soldiers of the Russian army
and, probably, any Russian man.
"Mother fuckers!" cried lieutenant Chistyakov suddenly in ringing
tones.
This cry of the officer's heart had resounded regularly over the past
few weeks, a heart that was longing for home, and was addressed to everyone
at large: the army, Afghanistan, and soldiers on duty.
Junior sergeant Titov went off and hid in the store-room just in case.
Titov knew that if Chistyakov had left his room and was in a foul mood, it
was better to stay out of his way.
"Shaved your head, eh? Good for you!" Chistyakov ran a hand over his
friend's smooth skull.
"Well, what do you think?" asked Sharagin, pleased with his new look.
"Fine, we've been through that. Get the fuck out of here!" he yelled at
a soldier who had looked into the room. "Can't stand the sight of their
stupid mugs! I don't envy you! Our "graduates" are real tigers, of course,
but when they're gone, who'll we have left to fight with? Am I right,
Panasyuk?" asked the senior lieutenant turning suddenly and for no real
reason , but just (as he liked to say) to keep everyone on their toes,
punched Panasyuk hard in the stomach.
Panasyuk doubled over, gasping with pain:
"Y...y...you're right about them being tigers, comrade senior
lieutenant," he squeezed out after a moment's pause while his head cleared.
He smiled waveringly at Chistyakov, appreciating the compliment.
The silence of the barracks was shattered by the arrival of a horde of
the men, who filled the air with stamping, swearing, laughter and threats:
"Where d'you think you're putting that rifle, asshole!"
"What are you standing there for, move over!"
"...so what, a rifle..."
"Here, take mine and put it there too, I'm off to wash..."
"Put it there, stupid! Won't you morons ever learn!..."
"Sych! Look how you've made up my bunk!"
"......"
"Cat got your tongue?"
"I'll remake it..."
"Lazy sonofabitch! See my fist? What's it smell of? Your death, that's
what..."
"....."
"Company ten-hut!" yelled the soldier on barracks duty, saluting the
company captain, who had just entered. "Ready to report!"
"At ease," responded the lanky captain leisurely and sniffed loudly.
"Thirty degrees outside, and I've caught a cold! Who'd believe it?"
"It's the air-conditioning, captain," interjected senior warrant
officer Pashkov. He walked behind captain Morgultsev.
"What's that got to do with it?" retorted Morgultsev, pulling out a
handkerchief and blowing his nose loudly.
"Those air conditioners can kill you. They'll give you pneumonia before
you know it. What's so funny? Nothing. Air conditioners are death to your
lungs."
"You'd die even faster here without the conditioners!" argued
Chistyakov.
"My God!" exclaimed Morgultsev, spotting the clean-shaven head of the
platoon leader. "The appearance of Taras Bulba to the people! No other way
to describe it."
"Yakshi Montana!" cried Pashkov, flinging up his arms.
Sharagin was somewhat embarrassed, scratched his bald pate, donned his
cap and reported with all due ceremony:
"Comrade captain! Nothing to report in your absence!"
"Shitheads! Hell!" growled the captain, and pronounced one of his
carefully thought out in advance quips: "The human body needs a good
shake-up sometimes. On that day, I don't drink..."
"Don't worry," Chistyakov winked at Sharagin. "He's been to HQ.
Bogdanov probably tore a strip off him."
Senior lieutenant Nemilov had no gift for retelling political studies
materials in his own words. He droned out passages he had underlined in
various pamphlets or the "Armed Forces Communist" magazine. He was easily
distracted if, for example, he noticed that someone was not wearing a
Komsomol badge. It would have been naive to expect that any of the men would
remember anything out of what they heard during political studies, so
Nemilov made them write out certain sentences he dictated. Should there be a
sudden inspection, every soldier had a notebook with suitable entries.
"Now! Write this down: the democratic Republic of Afghanistan."
"Sounds familiar," sniggered PFC Prokhorov. "I'm sure I've heard that
somewhere before."
"Never mind clowning! You don't know the history of the country you're
in. Right! The official languages are Pashtu and Dari. The population
numbers ...who the hell knows what their population is now? Don't write that
down!!! And now - a bit of history. Write this: Britain's attempts to
subjugate Afghanistan in the 19th century failed. Due to the support granted
by Soviet Russia, the next Anglo-Afghan war in May-June 1919 ended with
victory for Afghanistan. In 1919..."
"What year?"
"For the benefits of the morons in this room, I repeat: in 1919,
Afghanistan declared independence. Now...no, you don't need this..." Nemilov
turned a page. "Here we are: the USSR and Afghanistan have been bound by
ties of friendship for a very long time. After the April 1978 revolution,
these ties have become truly fraternal and an example of revolutionary
solidarity. On the basis of the Agreement of Friendship, Good-neighborliness
and Co-operation, the government of Afghanistan has addressed numerous
appeals for military aid to the USSR. The government of the USSR decided to
offer such assistance and sent the "Limited Contingent of Soviet Forces" to
help the fledgling republic defend itself against the forces of global
imperialism and domestic reactionary circles. New paragraph! Soviet soldiers
have proved themselves true friends of the Afghan people and carry out their
international duty in Afghanistan with honor. New paragraph! The April
revolution was a turning point in Afghanistan's development, the outcome of
many centuries of struggle against ignorance, poverty, repression and for
the triumph of justice. Panasyuk, why aren't you writing?"
In fact, the sergeant had started on a letter home, but after the first
two sentences ("How are you all? I'm fine") had run out of ideas and sat
staring at a Lenin quote on the wall which asserted that a revolution is
worthy only if it can defend itself. Even an idiot knows that, thought
Panasyuk and cast an oblique glance at the "iconostasis" of the Politburo
members. The Lenin Room, existed in every subdivision and its walls were
covered, church-like, with images of the most celebrated party-angels beside
the "holy trinity" of Marx, Engels and Lenin. The men were supposed to come
here in their free time - to play chess, write home, watch television, all
under the vigilant gaze of the leaders of the world's proletariat.
"Panasyuk!"
"I'm thinking, comrade senior lieutenant."
"You're not here to think, Panasyuk! You're here to listen and write
down!"
"Yessir!" Inspiration visited the sergeant briefly once more and he
added another two lines to his missive: "It's very warm here. Summer will be
coming soon."
"Experience has shown - don't write this down! - " continued Nemilov,
"that Afghan citizens often ask Soviet soldiers to tell them about the USSR,
how Soviet people live, the history of the revolutionary struggle of the
USSR. Sychev! I said don't write this down! Are you deaf?"
Private Sychev, looking hunted, pulled his head into his shoulders.
"Nobody's ever asked me," drawled Prokhorov provocatively.
"They will, Prokhorov, they will!"
"So how the hell will I know what they want if I don't understand their
lingo?"
"You will! Through an interpreter..." Nemilov broke off. There was no
point in responding to stupid questions. They were just playing for time.
"You must always be prepared to converse with our Afghan comrades."
"They should all be shot, that's what! They're all spooks!" burst out
Panasyuk. What the shit do we need to talk to them for?!"
"As you were! Resume writing! Without Soviet aid, the forces of
imperialism and internal counter-revolution would have stifled the April
revolution..."
Junior sergeant Titov rapped on the glass door.
"Comrade senior lieutenant?"
"What?"
"Two men needed for kitchen duty..."
"Take them and get out! ...Now, where were we? " Nemilov opened the
'Memorandum for the Soviet Soldier-Internationalist.' Write this down! The
Afghan people are naturally trusting, receptive of new information, have a
fine sense of good and evil." A wave of laughter rolled through the room.
"That's enough of that! In particular, the Afghans appreciate courtesy
toward children, women and old people. That's very important! While in the
DRA, observe all customary Soviet moral values, manners and laws, show
tolerance of the customs and mores of the Afghans. Write it down! Write it
down!!! Always be friendly, humane fair and honorable in your dealings with
the workers of Afghanistan."
The men wrote laboriously, with numerous spelling mistakes, missing out
entire sentences. The "grandpas" only pretended to write.
"Chirikov, I want all that in my notebook by tomorrow morning," said
PFC Prokhorov, busily ruling up a sheet of paper to play "Battleships."
"Don't write just yet! I'll tell you when to write! You all have to be
able to give specific examples to illustrate the honorable behavior of
Soviet soldiers towards the local population. Who can name a few examples?
Nobody! Wonderful! You should read the newspapers. Why do we keep files of
them in this room? So that brainless idiots like you should read them,
that's why! Everyone's got to know at least two examples for next time. I'll
be testing you!"
"He who eats meat, suffers frequent colds," pronounced warrant officer
Pashkov with a sly look in Sharagin's direction. "If a man eats meat, then
something starts to stir during the night, rises up and lifts the blanket,
bares his legs, and all the time the air conditioner is pumping out cold air
- that's where colds come from."
Sharagin laughed good-naturedly.
Senior Lieutenant Chistyakov grabbed a parachute canopy out of the
cupboard in the officers' room and shoved it into a bag. He had taken to
warming himself in the sun at this time of day behind the huts, well out of
sight of the senior staff.
"Line up!" hollered the soldier on duty, for all the world like a
village rooster.
"Listen up, rooster face!" Chistyakov dragged the soldier off his stool
and clamped a hand around his throat: "Why are you yelling in my ear?! I'm
enjoying my well-earned rest. Got that? Don't bother me with trifles.
Anything important happens, lieutenant Sharagin will know where to find me."
With the coming of the hot weather, the company was hit by diarrhea,
everyone running to the can day and night. The path leading from the camp to
the latrines was trodden hard as asphalt. Every half hour or less, someone
would race from the command barracks to the latrine like a bat out of hell.
The rookies, more seasoned soldiers and the grandpas were reduced to a
common level by their plight as they sat side by side in the latrine.
There were not enough newspapers. The bound volume of "Red Star"
disappeared from the Lenin Room. Nemilov was furious, branding the unknown
thieves saboteurs, threatened an investigation by the Third Section but
removed the bound volume of "Pravda" just in case. The Political Officer was
known for his fastidiousness, washed his hands about seventeen and a half
times a day, tried not to touch anything. His thin, pale lips twisted in
disgust at the sight of the diarrhea-drained soldiers, his face mirrored
distaste toward the illnesses which broke out in the company, his
evenly-parted hair, clean fingernails and flawlessly white collars spoke
eloquently of his disapproval of the common soldiers and certain
non-too-clean officers.
Formerly tanned lads, bursting with rude health would quickly become
listless, thin, their faces a greenish hue when they succumbed to amebic
dysentery or some other local bug. They lost weight visibly, dehydrated by
the dysentery.
Reveille-toilet-physical
exercises-toilet-breakfast-toilet-lineup-toilet-political
studies-toilet-weapons
cleaning-toilet-lunch-toilet-duties-toilet-dinner-toilet-lights out - toilet
round the clock kept everyone chained to the vicinity of the latrine, even
the sick did not venture from this vital object to a distance from which it
would not be possible to reach the latrine faster than a spook's bullet.
The troops forgot everything on earth, took no pleasure in anything.
Even the grandpas were so exhausted by constant "shit hemorrhages" that they
stopped harassing the rookies. Junior sergeant Titov, who liked to pump
lead, flexing his ready for demobilization biceps and triceps, and
gunlayer-operator PFC Prokhorov - a bark and troublemaker, and sergeant
Panasyuk, spent their days sitting glumly in the smoking room, because it
was closest to the latrine. All in all, though, suffering diarrhea was
preferable to turning yellow and being shunted off to hospital with
hepatitis.
The only officers in the company who did not catch the bug were
Chistyakov and Morgultsev. Zhenka was certain that God was looking after him
and keeping him safe from illness and death in battle, because he had been
carrying a small icon in his pocket for two years now. His mother had
sneaked the icon into his case just before he left home. Zhenka discovered
the icon en route, did not throw it away but secreted it just in case, with
his documents, and thus managed to carry it through customs and across the
border unnoticed. Nemilov once caught Zhenka with the icon, read him a
homily, but refrained from reporting him. Actually, the God who was
supposedly looking after Zhenka slipped up once; Zhenka ate a jar of
home-made jam, sharing the same spoon with a KGB officer who hailed from the
same parts as he. The KGB man succumbed first, went all yellow, the
hepatitis gathered strength, and a week later Zhenka followed him into the
infectious diseases hospital. In fact, Zhenka was a dyed-in-the wool
atheist, and cursed by God and His Mother so frequently, that the ears of
the Holy Family must have burned so much it was a miracle that the wrath of
God did not descend on the senior lieutenant's unit.
Morgultsev, company captain, considered himself a total unbeliever. He
had never stepped across the threshold of a church and did not believe in
miracles. He kept himself safe with garlic. He would eat a whole head of
garlic before lunch. Zhenka had nothing against a bit of insurance on the
side through garlic, but that made forays into the goods depot a problem.
Zhenka went there whenever he could in order to entertain members of the
female sex in the Soviet Army. He would play the guitar and sing. Amorous
interludes would follow later. He would swear that this was true love, but
that he could not stay behind even for her, beautiful though she was. Before
going to sleep he would sigh: "A blonde....and not for money, but for real
love, with me..."
They never did find out who brought the infection into the company.
"The fuck you'll sort it out," said captain Morgultsev dourly,
sweepingly classifying the drooping "elephants" as malingerers.
Any commanding officer would be at his wits' end in such a situation.
Is this a company, or what? Are these paratroopers, or what? The troops were
issued tablets, some were packed off to hospital.
The strange appellation "elephants" caught on among the troops long ago
and for a rather unusual reason. It arose from their training in case of
chemical warfare, before Afghanistan. The officer would shout: "Masks!" and
the men would drag gas masks out of the green bags on their backs, shove
© Copyright Mikhail Evstafiev
© Translated by Mikhail Evstafiev and Alyona Kozhevnikova
Email: photoobraz@hotmail.com
WWW: http://artofwar.ru/e/ewstafxew_mihail_aleksandrowich/
Date: 22 Feb 2002
Author's guestbook
---------------------------------------------------------------
Mikhail Evstafiev graduated from the Moscow State University in 1985 with a
Master's degree in International Journalism, worked for two years as a
reporter for a news agency before volunteering to serve in Afghanistan.
During his two-year tour of duty in Afghanistan=he took part in combat
operations, worked as editor of a joint Soviet-Afghan radio station and
wrote for various Soviet magazines. He=spent as much time amongst the
'grunts' of war, out in the firing line, as with the generals. Besides
Afghanistan, he worked in different war zones including Bosnia, Tajikistan,
Nagorny-Karabakh, Georgia, Trans-Dniestria and Chechnya, covered the
break-up of he Soviet Union and two coup attempts in Moscow.
His work has been published in several books.
Because sentence against an evil work is not executed
speedily, therefor the heart of the sons of men is fully
set in them to do evil.
Ecclesiastes, 8:11
For God shall bring every work into judgment, with
every secret thing, whether it be good or it be evil.
Ecclesiastes, 12:14
Head muffled in a blanket, Sayeed Mohammed shivered in the snow,
touched his frostbitten feet with frozen fingers and whined like a forlorn
pup. It had been several days since he left the bomb-devastated village. It
was amazing that he was still alive, that he had not frozen to death during
the past night, which had been a particularly cold one. It must be the will
of Allah!
His cracked lips whispered: "In the name of Allah the merciful and
charitable. The "Lion of Panjsher", the wise Ahmad Shah Massoud has been
right, you should never believe the shuravi. The Russians had promised to
leave Afghanistan for good. Ahmad Shah opened the road to the north, go
ahead, "buru bahai!" Go back to where you came from! The mujaheddin won't
fire a single shot! Not touch a single infidel. Then why had the Russians
proceeded to bomb and shell poor Afghanistan after that? Why had they killed
so many people for nothing?
Sayeed had been caught by the air strike, too, he had not stayed with
his unit but headed for his native village to visit his family.
Finally he saw two kerosene lamps. Two specks of light. The one to the
left shone through the window of their house. The other one was their
neighbor's. Other families did not waste money on kerosene. He had lain
unconscious the whole night. And just as well that he did not regain his
senses earlier. If he had, he would have heard the cries and moans under the
ruined houses, including the voice of his youngest sister, crushed by clay
and rocks. When he came to, a noise like a roaring mountain torrent filled
his ears and its icy water crackled and rang, drowning out weak, dying human
voices. Semi-conscious and slightly disoriented, he remained alone with the
mountains and clouds that flowed across the sky like that phantom river, not
knowing what had happened to the village.
By evening, the moans ceased. There was no need to bury anyone. The
Russians had buried them all. Alive. Unsteady on his legs, Sayeed wandered
around the village which had been transformed into a large graveyard, hoping
at first to find at least someone alive, to dig them out, save them.
Useless. He recalled whose house had stood where, then sat for a long time
by the spot where his family had lived, crying beside the smoldering
timbers, which looked like small islands in the surrounding snow. There was
no sense in staying in the ruined village any longer.
Sayeed picked up a frozen flatcake, bit off a piece leaving the rest
for later, and hobbled down the beaten path, which led to the road. He
turned around and looked. The first time he had left here, people had stood
outside houses which were built in ascending tiers on the mountain slope,
children were on the flat roofs, all of them watching him, seeing him off to
war. Nobody would come looking for him. Nobody would even remember him. In
any case, who would believe that anybody could have survived such a terrible
scourging? Even the mountains and cliffs of Afghanistan cannot always
withstand such onslaught but crumble, fall, and shudder from the bombs
raining from the skies! What chance for mere mortals? And who would think
that the air strike would catch Sayeed Mohammed on the approach to the
village, that the shockwave would hurl the youth back some twenty meters and
that he would fall into a deep snowdrift, missing the sharp rocks? The
Kalashnikov and a full magazine were undamaged, Allah be praised. But Sayeed
did not dare to shoot himself. He hoped for a miracle. He hoped to encounter
some mujaheddin, get to a village or, should the worst come to the worst,
find some shuravi and attack them in order to avenge his family. But where
were they now, those Russians? His feet would not obey him, Sayeed fell many
times, crawled in the snow. He would freeze to death in the mountains and
his clan would come to an end, unavenged. What a stupid death. Why had he
not fallen in the last battle, why had he not gone straight to Paradise?
Sayeed Mohammed is an upstanding Muslim, he obeys the Koran, he prays five
times a day, he fights against the infidels, he knows that a mujahideen has
nothing to fear, that the holy war - jihad - is a direct road to Paradise.
That is what his older brother Ali had always said.
Ali had come back from Pakistan a completely different person. No
longer an impoverished, cowering village lad in galoshes, but confident,
wearing leather shoes with laces, in new clothes, with a submachine gun, a
wad of afghanis and a string of lazuli worry-beads in his hands. Oh, those
beads! It seemed as though the smoothly polished mineral absorbed all the
blueness of the Afghan skies. Ali nibbled a sugar cube, sipped tea and
clicking the beads spoke about Pakistan, about the jihad, about Ahmad Shah
Massoud, about the bloody regime in Kabul, about the hated shuravi who
wanted to enslave Afghanistan.
In time, Ali headed a whole unit, he was respected and somewhat feared.
Ali had made a lot of trouble for the infidel before being killed, sent many
Russian soldiers to their death. Ali had died like a real hero, in battle.
He slipped away from the Russians, brought his squad out of encirclement and
even managed to send the Russians a last greeting from Allah by cutting off
a whole group and giving them one hell of a pounding. He would have killed
them all if Russian reinforcements had not arrived. Ali became a martyr, and
that meant his soul went straight to Paradise, easily and painlessly, not
like those of other people, it just broke away from his body and flew off,
and now he was there, above the leaden sky, where it is always warm, where
it never snows, where there is a bounty of fruits and flowers, where
everyone drinks wine and loves beautiful women. In Paradise, a Muslim is
allowed all that was forbidden on earth. And Sayeed Mohammed would follow
Ali, he would not live to see his fifteenth birthday.
War is good. What would life be without war? He would never see
anything except his native village, toil all day, be hungry and sick. The
war had brought Afghanistan much grief, but it also made Sayeed one of the
mujaheddin, a warrior of Allah! Now all that was in the past. ....
The submachine gun pained his shoulder. How can a child's hands manage
it! It is not easy to compete with adults. His bullets did not reach the
mark, fell into the dust. Shame! Shameful enough to bring tears. They would
all laugh at him. Was it possible that this time, too, he would not kill
anyone? There they are, Russian soldiers, so close! They aren't shooting
back any more. They're out of ammunition. They're retreating from the
village. The mujaheddin are shooting accurately from all sides. One down,
now another. The third would be dead any moment now, and that would be all,
the fun would be over. He must hurry! Sayeed Mohammed braced himself,
targeted the third shuravi, pulled the trigger and wounded him in the left
leg. Finally! Yes, it was his bullet that found the soldier. No doubt about
it! The soldier fell, looked back, got up and lurched away. At Ali's command
the mujaheddin ceased fire, leaving the soldier to Sayeed Mohammed. He's
your game! He won't get far. Finish him off! The mujaheddin rose to their
feet from concealment, squealing with delight like children. Isn't it fun to
shoot at a moving target! To kill one of the infidels is a sacred task
"Aim at his back," advised Ali. "Got him! Good lad!" It looked as
though the fleeing soldier had received an invisible whiplash across his
back. The next shot made the soldier clasp his right arm against his body,
the bullet must have gone clean through. Sayeed Mohammed aimed again and
again, firing one shot after another, the shuravi was a tough one, he simply
wouldn't die. Fell, got up, went on. Another bullet struck, the soldier kept
crawling, they'd got him, he was squirming in agony. The final shot, and it
was over, the soldier lay motionless. "Let's go!" cried Sayeed Mohammed,
eyes shining with elation, slung the rifle over his shoulder proudly and
marched obediently after his brother. The soldier lay on his stomach. Blood
flowed from his nostrils. His face, his curly black hair, his tanned skin
and blood-spattered sweatshirt were powdered with dust.
"You shot well," praised his brother and took the dead man's submachine
gun. Sayeed Mohammed saw the approving glances of the other mujaheddin. "Cut
off a finger," said his brother, handing him a big knife. "He's your first
shuravi."
Sayeed Mohammed walked around the dead soldier, squatted by his head,
lifted the limp left hand, spread out the fingers, chose the index as the
easiest to cut off, laid the knife against the center, pressed down and
sliced through skin. The tip of the knife sank into the ground. He didn't
have enough strength. Sayeed Mohammed pressed down again, harder, a bone
snapped ...
Fog descended on the mountain pass a blizzard began to blow. His
camel-hair hat and blanket were covered in snow. Snowflakes lay on his thick
dark brows and long eyelashes and on his barely visible first trace of a
mustache. In an hour or so the snow would bury him and he would have no
strength to withstand the cold. He would never get up again, he would soon
freeze completely, fall asleep, stop thinking and hoping for rescue, he was
already no longer remembering his family, his older brother. No, Ali would
always be beside him, he would wait for him, take him by the hand and lead
him into Paradise. He had always followed his older brother.
Another sound joined the wailing of the snowstorm. Fear held Sayeed
Mohammed rigid more than the cold and snow. A helicopter! Was it possible
that the Russians had returned to finish off those who had remained alive
after the bombing? Could they possibly know that he was still alive? How?
Why did the shuravi hate the Afghans so much? Why had they come to
Afghanistan? Why had they been killing innocent Afghan people for so many
years? He would never surrender, he knew what the Russians do with
prisoners!
...A few years ago Sayeed Mohammed had pulled his head between his
shoulders, like now, closed his eyes and shuddered at the growing sound of
approaching choppers. From a distance they had looked like a flock of black
birds, noisy, frightening and merciless to the mujaheddin. He prepared to
run and save himself, hide, dig in, disappear. Ali had taken his hand and
they hid in a dry watercourse. Peering out at the terrifying choppers that
filled the sky they saw, through a pair of binoculars, how the shuravi
landed behind the village, how they ran out and took up defensive positions.
The village elders approached the senior shuravi, a tall, heavily-built
and not very young general in camouflage uniform, which looked like the
green and brown patterns on the choppers. The elders behaved as if the
general were a king or God, bowing and scraping before him and, after
parlaying, surrendered the bodies of three Soviet advisors and the
mujaheddin who had killed them into the bargain. Everything had turned out
just as Ali predicted. Yet what else could they do? The shuravi had
threatened a storming bomb attack on the entire district otherwise.
"Look!" commanded Ali, and said the word that made all the mujaheddin
shudder: "Spetsnaz." Sayeed stared through the binoculars. The soldiers
looked like any other soldiers? Perhaps a bit more lithe and agile.
Certainly nothing ferocious. They had same assault rifles, the same light
brown hair. Why do the mujaheddin fear and hate this "Spetsnaz" so much?
While they waited for the general, the soldiers unbound the hands of one of
the mujaheddin and laid a loaded submachine gun before him.
"Pick it up, you bastard!"
Sayeed and his brother were too far away to hear what the Spetsnaz guy
was saying, and they would not have understood his foreign tongue even if
they had been closer. They saw only the officer's contemptuously twisted
mouth. He was lean, wearing sneakers, beige trousers and beige battle jacket
with sleeves rolled up and with tattoos on his forearms. He stepped back,
pointing at the submachine gun.
"I've only got a knife, and even that's not real." The Spetsnaz man
flexed his muscles, showing a Bowie knife tattooed on his skin. "Take it!"
He shoved the gun closer to the prisoner with his foot. "Shit yourself, eh?"
The Afghan crouched, his eyes fixed on the Kalashnikov. A last chance, he
had been given a last chance to fight back. He looked sideways at the
shuravi, baring uneven yellow teeth in a grin and then, when the officer
turned away casually, as though he had forgotten all about the weapon
offered to the prisoner and seemed to be more interested in the chopper
patrolling in circles overhead, the prisoner made his decision. But the men
in Spetsnaz are not stupid enough to let themselves be tricked by some dumb
Afghan peasant! The officer gave a satisfied snort when a soldier standing
ready at the Afghan's back brought his rifle butt down on the head of the
prisoner as he lunged forward.
"Thought you could escape, spook?" The officer flung himself toward the
Afghan who was struggling to his feet and knocked him out.
"Stop that!"
"He was trying to escape, comrade major," said the tattooed Russian,
justifying himself before a senior officer in dark glasses.
"Move out!"
The blades of the choppers sliced through the hot air, the choppers
rose one after another and flew off. Sayeed Mohammed and Ali got up, shook
themselves and, without a word, startled in unison when a figure of a man
detached itself from the chopper flying a little to the right, and fell to
earth like a stone...
A helicopter circled beside Sayeed Mohammed, frighteningly close. He
flung the blanket away, snapped off the safety catch. "There is no God but
Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet!" Here it was, the heaven-sent trial! A
chance to avenge his brother, his relatives, himself. The roar increased. It
seemed to him that everything around him shook, as though there were an
earthquake. The chopper had clearly gone off course, gotten lost, and was
searching and circling in the growing darkness. Obviously, the chopper
wanted to be saved, just like Sayeed Mohammed. The chopper flew toward him,
above him, to his right and to his left. If only it would come closer!
Sayeed Mohammed prayed that Allah should send the helicopter right at him!
Then he would not die alone, for nothing! He was ready for battle! He had a
trusty friend - the Kalashnikov. He would avenge his brother! Sayeed
Mohammed laid a frozen finger, like a hook, around the trigger, raised
himself a little and when something dark seemed to appear very close, and
that dark blob started to crawl over him like a monster wanting to swallow
the pitiful, freezing victim and he could see the blur of the pilot's face
through the glass canopy, he shuddered as the Kalashnikov released a string
of bullets and cried: "Allah akbar!!" rejoicing at his victory over the
Russians in the moment before death....
Planes appeared out of nowhere. They simply swelled like white drops in
the sky and slid down, like oblique streaks of rain on a window; and
probably because these planes were hurrying to land, afraid of being shot
down by an invisible but omnipresent enemy, in their haste they scattered
gleaming flares that sparkled like Bengal lights and burned out quickly,
leaving a brief reminder of themselves as white trails of smoke above Kabul.
The soldiers messing around in the repair park, and those who were
cleaning their weapons and enjoying the warm sun bared to the waist or in
undershirts, and those who were drilling in the square, and those who were
washing down military vehicles looked up from time to time, expecting to see
these heavy transport planes, nicknamed "cattle carriers"; they waited for
them the way people wait for a ship from the mainland, which they are
unlikely to board this time, but catch at least a distant glimpse of the
ship docking, and indulge in unlimited dreams.
The early morning arrival of the IL-76s had become a daily routine. The
passage of these airborne mediators between the USSR and Afghanistan could
be seen from practically every Soviet garrison and, if the flights were
canceled for some reason , everyone felt sad and deprived, as though maybe,
back there in the Motherland, the "limited contingent" sent to Afghanistan
had been forgotten.
Those who had carried out a long tour of duty watched the planes in
anticipation of their imminent demobilization, and dreamed up sweet
fantasies of civilian life. Those only half way through their service would
sigh, all they could hope for was a letter from home. Those who were new in
the service still had vivid memories of the flight in the belly of such a
transport aircraft and that awful feeling of impending doom when the plane,
packed with people like brainless cattle, exhausted by the night-time
flight, indefinite lengthy delays, customs control and border crossing had
just begun to catnap when they were snapped back into awareness, barely an
hour after takeoff, by the steep plunge of the plane from a height of some
seven thousand or more meters, as if it had hit a sudden air-pocket or had
been struck by an enemy rocket, a "Stinger" missile or some such. In fact
the plane, shooting out dozens of heat emanating decoy targets, was making a
steep, spiraling descent in order to land.
When the plane taxied down the landing strip, the ramp would open,
letting in a rush of unfamiliar Afghan mountain air and the sight of an
alien, and therefore alarming, mountainous landscape. From this moment on,
the countdown began, measuring the fated time in Afghanistan for the new
arrivals, a time which, for some, meant the last months of their life.
The newly-arrived soldiers, officers and non-coms, including women,
obviously felt awkward, and stared around in barely concealed curiosity and
unease, squinting in the strong mountain sunshine. Those who were returning
from leave, or military business, or medical treatment could be spotted
immediately: they knew why they had come here and which way to head from the
landing strip. They were returning to a place that had become familiar,
home. The soldiers arriving at the Kabul airdrome had identical haircuts,
were equally puzzled, equally without rights, wearing identical uniforms,
and depersonalized by this sameness; in long, often badly fitting
greatcoats, heavy, uncomfortable "shit-squasher" boots" and similar
kit-bags, they all looked the same from a distance. They were delivered here
like ammunition: like little missiles in the guise of soldiers if you did
not look too closely, expendable material, which differed only in size and
caliber.
Hardly anyone throughout the breadth of the great and mighty Soviet
Union took the lives of the soldiers, officers, non-coms, lieutenants, first
lieutenants and captains seriously. Insignificant units of humanity, of whom
there was still an endless supply! So there was nothing to feel sorry about.
The soldiers arriving in Kabul were faceless, just like thousands of
other young men dragged in for two years, torn out of their usual lives in
order to learn suffering, patience and survival until such time as the
Motherland would consider that they had paid in full for the care and happy
childhood she had lavished on them, and sent them replacements which had
grown up in the meantime.
"They're flying, comrade senior lieutenant. Two flights have landed,"
reported junior sergeant Titov to the officer who lay on his bunk in
hopeless and dreary anticipation of his replacement's arrival. Dressed
correctly in uniform, he was watching the progress of the flies crawling on
the ceiling and turned an irritated eye on his junior.
"So what, Titov?"
"I wouldn't know, comrade senior lieutenant..."
"I said, so what that they're flying?"
"...you told me to report when any planes land ... So I'm reporting..."
"What does that tone of voice mean? Hey? Bloody homo stallion! " The
officer turned his head and stared Titov in the face. "Who the hell do you
think you're talking to? Dismissed, Titov! Close the door!"
"What?"
"Close the door on your way out! And don't bother me again! Straighten
up, you lump! Wake me only for two reasons: when my replacement arrives, or
if the Soviet forces pull out of Afghanistan! Got that?"
"Yessir."
"Get lost!"
Titov, a hulk far superior in strength and size than the officer, bent
obediently, like a lackey reprimanded by a demanding master and backed out
of the room. Knowing the senior lieutenant's fiery temper, and having had
his liver and kidneys bashed, like all the other soldiers, when the
lieutenant was in a bad mood for some reason or no reason at all, he decided
that discretion was better than pre-demobilization impudence. He closed the
door quietly behind him, straightened his shoulders and, like a werewolf
under a full moon, immediately became a merciless "grandpa" the severe boss
of the barracks.
Venting his spleen for the humiliation he had just endured - the
offensive words had carried clearly to the young soldiers on duty, Titov
kicked the slow and inefficient private Myshkovsky, who was swabbing the
floor with a mop:
"You fucking leaky rubber! When were you supposed to finish cleaning?!"
The pail fell over with a clatter and murky water spread in a pool on
the plywood floor of the barracks.
"I'll make you lick the latrines clean with your tongue, Myshara!
Useless turd!" yelled Titov at the top of his voice, so that everyone would
hear.
"Junior sergeant Titov!" The commander's voice cut across Titov's
railing.
"Do you understand, worm?" continued Titov regardless. "Down on the
ground and do ten pushups! Fast! Fast! I'm warning you, Myshara!" He pressed
the soldier's head down with his boot, and added in a slightly lower voice:
"I'll finish you off!"
"!" came the commander's voice again..
"What's the MPF, Myshara?" Titov pressed own even harder with his boot.
"The Military Paratroop Forces ..."
"The MPF are the shield of the Motherland, greenhorn! And you don't
deserve to be a rivet in that shield! "
Myshkovsky continued to lie prone in fear. The boots of the
all-powerful "grandpa" stamped off in the direction of the common room.
"Junior sergeant Titov reporting as ordered" he stated with barely
concealed insolence, addressing lieutenant Sharagin, who was having his head
shaved bald. Legs crossed, he sat immobile on a small bedside chest. His
shoulders were draped with a bedsheet bearing the stamp of the Ministry of
Defense - a purple star. A uniform with the red armband of the officer
responsible for the company lay on a nearby shelf.
Lieutenant Sharagin was studying his new appearance in a small, cracked
mirror. The mirror reflected gray-blue eyes, a clean-shaven chin with a
fresh razor nick, a straight nose, a thick mustache. There were only a few
patches of hair remaining on his head to be scraped off by the barber's
blade wielded by sergeant Panasyuk. The white skin exposed was in sharp
contrast with the deep mountain tan and seemed to be stretched tightly over
his cranium, like the skin of a drum.
That was exactly how Sharagin wanted to see himself - with a shaved
head.
Mother Nature had slacked a little when working on the lieutenant's
face, giving him unremarkable, standard features, devoid of any
individuality, a kind of Russian universality.
Still watching his own reflection, Sharagin maintained a theatrical
pause before asking casually:
"What's with senior lieutenant Chistyakov?"
Titov stood behind him, leaning against the door frame and twirling a
bunch of keys on a chain:
"The comrade senior lieutenant ordered that nobody should wake him."
"We're just about done," said the sergeant who was carrying out the
responsible duty of barber.
"What a waste of talent!" said Titov, poking fun at his comrade.
"Instead of exposing your ass to enemy fire, you would have been better off
as company barber, eh Panas?"
"Fuck off, Tit! I apologize for the bad language, comrade lieutenant,
but Tit doesn't understand anything else, otherwise he'll fucking drive you
into the ground, the way Pol Pot did with Kampuchea. Ha, ha, ha!..."
"Pay attention, comrade sergeant," snapped lieutenant Sharagin, "Be
careful when you're shaving your commanding officer!"
Unlike the large, dull and brutish junior sergeant Titov, Sharagin
detected traces of humanity in Panasyuk, which had not all faded during his
term of service. Panasyuk was from the Altai region, skinny as a Belorussian
peasant , tall as a flagpole, wiry and hardy. Panasyuk liked to joke, smoked
like a chimney, suffered paroxysms of smoker's cough, swore after every
second word, and when he laughed, deep and untimely wrinkles appeared on his
forehead and under his eyes. He usually spoke in a long, drawling voice,
like a Catholic priest's intonation: "Whatcha worrying for, comrade
lieutenant? Leave it to me - everything'll be hunky-dory."
"Somebody cleaned out the food store last night," said Sharagin,
catching Titov's shifty eyes in the mirror. "It better not be anyone from
our company - I'll beat their brains out!"
"Everyone was asleep last night, comrade lieutenant, Titov responded
earnestly.
Sergeant Panasyuk confirmed that it wasn't anyone from their company,
and wiped Sharagin's neck with a thin cotton towel:
"Done!"
Another thing lieutenant Sharagin appreciated in Panasyuk was that
although the sergeant was hard on the men, he never mocked them
deliberately, did not turn their service into a nightmare and, most
importantly, restrained the other "grandpas" to the best of his ability.
... especially louts like Titov...
thought Sharagin. "Initiation" rites such as, for instance,
"registration" during which the new recruits were beaten on their bare
backsides with leather slippers so hard that the next day they were unable
to sit down and only rub their black-and-blue buttocks, were held in deepest
secrecy. This was part of the unspoken soldiers' ritual, and with all the
will in the world the commanding officers would not be able to spot or
prevent it. So Sharagin did not waste any regrets on that score. It was
beyond his power to break the long-standing
"youth-"finch"-"dipper"-"grandpa" tradition of relations in the ranks. There
was no changing the unchangeable.
Unreasoning impulsive cruelty, anger alongside a childish naivete,
sentimentality, unexpected kindness, pity, valor, sympathy which turns
easily into hatred (though not for long) - all these traits existed side by
side, from times immemorial, in officers and soldiers of the Russian army
and, probably, any Russian man.
"Mother fuckers!" cried lieutenant Chistyakov suddenly in ringing
tones.
This cry of the officer's heart had resounded regularly over the past
few weeks, a heart that was longing for home, and was addressed to everyone
at large: the army, Afghanistan, and soldiers on duty.
Junior sergeant Titov went off and hid in the store-room just in case.
Titov knew that if Chistyakov had left his room and was in a foul mood, it
was better to stay out of his way.
"Shaved your head, eh? Good for you!" Chistyakov ran a hand over his
friend's smooth skull.
"Well, what do you think?" asked Sharagin, pleased with his new look.
"Fine, we've been through that. Get the fuck out of here!" he yelled at
a soldier who had looked into the room. "Can't stand the sight of their
stupid mugs! I don't envy you! Our "graduates" are real tigers, of course,
but when they're gone, who'll we have left to fight with? Am I right,
Panasyuk?" asked the senior lieutenant turning suddenly and for no real
reason , but just (as he liked to say) to keep everyone on their toes,
punched Panasyuk hard in the stomach.
Panasyuk doubled over, gasping with pain:
"Y...y...you're right about them being tigers, comrade senior
lieutenant," he squeezed out after a moment's pause while his head cleared.
He smiled waveringly at Chistyakov, appreciating the compliment.
The silence of the barracks was shattered by the arrival of a horde of
the men, who filled the air with stamping, swearing, laughter and threats:
"Where d'you think you're putting that rifle, asshole!"
"What are you standing there for, move over!"
"...so what, a rifle..."
"Here, take mine and put it there too, I'm off to wash..."
"Put it there, stupid! Won't you morons ever learn!..."
"Sych! Look how you've made up my bunk!"
"......"
"Cat got your tongue?"
"I'll remake it..."
"Lazy sonofabitch! See my fist? What's it smell of? Your death, that's
what..."
"....."
"Company ten-hut!" yelled the soldier on barracks duty, saluting the
company captain, who had just entered. "Ready to report!"
"At ease," responded the lanky captain leisurely and sniffed loudly.
"Thirty degrees outside, and I've caught a cold! Who'd believe it?"
"It's the air-conditioning, captain," interjected senior warrant
officer Pashkov. He walked behind captain Morgultsev.
"What's that got to do with it?" retorted Morgultsev, pulling out a
handkerchief and blowing his nose loudly.
"Those air conditioners can kill you. They'll give you pneumonia before
you know it. What's so funny? Nothing. Air conditioners are death to your
lungs."
"You'd die even faster here without the conditioners!" argued
Chistyakov.
"My God!" exclaimed Morgultsev, spotting the clean-shaven head of the
platoon leader. "The appearance of Taras Bulba to the people! No other way
to describe it."
"Yakshi Montana!" cried Pashkov, flinging up his arms.
Sharagin was somewhat embarrassed, scratched his bald pate, donned his
cap and reported with all due ceremony:
"Comrade captain! Nothing to report in your absence!"
"Shitheads! Hell!" growled the captain, and pronounced one of his
carefully thought out in advance quips: "The human body needs a good
shake-up sometimes. On that day, I don't drink..."
"Don't worry," Chistyakov winked at Sharagin. "He's been to HQ.
Bogdanov probably tore a strip off him."
Senior lieutenant Nemilov had no gift for retelling political studies
materials in his own words. He droned out passages he had underlined in
various pamphlets or the "Armed Forces Communist" magazine. He was easily
distracted if, for example, he noticed that someone was not wearing a
Komsomol badge. It would have been naive to expect that any of the men would
remember anything out of what they heard during political studies, so
Nemilov made them write out certain sentences he dictated. Should there be a
sudden inspection, every soldier had a notebook with suitable entries.
"Now! Write this down: the democratic Republic of Afghanistan."
"Sounds familiar," sniggered PFC Prokhorov. "I'm sure I've heard that
somewhere before."
"Never mind clowning! You don't know the history of the country you're
in. Right! The official languages are Pashtu and Dari. The population
numbers ...who the hell knows what their population is now? Don't write that
down!!! And now - a bit of history. Write this: Britain's attempts to
subjugate Afghanistan in the 19th century failed. Due to the support granted
by Soviet Russia, the next Anglo-Afghan war in May-June 1919 ended with
victory for Afghanistan. In 1919..."
"What year?"
"For the benefits of the morons in this room, I repeat: in 1919,
Afghanistan declared independence. Now...no, you don't need this..." Nemilov
turned a page. "Here we are: the USSR and Afghanistan have been bound by
ties of friendship for a very long time. After the April 1978 revolution,
these ties have become truly fraternal and an example of revolutionary
solidarity. On the basis of the Agreement of Friendship, Good-neighborliness
and Co-operation, the government of Afghanistan has addressed numerous
appeals for military aid to the USSR. The government of the USSR decided to
offer such assistance and sent the "Limited Contingent of Soviet Forces" to
help the fledgling republic defend itself against the forces of global
imperialism and domestic reactionary circles. New paragraph! Soviet soldiers
have proved themselves true friends of the Afghan people and carry out their
international duty in Afghanistan with honor. New paragraph! The April
revolution was a turning point in Afghanistan's development, the outcome of
many centuries of struggle against ignorance, poverty, repression and for
the triumph of justice. Panasyuk, why aren't you writing?"
In fact, the sergeant had started on a letter home, but after the first
two sentences ("How are you all? I'm fine") had run out of ideas and sat
staring at a Lenin quote on the wall which asserted that a revolution is
worthy only if it can defend itself. Even an idiot knows that, thought
Panasyuk and cast an oblique glance at the "iconostasis" of the Politburo
members. The Lenin Room, existed in every subdivision and its walls were
covered, church-like, with images of the most celebrated party-angels beside
the "holy trinity" of Marx, Engels and Lenin. The men were supposed to come
here in their free time - to play chess, write home, watch television, all
under the vigilant gaze of the leaders of the world's proletariat.
"Panasyuk!"
"I'm thinking, comrade senior lieutenant."
"You're not here to think, Panasyuk! You're here to listen and write
down!"
"Yessir!" Inspiration visited the sergeant briefly once more and he
added another two lines to his missive: "It's very warm here. Summer will be
coming soon."
"Experience has shown - don't write this down! - " continued Nemilov,
"that Afghan citizens often ask Soviet soldiers to tell them about the USSR,
how Soviet people live, the history of the revolutionary struggle of the
USSR. Sychev! I said don't write this down! Are you deaf?"
Private Sychev, looking hunted, pulled his head into his shoulders.
"Nobody's ever asked me," drawled Prokhorov provocatively.
"They will, Prokhorov, they will!"
"So how the hell will I know what they want if I don't understand their
lingo?"
"You will! Through an interpreter..." Nemilov broke off. There was no
point in responding to stupid questions. They were just playing for time.
"You must always be prepared to converse with our Afghan comrades."
"They should all be shot, that's what! They're all spooks!" burst out
Panasyuk. What the shit do we need to talk to them for?!"
"As you were! Resume writing! Without Soviet aid, the forces of
imperialism and internal counter-revolution would have stifled the April
revolution..."
Junior sergeant Titov rapped on the glass door.
"Comrade senior lieutenant?"
"What?"
"Two men needed for kitchen duty..."
"Take them and get out! ...Now, where were we? " Nemilov opened the
'Memorandum for the Soviet Soldier-Internationalist.' Write this down! The
Afghan people are naturally trusting, receptive of new information, have a
fine sense of good and evil." A wave of laughter rolled through the room.
"That's enough of that! In particular, the Afghans appreciate courtesy
toward children, women and old people. That's very important! While in the
DRA, observe all customary Soviet moral values, manners and laws, show
tolerance of the customs and mores of the Afghans. Write it down! Write it
down!!! Always be friendly, humane fair and honorable in your dealings with
the workers of Afghanistan."
The men wrote laboriously, with numerous spelling mistakes, missing out
entire sentences. The "grandpas" only pretended to write.
"Chirikov, I want all that in my notebook by tomorrow morning," said
PFC Prokhorov, busily ruling up a sheet of paper to play "Battleships."
"Don't write just yet! I'll tell you when to write! You all have to be
able to give specific examples to illustrate the honorable behavior of
Soviet soldiers towards the local population. Who can name a few examples?
Nobody! Wonderful! You should read the newspapers. Why do we keep files of
them in this room? So that brainless idiots like you should read them,
that's why! Everyone's got to know at least two examples for next time. I'll
be testing you!"
"He who eats meat, suffers frequent colds," pronounced warrant officer
Pashkov with a sly look in Sharagin's direction. "If a man eats meat, then
something starts to stir during the night, rises up and lifts the blanket,
bares his legs, and all the time the air conditioner is pumping out cold air
- that's where colds come from."
Sharagin laughed good-naturedly.
Senior Lieutenant Chistyakov grabbed a parachute canopy out of the
cupboard in the officers' room and shoved it into a bag. He had taken to
warming himself in the sun at this time of day behind the huts, well out of
sight of the senior staff.
"Line up!" hollered the soldier on duty, for all the world like a
village rooster.
"Listen up, rooster face!" Chistyakov dragged the soldier off his stool
and clamped a hand around his throat: "Why are you yelling in my ear?! I'm
enjoying my well-earned rest. Got that? Don't bother me with trifles.
Anything important happens, lieutenant Sharagin will know where to find me."
With the coming of the hot weather, the company was hit by diarrhea,
everyone running to the can day and night. The path leading from the camp to
the latrines was trodden hard as asphalt. Every half hour or less, someone
would race from the command barracks to the latrine like a bat out of hell.
The rookies, more seasoned soldiers and the grandpas were reduced to a
common level by their plight as they sat side by side in the latrine.
There were not enough newspapers. The bound volume of "Red Star"
disappeared from the Lenin Room. Nemilov was furious, branding the unknown
thieves saboteurs, threatened an investigation by the Third Section but
removed the bound volume of "Pravda" just in case. The Political Officer was
known for his fastidiousness, washed his hands about seventeen and a half
times a day, tried not to touch anything. His thin, pale lips twisted in
disgust at the sight of the diarrhea-drained soldiers, his face mirrored
distaste toward the illnesses which broke out in the company, his
evenly-parted hair, clean fingernails and flawlessly white collars spoke
eloquently of his disapproval of the common soldiers and certain
non-too-clean officers.
Formerly tanned lads, bursting with rude health would quickly become
listless, thin, their faces a greenish hue when they succumbed to amebic
dysentery or some other local bug. They lost weight visibly, dehydrated by
the dysentery.
Reveille-toilet-physical
exercises-toilet-breakfast-toilet-lineup-toilet-political
studies-toilet-weapons
cleaning-toilet-lunch-toilet-duties-toilet-dinner-toilet-lights out - toilet
round the clock kept everyone chained to the vicinity of the latrine, even
the sick did not venture from this vital object to a distance from which it
would not be possible to reach the latrine faster than a spook's bullet.
The troops forgot everything on earth, took no pleasure in anything.
Even the grandpas were so exhausted by constant "shit hemorrhages" that they
stopped harassing the rookies. Junior sergeant Titov, who liked to pump
lead, flexing his ready for demobilization biceps and triceps, and
gunlayer-operator PFC Prokhorov - a bark and troublemaker, and sergeant
Panasyuk, spent their days sitting glumly in the smoking room, because it
was closest to the latrine. All in all, though, suffering diarrhea was
preferable to turning yellow and being shunted off to hospital with
hepatitis.
The only officers in the company who did not catch the bug were
Chistyakov and Morgultsev. Zhenka was certain that God was looking after him
and keeping him safe from illness and death in battle, because he had been
carrying a small icon in his pocket for two years now. His mother had
sneaked the icon into his case just before he left home. Zhenka discovered
the icon en route, did not throw it away but secreted it just in case, with
his documents, and thus managed to carry it through customs and across the
border unnoticed. Nemilov once caught Zhenka with the icon, read him a
homily, but refrained from reporting him. Actually, the God who was
supposedly looking after Zhenka slipped up once; Zhenka ate a jar of
home-made jam, sharing the same spoon with a KGB officer who hailed from the
same parts as he. The KGB man succumbed first, went all yellow, the
hepatitis gathered strength, and a week later Zhenka followed him into the
infectious diseases hospital. In fact, Zhenka was a dyed-in-the wool
atheist, and cursed by God and His Mother so frequently, that the ears of
the Holy Family must have burned so much it was a miracle that the wrath of
God did not descend on the senior lieutenant's unit.
Morgultsev, company captain, considered himself a total unbeliever. He
had never stepped across the threshold of a church and did not believe in
miracles. He kept himself safe with garlic. He would eat a whole head of
garlic before lunch. Zhenka had nothing against a bit of insurance on the
side through garlic, but that made forays into the goods depot a problem.
Zhenka went there whenever he could in order to entertain members of the
female sex in the Soviet Army. He would play the guitar and sing. Amorous
interludes would follow later. He would swear that this was true love, but
that he could not stay behind even for her, beautiful though she was. Before
going to sleep he would sigh: "A blonde....and not for money, but for real
love, with me..."
They never did find out who brought the infection into the company.
"The fuck you'll sort it out," said captain Morgultsev dourly,
sweepingly classifying the drooping "elephants" as malingerers.
Any commanding officer would be at his wits' end in such a situation.
Is this a company, or what? Are these paratroopers, or what? The troops were
issued tablets, some were packed off to hospital.
The strange appellation "elephants" caught on among the troops long ago
and for a rather unusual reason. It arose from their training in case of
chemical warfare, before Afghanistan. The officer would shout: "Masks!" and
the men would drag gas masks out of the green bags on their backs, shove