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roof. I think one of ours! - Americanets was fretting.
I flew up the stairs and felt no wheeze. On the roof, nailed to the
cross, a dead soldier's body was resting, just like Jesus. His own cut off
penis stuck in his mouth. Without even looking at his dirty face, I knew: it
was he, Semeonov. I probably only saw him about 10 times before and never
even spoke to the man. But suddenly tears were in my eyes and something
pinched in my nose. Now I regretted that I never got the chance to properly
meet the lad. I think he wasn't even one of the permanent staff. Right
before the Chechen campaign, he was attached to our brigade from Abakan.
- They nailed him to the cross and put it up on the roof. The cross
collapsed from the explosion and that's probably why we didn't notice it
before. - Picasso tried to explain something to me, feeling a little awkward
that we didn't discover the body earlier.
- He's one of ours. - I pronounced, labouring to stay calm, - Semeonov,
of the sappers. Disappeared off the "North" while minesweeping. I found his
ID tag on one of the shooters.
The grunts were like lightning-struck; they fussed about Semeonov,
removing him carefully from the cross. While doing that, they tried not to
hurt him, handling his body like he was still alive, whispering not to wake
him up and tears were falling down their faces complicating this chilling
job even further. I looked away, pulled out a smoke and lit it up. Thirstily
inhaling I tried to push the clog in my throat further down, glancing at the
hustling grunts at times to see how things were moving along. When
Semeonov's body was at last removed from the cross, lads placed it on some
kind of stretchers they put together from all sorts of rubbish they could
collect around here. When it was all over I said:
- Glue, get on the "boxes". Tell them to come closer and that we are
coming with a "cargo 200"... Our "cargo 200".
I was coming down the stairs ahead of the rest, checking for anything
suspicious along the way. My grunts were carefully carrying the stretchers,
like the man on them was only wounded. At the rear, Glue was struggling
under the weight of his radio transmitter and scraps of the armoury we
discovered at the rag-heads' nest.
We loaded the body into the infantry compartment inside our APC and
started for the home. I felt that for any "spook" that tried to stick his
nose out now, this attempt would be, for sure, his last. Confirmation to my
thoughts was the empty and terrifying look in my grunts' eyes, were I could
see the reflection of my own feelings. Only the fire of vengeance was
blazing inside them and nothing else. Blood; blood; I now only craved for
blood to drown my rage, breaking their skulls with my rifle's butt, crushing
their ribs under my boots, tearing and ripping their veins with my finger
nails, looking in his, her, their eyes and asking: "Why, why did you shoot
at the Russian soldiers?"
OK, hold on motherfuckers, I'm coming. No mercy for anyone, not for the
elderly, not for the children, not for the women - NO BODY will be spared.
Ermolov and Stalin were both right - these folk are not to be re-educated,
only exterminated.
Our APCs were both speeding ahead. It seemed they were feeling our mood
too with their engines running absolutely fine now. Periodically, they
drenched us with their oily exhaust fumes, adding some kind of foppish gloss
to our black appearance. But our eyeballs were ablaze with mad fury,
demanding vengeance and there was now no place in our minds for fear.
Probably, in this state of mind, men run at machinegun nests to save others'
lives at the price of their own. Desire for vengeance suddenly grows into
care for those who are close to you and self-sacrifice for others.
Glinting at the surroundings I could feel movement inside the rubbles
with my skin. Resting AK on my elbow, I pulled out other ID tags and flicked
through a few more. Petrov Andrey Aleksandrovich - Maikop Brigade. Elizariev
Evgeniy Anatolievich - Internal Forces (they and the Rangers have their
garrison numbers marked with four digits and The Army have theirs marked
with five). Altogether, eight IDs - eight lives. Where are you boys?
Probably, no one will ever know and your mothers will be crying tears until
the end of their lives: their dead sons will have no graves. All of this is
awful. I finished off reading all of the remaining IDs, I was positive there
were no more grunts from our brigade in there. I hid them back in my inner
pocked, looked at my "cavalry" and shook my head, assuring them that none of
the remaining IDs belonged to anyone of ours. They again turned away,
watching out, racing past onetime battlefields. Demolished houses, torn down
trees, burnt and given up machinery. It was mostly tanks with torn
caterpillars and their turrets ripped off and tossed over to great
distances. APCs, with their thinner armour plates, were just blasted to
pieces. All depended on where the rockets hit and how much ammo the "boxes"
had onboard. Some drivers were lucky, others - not so much.
With pain I was looking at the trees. I like nature. Humans have a
choice. They can refuse to come here and go to jail for desertion or self
inflict an injury, thus buying themselves "the white" ticket out of here:
crafty Russians are capable of anything. But the trees and animals are
helpless. Men planted them at will; others came and wiped them out. And they
can do nothing in response. Neither trees, nor animals can flee or defend
themselves. Thus many died together with their owners on their porches. What
remain, people will eat later because of the famine. These-days people are
frequently seen tottering about like shadows amongst the rubble. Mostly
these are elderly men or middle-aged women. Everyone, who could fire weapons
and more or less think clearly, escaped into the mountains seeking
vengeance. No problem, we, in turn, will take revenge on them. Thus, closing
up this vicious circle. Every one of us thinks he's right. We all believe in
our own gods, praying them to help us and demanding retribution for deaths
of our friends and brothers. But God deals spoils and losses equally for
everyone. OK, so we'll fight. It would be pretty tough to fight the whole
nation though, as opposed to a regular army of one particular state. That's
what we've been taught to do. In an open field, busted your opponent,
occupied a town, picked up the spoils and back to the field. Here it's more
like in Afghanistan, fight the folk all you want. The whole thing is not
even a war. According to the law, all this is a piddling policing operation,
exclusive purpose of which is reinstating of the constitutional order.
However, no one knows what this order used to be like in the first place.
OK, while the "spooks" and us are mincing one another, someone in Moscow has
hit the jackpot. We've all seen a lot of that going on. For some, war is
like their mother. Not even one son of a bitch went down for all the blood
they've spilt in our spacious former Union. Not counting the Baltic States -
a couple of squealers and OMON guys went to jail, so what? They did nothing
but avenge the deaths of their friends, but those who gave them orders...
their bellies I would twitch with my bayonet, looking in their wide-open
from pain and fear eyes, listening to their deafening screams and breathing
in smell of their blood. That would be fun.
Yet here, people lived by penitentiary laws for four years. We fed them
with money, supplied with weapons and taught how to use them. Then we sent
them to fight in Osetia and Abhazia for us, - like we are not even aware of
what's going on. And when there was no longer need for them, they should've
been eliminated, but no, - we tried to domesticate the Chechen. Yeah, right!
He turned against our Moscow gang. Why, though, should the whole country
suffer? We even came here from Siberia to break up the dogs. China is closer
to us than Chechnya. Then men from ZabVO, DalVO and TOF were dragged down
here too. They can walk to the States or Japan. One thing isn't clear
though. Why is it so that the rag-heads left the oil refinery intact? We,
too, were strictly ordered not so much as touch it. Here is our Air Force,
happily bombing the city's living quarters, but as for the Staropromyslovsky
part - no way.
All of which means: the plant is somebody's property. Somebody who can
hush our Defence Minister and tell him specifically to leave it alone, - you
can level the whole town to the ground, but don't you dare ruining the
refinery. Of coarse, when Russian soldier is in rage, he's very difficult to
hold back, so too the rag-heads, not all are aware of the refinery's
importance. They naively think that they are actually fighting for their own
fucking freedom and don't get it, morons, that we are all simply taking part
in an ordinary criminal quarrel, very big though. One little baron decided
to screw The Big Daddy and start his own business. Then, Big Daddy sent his
own hood, the Russian Army, over, to bang the little fellow. But the baron
was a smart chap; he squalled with independence and sent his "bulls" in.
That's how the quarrel has begun. Now, no one can remember why the whole
thing started in the first place. The hoods are busy taking vengeance on
each other; meanwhile, their barons are making big bucks expropriating
salaries and pensions. The little one is pulling in Islamic World now, with
his cheap religious mottos. God, help us and forgive!
My APC took a sharp U-turn, which nearly cast me off the "armour".
That's right, moron, your business is to keep your teeth from clapping:
you'll break your neck one day, falling off the "armour" or a sharpshooter
snaps you. Your COs are there to think for you and supply you with the
ready-made decisions. Your objective is to survive and complete the task.
All else is shit. Take Andrei Petrov, former mortar platoon commander. He
had principles, right? He demanded that he be given two weeks to prepare his
men, considering the fact that his grunts were only drafted in November and
have only seen their rifles once before - during the oath. He was dismissed,
made an example, like a coward, a deserter. Replaced with a raw lieutenant -
two-year-termer college graduate. Where is that lieutenant now with his
mortar platoon? During the Airport assault he lost almost all of his men
and, himself, perished too. You see? They draft too many morons in The Army.
Some of them you have to stand for two years, others for twenty-five.
We tried to reason with our multi-star commanders that we are not ready
for any war, not technically, not logistically. Men are not prepared
physically. Then, in December, when the order came to load the gear onto the
locomotives and step out, the weather was freezing cold. As it is always
done in our Army, the diesel fuel, that vehicles were filled with, was of
the summer kind and rather depicted a tomato sauce. So, some smart ass from
our garrison came up with the idea to mix this "sauce" with kerosene. Yep!
You guessed it. One of the APCs blew up right in the parking lot with its
full ammo complement onboard; by some weird luck nobody was hurt. Second
burst while loading onto cars. And again God was on our side. And, as it is
customary in The Army, these events were used to write off much of the
property, just like Suvorov described in his "Saviour". According to the
official documents, those APCs had on board: not less than fifty uniform
coats, twenty-five night-vision devices, no fewer than a hundred pairs of
shoes and BDUs. When the papers were to be signed by the HQ representative,
he read that masterpiece and pronounced: "Add one more parka plus one more
BDUs, for me". Supplies XO added each of them by one and the General signed
the papers with his eyes shut.
Now this general is here somewhere. Thank God, he's just signing
papers. "Material battle losses" is probably his credo.
For now, my mind was occupied by thoughts of the dead sniper. What do I
tell at the HQ? How did it happen that he didn't make here? I knew well,
that no one would be breathing in my face with his honourable anger, only
with disappointment that they couldn't hank his guts themselves.
Particularly, the GRU and recon guys will be sad. It's their cup of tea,
just let them play with the fellow, they'd make him talk. We can do that
too, quick and simple, but they handle it gracefully. Liquor can't kill the
mastery.
Suddenly something moved in the rubble, twinkling with rays of the
setting sun. My mind hasn't even produced a thought yet, but my hands
already responded, quickly raising my AK, finger clung to the trigger. And
only then my judgement kicked in - I saw our artillery spotters, the lads
constructed their positions in one of the remaining pieces of a house by the
road. They too met us with their rifle barrels. All of us, however, managed
to keep our cool and hold fire. Moreover, they just began to wind their
"Shilka" in our direction. It is a large calibre anti-aircraft gun (ZSU)
with four barrels. It would've chopped us to chips for sure. Alright, at
least we identified each other in time. We shouted merrily something to each
other for greetings. This meant the HQ is near. Yep, there is the blazing
fire-fountain from the breached gas pipe. 200 or so yards and we're "home".
Now we can relax a little.
- Hey, radioman, - I said to Glue, - Let them know we're coming, or
they'll shoot us to hell.
Glue tattled something in his headset and nodded to me that we were OK
to go. Talking or rather shouting through roaring diesels seemed senseless
and inappropriate with the dead man onboard our APC. Everyone felt a little
guilty for some strange reason, although, on the other hand, knew well that
he, himself, could've been down there in his place.
Cars retarded a bit and, manoeuvring this way, we passed a virtual
labyrinth of remaining concrete blocks and bricks. Soldiers watched us
through their sights from behind every corner. Their faces were all covered
with dust and, from that, seemed made of stone. They all looked exhausted,
with their dog-tired red eyes. The lads greeted us with smiles and gestures,
lowering their guns. We greeted guards the same way. I knew, our officers
and men would be betting on me delivering the sniper alive and well.
Personally, I wouldn't put my money on his safe journey.
Lucky, we returned before the daybreak. Some smarty-pants in the
defence ministry invented a new password system for us. Before, everything
was nice and simple, but now, the thing is a brain surgery, without ten
years of high school or lots of liqueur, impossible to translate. For
example, before, the password was "Saratov" and the reply to it was
"Leningrad", even a moron could understand that. Some grunts can barely read
or write: outcomes of the "perestroika". The core of the new system is the
number: say thirteen. The guard, seeing a silhouette in the dark, calls out:
"Stop! Password - seven!" Now, you have to instantly take away seven out of
thirteen and quickly yell back: "Reply - six!". After all this, the guard
must add his "seven" and your "six", get "thirteen" and then let you pass.
But, if any one of you can't count well enough or has something else on his
mind, then, according to the Statute of the armed guard service, the guard
can, and will, shoot you on the spot without any further investigation. And
no one prosecutor would lift his finger to pursue this issue any further.
You, moron, should've been learning your math back in high school. Fine, if
you are not completely deaf and the grunt on duty can actually count, but
some smart asses call out fractions and negative numbers. That's when you
recall all of his relatives, and your math skills, while you're at it. For
all this, some shithead got promoted back in Moscow, or maybe, even a medal
on his chest. Those snakes are capable of anything.
Thinking this way, we stopped near the partly demolished kindergarten,
where our brigade's HQ was now situated. I jumped off the APC, rubbed my
stalled and frozen feet and started for the entrance dragging my stiff legs.
I had to see our HQ's CO, Lieutenant Colonel, Alexandr Alexandrovich Bilich
first. All of us called him San Sanych. Already on my way, I ordered my
grunts:
- Start offloading our hero, carefully.
Grunts nodded understandingly.
San Sanych was about 1.75m tall with broad shoulders and constant
sparks in his blue eyes. Or were the sparks just a fruit of our imagination?
San Sanych was somehow different from all the officers in our Brigade. He
was actually well mannered. At first, it seemed superficial, but the more
you got to know him the more you were convinced that it is really in his
nature. It seemed, he should've been born in times of chivalry, high society
and duels, definitely not in our mad century. Even now, when we are more or
less bottled in OK and started hammering our opposition, when the war, maybe
only at times for now, but has taken a proper shape of the trench warfare,
every day our lieutenant colonel Bilich has found the time for brief morning
exercises.
Every morning, if it was possible to catch any sleep at all at night,
we crawled out of our cellars shacking from the cold. Because it's winter,
may be southern, but still a winter. As a rule, there was no water, and our
old unshaven whiskers were no longer rough, but felt rather fuzzy. However,
looking at your CO, you, unwillingly, pick yourself up and find the time,
the water and the razor. Although, many officers, some superstitious or some
just plane lazy, grew beards and moustaches. Some even looked great like
that. The only one who looked exactly like a Chechen, was, our recon platoon
leader, Hlopov Roman, naturally possessing dark skin and having grown a
dense beard. This way, during the Station siege, he was nearly shot by his
own grunts. Luckily, he put on a helmet and his armoured west; otherwise,
our sporty protectors would've definitely done him. Since then, Hlopov - we
called him Hlop - developed a habit to shave every morning no matter what.
About one and a half weeks ago, when he and the reconnaissance CO broke
through to the Airport "North", the allied commander's HQ, on the way back
they ran into an ambush. Their APC was blasted by RPG fire from a point
blank range. Hlop died instantly, the CO had a bad concussion. For two days,
skirmishing along the way, their grunts were slowly sneaking home. They
brought back the Hlop's mutilated body and the severely concussed, almost
deaf and blind, reconnaissance CO, Captain Stepchenko Sergey Stanislavovich.
As they recounted afterwards, the days they spent in basements and at
nights, risking the bullet from Chechens or from us, they crept back to
their home base. They slept in turns, using parts of the poor Hlop's body as
pillows.
Maybe after his concussion or maybe after hiding in basements with the
corpse, Sereoga Stepchenko started having problems. We almost cured his
sight and hearing with liquor, but he couldn't stand closed and tight spaces
anymore. Mostly he's OK, working and fighting, but sometimes he's just
mumbling something completely out of this world. Our brigade's Commander,
Colonel Bahel Alexandr Antonovich, placed an order to dismiss Stepchenko
from his post, and watch him so he doesn't make any trouble. There was no
chance to medivac the man as even our wounded were lying in bunkers:
choppers couldn't land. He was, temporarily, replaced by senior lieutenant
Krivosheev Stepan. Bilich San Sanych was taking care of Stepchenko, not just
him though, of everyone around him. He arranged for the grunts that brought
him and the Hlop's body back, to be awarded each by the Hero Of Russia
Medal. But for now, the papers were kept in Chiefs of Staff's safe.
Out of his principles, Bilich didn't recognised physical methods during
conversations with the enemy or cursing with his own men. But the
interesting part was, I knew from my own personal experience, that if you
yell cursing at somebody, everything is done more quickly and clearly.
And now I had to explain to this gentleman that I failed to deliver the
sniper because grunts' thin patience wore off and they hung him off a tank's
barrel. Trying a few combinations in my mind that could spare San Sanych's
delicate hearing and let the Com-Batt and Ivan off the hook, I entered the
HQ. On the way in I met our Supplies XO, Kleymeonov Arkadi Nikolaevich.
Everybody was describing him with Suvorov's words: "...we can comfortably
hang any supply officer in one year time...". Looking at the well-shaped
figure of our "rear XO", you knew that the Generalissimos was absolutely
right: in his time, Kleimeonov would've being dangling off the tree by now.
His personal luggage has been growing in size by the day, regardless of the
heavy fighting.
- Ah, Slava, how was the trip? Got the sniper?
- No such luck, Arkadiy Nikolaeich, he passed away, - I made a
compassionate face, my eyes were telling a different story though and the
rear XO picked up on my game.
- Really? - Kleymeonov made a puzzled face and asked me, sounding
surprised.
- Weak heart, - I smiled, - he was wounded too, so didn't survive the
departure. Now I have to delicately explain it to San Sanych. He'll be
really sad.
- He's too busy for that now. By the way, nobody believed you'd bring
him anyway. Il'in and yourself could've thrown him harakiri over there on
the spot. It is a petty though; we had people queuing up to converse with
him, - Kleymeonov shone his teeth.
- They were betting, weren't they? - I asked.
- Sure, but mostly on your failure.
- By the way, I also brought a soldier with me, Semeonov, disappeared
during the "North" siege; my grunts are offloading him now. What else is
new?
- You were only gone for four hours. Oh, yeah, - his voice turned
gloomy, - Chief of Staff of the Second Battalion was wounded.
It seemed that the walls around us swayed.
- Sashka Pahomenko? - I asked.
- Himself. They are trying to break through to the hotel "Kavkaz".
There are as many rag-heads there as there are demons in hell, so he caught
a bullet in his chest. Medics couldn't get up there. Sargent patched him up
for now. Now we're getting a storm group ready, made of scouts. Under the
cover of dark, they'll try to get him out of there, - I could see Kleymeonov
was pretty sad, telling me all that.
Captain Pahomenko Alexandr Il'ich was loved by all in our brigade. Very
tall fellow, open-minded, he loved having fun. He knew countless gags, funny
stories and practical jokes, never malicious. The main thing about him was
his openness and honesty. It always deeply affected people who knew him.
While taking to him, in about ten minutes you felt like you had known the
man since your college years. With all that he was never a layabout or an
idler. He was always the first one where it was the hardest, always rushed
in to help everyone. Our officers and men liked him unmeasurably. He could
help with his words or action, he could also swear like hell - was a real
virtuoso in that field. He could get behind the steering wheel of an APC, in
freezing cold fix an engine or give soldiers a good lecture. Well, the very
type of officer that our information sources were always pounding us with.
Detesting his enemy, never hiding his genuine feelings, never refusing to
give a helping hand. A bit loud at times, but you get used to it in time.
That's what he's been to us, Sashka Pahomenko, who always asked to call him
"simply Il'ich". Strange, but at war, these little, long forgotten things
are suddenly surfacing in your mind. And now this young man was lying in
some basement with a hole in his chest. God help him.
- OK, Arkadiy Nikolaevich, I'm off to see San Sanych, - I nodded and
headed off along the corridor.
- He's in there with an Allied HQ representative. Bahel is out in the
Third Battalion's HQ, meanwhile this clean-cut chap is stamping Sanych's
brain. They'll probably throw us in to push somewhere, where our elite
forces shitted themselves. It's always like that, they get to receive medals
and fire at the parliament palace in Moscow and we, Siberian mahra, to
crunch asphalt in winter. For that, we get to go home and they will pose for
cameras and tell stories to girls, - he spewed and wondered off.
The corridor was full of officers and soldiers. Some were smoking, some
taking a snooz, leaning against walls riddled by bullets and shrapnel and
raising their heads time to time from close explosions.
We paid one hell of a price for this kindergarten. In his time, Dudaev
announced that Chechnya does need scientists but needs warriors. Thus, boys
should go to school for three years and girls for only one. Since women stay
at home at all times anyway, kindergartens became obsolete. Then, people,
close to his government, some with bribes, some with force, has claimed them
all. This one too was rebuilt as a villa and belonged to one of the Dudaev's
bandits. The owner and his gang fought for it with ferocity.
We were busting these snakes out of here for 12 hours straight and when
finally broke in, learnt that he maintained a pretty good live style in
here: all floors were covered in carpets, not the cheap stuff but handmade.
Design furniture, crystal and china, appliances we only ever saw in
brochures. Left around photos had all his family pictured. We lacked women
here, that's for sure, but I have never seen a pretty Chechen, not on
pictures, not in real life. All had small faces, narrow eyes, hooklike noses
and thin lips. Just like rats, if you ask me. Everyone has different tastes
though. As we say, - "there are no ugly women, there is just not enough
liquor, but I couldn't drink that much..."
Occupied by this kind of thoughts I entered the main HQ's room in the
basement. I pushed the door covered up by a raincoat-tent and felt the
warmth coming from the army camping heater in the corner. I guess these
heaters are only still alive in the Army. As long as the army exists they'll
always be there on manoeuvres and at war, to offer soldiers warmth and
comfort.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, captain Mironov, reporting back to duty,
- I reported, looking at Bilich, who was leaning at the map. Next to him,
bent over the map, were my partner or, as we called each other, "henchman",
major Ryzhov Yuri Nikolaevich and some other officer.
- We've been waiting for you, Vechaslav Nikolaevich. Did you pick up
the sniper? - The Chief of staff asked me, inquisitively looking in my eyes.
- Here is your mate, - he nodded at Ryzhov, - was betting a six-pack of
cognac that you won't.
- If I had only known about the cognac, Alexandr Alexandrovich, I
would've brought back at least his head. But the dog died from his wounds
and probably from some kind of heart condition. The son of a bitch was, from
his own words, our compatriot, from Siberia. Thirty-two slashes I found on
his rifle's butt and a fine Japanese scope too.
- Where is the rifle? - Took interest in our conversation Ryzhov.
- I left it back there. They show it to the grunts for ferocity and not
a bad feed for themselves too.
- Yeah right, "feed". We all need only one feed now - air support,
probable enemy positioning and where the bustards are getting their
resupplies from. They were not ready for this war for sure and prepared
nothing: no arms, no ammunition and no food.
- That's not all, - I interrupted Bilich, - on the way back we were
fired upon and took on the rag-heads. After the counterattack, destroyed our
enemy and found these on the corpses... - I reached my hand out with the
dead soldier's ID tag. - One of ours. Semeonov.
Again a clog was stuck in my throat, making it difficult to talk or
breath. I pulled my cigarettes out. Bilich wouldn't object, realising what
state I was in, although himself was a non-smoker. After a few deep gasps I
felt the clog disappearing and continued:
- The snakes, probably, were torturing him for some time, and likely
while he was still alive, cut his penis off. Then nailed him to a cross,
like Jesus. Penis stuck in his mouth. We brought him back; my grunts are
probably offloading him now. Here is some more, - I fetched the rest of the
IDs, - them too I got off the dead "spook". No more of ours though.
San Sanych carefully listened to me, looking straight into my eyes,
then, took the ID tags, briefly flicked through them, noting only the
garrison numbers, added them up in a little pyramid and handed it to the
unfamiliar officer.
- By the way, let me introduce you, - he turned to the major, - Major
Karpov Vechaslav Viktorovich, Allied HQ representative, General Command HQ
officer. And this, - he said pointing at me, - Captain Mironov, our
Brigade's HQ senior officer, an adventurer and a warrior. Still can't get
accustomed to the fact that he is a HQ officer now not a combat company
commander, - San Sanych somewhat fatherly lectured me.
I was a bit stunned by the fact that my CO would speak of me so
heartily. I reached out and shook the major's hand.
- Vechaslav, - he introduced himself.
Namesake. We'll see, what kind of bird you are and what the hell you're
here for. I figure, one of the big boys, since was sent to us. They might
want us softened up before giving some suicidal task or maybe find out in
what state of affairs the brigade is in and then fire the CO. These fat cats
from Moscow love this kind of tricks.
I looked at him a bit more carefully this time. The face definitely
looks familiar, but where I saw him before, I, for now, couldn't recall. OK,
we'll figure that one out later. The fact that he was from Moscow and from
the General Command HQ, immediately made me, like any other line combat
officer, dislike him. All grievances come from them. They are all bastards
and voracious rats. All soldiers knew this axiom, watching them do nothing
but drink themselves stupid at every inspection and then departing for home
with generous gifts. Human garbage, from first to last. It's their fault
we're here in the first place. Moscow has planned the first and this Grozny
assaults. 25[th] of November and 1[st] of January will
both be black pages in the Russian Army's History Book.
I thought about it while I was shaking the Moscow officer's hand and
squeezing out of my face some kind of smile. Although, I think, my parched
face reflected all my thoughts pretty well. But I couldn't send this coxcomb
to hell right here, in front of San Sanych, whom I respected too much.
- Vechalsav, - I introduced myself back to this Moscow rooster.
- Major Karpov, take these IDs to the HQ please, let them work out
which regions the soldiers are from and notify their families, - San Sanych
passed the tags to him.
The rep nodded, took the IDs and without even looking or counting,
dropped them into one of his parka's outer pockets. Any normal officer
would've at least counted them respectful of the dead.
I was a bit disturbed by this and asked the son of a bitch with badly
hidden irritation:
- Aren't you going to loose them like this, my honourable man? Human
lives are behind them.
Spotting the rage in my voice, San Sanych and Ryzhov looked at the guy
like he was an enemy of the state. He must've understood his lapse, mumbled
something and placed the IDs in one of his flank jacket inner pockets,
meanwhile giving me a very expressive look, like he wanted to grind me into
dust. Alright, my boy, look all you want, I can chill a drunken soldier with
my look, as for you, dandy ass, I can bring you down to your knees. I calmly
stood the look of his watery eyes. He even seemed flimsy. About a meter
seventy in hight, may be less, skinny and with small head. All blond, like
albino, except his eyes, they weren't red, but rather colourless. His
appearance was just repulsive, and his quiff, that he was fixing constantly,
was even adding something female to it. Maybe he's gay: a funny thought
breezed through my mind. The General Command HQ Officer is a homo. That
would make a lot of noise. Well, I heard, in Moscow, it's very fashionable
these days - alternative sexual lifestyles. I don't think I'll be sleeping
next to him. Though, I think he's just lifeless, like a jellyfish. I might
offer to paint this queer orange, for fun. Would make snipers' job easier
too.
For a second, I imagined the major painted in red colour and a smile
stretched my lips. Karpov studied himself nervously - something wrong with
his dress? Having ensured that his uniform was intact and finally realising
that I'm just laughing at him, he stared at me angrily in response.
Knowing my wild character and to relieve the tension in the air, San
Sanych declared, talking to everyone at the same time:
- Let's stop plotting against each other for now and go see Semeonov's
corpse. We'll fill in the paperwork and you, Vechaslav Viktorovich, - he
looked at Karpov, - would have to take him with you to the airport and send
home.
We all moved for the exit. Officers and men were already out in the
yard. The corpse was carefully placed on the rolled out canvas, hands folded
on his chest. Nail holes in the wrists were clearly seen, his face was
thoughtfully covered with a soldiers' handkerchief. Hats off, all present
were just standing around in silence. What was on their minds could only be
read on their tight-lipped faces. Lucky for the sniper, he was dead. Here,
he would've lived a long time, to his distress.
Bilich came over to the diseased, lifted up the handkerchief, looked at
his dirty face with forever frozen mask of terror on it, sighed and, turning
toward standing next to him Kleymeonov, gave him an order:
- Arkadiy Nikolaevich, fill in the ID report and prepare the body to be
sent home. The HQ representative will take it with him.
- Sure, Alexandr Nikolaevich, - and then to the surrounding him grunts,
- Take the man inside. It's warmer in there. Call for the bookkeeper; tell
him to write up the ID Act, the death notification and whatever else is
needed.
Everyone suddenly went active. Bilich announced, talking to Ryzhov, the
Moscow dandy and me:
- Let's go eat.
I had, of coarse, nothing against throwing something in my stomach and
tipping a nip or two, but not in the company of this faceless shit, that's
why I politely refused his offer:
- Thank you so much, comrade Colonel, but I'd rather do it later. I
have to wash off the dust first and get the sniper and Semeonov's reports
out of the way. Other paperwork can't wait for too long either.
- As you wish. But at 2100, please be here at my meeting. Com-brig
should be too back by then, - carefully looking at me, said San Sanych. It
seemed that he figured out what the real reason for my refusal was.
They went inside. I watched the grunts carrying away all that remained
of Semeonov, then turned around and wandered off to my truck. Every
brigade's HQ officer had his own truck. With Yurka Ruzhov, between the two
of us, we shared GAZ-66 with a plywood cab. Although, most officers
preferred to spend those few minutes of rest in basements, we loved our cab.
We also had a personal driver, Harin Pashka, one meter and seventy tall,
with broad bone, big and always twinkly face, little eyes but red hair,
short, almost shaved, hairdo at the back, according to soldiers' fashion,
and always waving long quiff. Naturally, Pashka was a crook and a worm, but
I repeatedly observed him in gunfights: many times he pulled out the truck,
with us, from under fire, for that we cared for him and trusted him. In
peacetime Pashka was a leave abuser, bitter disciplinary offender, big
liquor fan and a womaniser. His pregnant fiance was waiting for him back
where we came from. He had another year to serve before discharge. Pashka
knew practically everything that was going on in the brigade thanks to his
friendship with the grunts from the HQ, communications hub and canteen. He
supplied us with news, some of which he found out significantly earlier than
we did, receiving his information from the comms operators. All of this gave
us more time to think about it and then come forward with good advice and
initiatives during the Sanych's or Com-brig's meetings, while others were
only chewing on the newly received information. For that our superiors
regarded us highly as competent officers. Although, we've always been on top
as it is, the head start was never a burden.
Walking up to our truck I noticed with satisfaction that Pashka managed
to fill up the sandbags and enclosed the truck with them. Now we can breath
almost freely. There was a thin puff of smoke rising from the pipe meaning
that we've got heat, hot water and dry cigarettes. I came up to the door and
called out without opening:
- Pashka! Where are you?
- I'm here, comrade Captain. Guarding.
Pashka's figure emerged from the dark; I glanced at the position, he
has chosen for his guard and noted to myself that he did it rather cleverly.
- All right, my lovechild, what've you got to make your father happy?
Did you behave? - I asked him jokingly.
- Everything's fine, Vechaslav Nikolaevich. Enclosed the truck with
sand, got some food too.
Food was a problem, same as matrasses, linen and the BDUs.
Reinforcement columns were left behind at the airport; it made no sense
dragging them down with us under fire. Only the tankers, carefully guarded,
carried over fuel for vehicles and power generators. Of coarse, every
officer and soldier had reserves in their tanks and APCs: canned stew and
meat kasha containers. But that's no real food, a paved road to stomach
ulcer. That's why everyone was constantly busy hounding for nutrition.
During the assault on this nice kindergarten, in its basements, we
found a decent supply of food and beverages. Much of that we've already
eaten and drunk, but we all knew who amassed most of it and using Pahka's
personal charm or his cheeky character, periodically expropriated some from
the comms operators.
- Sonny, - talking to Pashka, I worked my way into the cab, - What
kinds of entree and oversees brandy do you have to soften up your old and
sick father?
- Dutch ham, roasted lamb, sardines, I think French, and two bottles of
cognac, judging from the labels, also French.
- Got the hot water? - I inquired taking off my rifle, coat and other
apparel.
- Yep, full kettle, - reported Pashka, throwing the rifle behind his
back.
- Let's go, flush some on to me and then have dinner, - I have already
comfortably settled in the warm atmosphere of the cab and now unwillingly
stepped out into the night cold undressed.
I scrubbed myself slowly and carefully, huffing and spitting out dirt
and dust that clogged my nostrils and mouth. We had no steamer here so far;
for that reason we gathered a lot of fresh towels and some cheap polish
fragrance in the airport and periodically, stripping naked, rubbed ourselves
with them. Our underwear we just chucked, putting on new pairs each time.
I got back into the cab, put some cloths on and was wiping up my rifle
with a piece of cloth. Meanwhile, Pashka cut up the ham and smelly lamb ribs
and opened up a can of sardines. In the centre of the table he set up the
sealed bottle of cognac "Hennessey". I opened it and smelled the contents.
Not bad at all. Poured out some of it into plastic glasses, a bit more for
myself. I lifted the glass, looked though it at the light, shook it and
smelled once more, I definitely liked the aroma.
- So, Pavel, to good luck.
We cheered and tipped the glasses.
- Vechaslav Nikolaevich, what happened to the sniper?
- Don't you know already? Glue, Semeon, Americanets and the others
must've told you all about it by now. He died from the heart condition and
his wounds; the rest is none of your business. Now give me the news. Isn't
the war over yet?
- Not by a long shot, - pronounced Pashka, - on the contrary, the order
came through, to speed up the assault of the hotel "Kavkaz". They even
promised us air support. And then the brigade will be thrown in to storm the
Minutka Square with the Dudaev's Palace.
- That's where we'll all drop dead, because it is an obvious suicide to
attack a structure of this kind with only one brigade. What else?
- The second batt's Chief of Staff was wounded and some artist is up
there stuck with them. Shevchuk from "DDT". Ever heard of him?
- No, never heard of him before. What's he doing up there anyway?
- Nothing really. He came to Grozny for a concert and then asked for a
ride to the front line. Left all his musicians at the airport and popped up
over here. Who could predict that the second batt would be then screwed like
this? So now he's stuck there. Lads said on the radio he's pretty snappy,
not scared at all and even rushing into battle.
- Yep, now they'll throw our reserves in there to get him out and maybe
even take the hotel for once. Finally medivac all our wounded to the airport
and then go home.
- The Moscow officer was going around taking to grunts. What's up in
the brigade and how they're coping?
- You should've told him to go screw himself and that's that. They
won't send you any further than here. We've got our own zampolit to do this.
We've all seen him in action; he's not hiding behind grunts' backs and
doesn't crunch on his rations under the bed. And never throws any theatrical
shit either. OK, I'll figure out later what to do with that dick. It's
killing me that I can't remember where I saw him before, but I did for sure.
- He says he was in the Prednestrovie at some stage. Something like
this went down there. You were there too, weren't you? May be that's where
you met the man?
- May be so. Only I can tell you, Pashka, Pridnestravie of coarse was a
lot of fun, but compared to Chachnya all that was like an innocent walk in
the park. Over there, the war was more of a classic trench style, although,
Bendery and Dubosary did change hands a few times. But overall, compared to
this madhouse - boy-scout camp "Sunrise".
Now I noticed that Pashka was wearing a rifle bullet on a piece of rope
around his neck - an ancient soldiers' amulet; supposedly this very bullet
was meant for you. If it was only so! These "charms" only relax you
unnecessarily and flatten your sense of vigilance. I smirked:
- You better hang a hand-grenade there by its safety pin, and I'll
fetch it, or a mine. How about artillery round? How do you know that this
bullet was cast for you? Not shrapnel or a concrete block? Go ahead, hang
everything on your neck, it might be useful. Remember that grunt from the
tank battalion? They found him strangled by this very rope with bullet, just
like yours. It didn't save him. Thus, don't be a moron - take it off and use
the bullet as intended
Gabbing this way, I slowly wiped out the food on the table and leant
back. Lighting up a sniper's cigarette I took a puff. The packet was a bit
wet though, possibly from my sweat or humidity.
- Pashka, got dry cigarettes?
- Yep, - he handed me a packet of "Palmira", or, as we call it, "Bum in
the mountains". Because the packet depicted some kind of hobo with a stick
over his shoulder, wearing vocational panama and jellaba (just like a
"spook") and a mountain gorge on the background. - Please, Vechaslav
Nikolaevich. I've got more drying out on the heater. Give me yours; I'll fix
them up too.
I took the packet, twirled it, then lit up and stashed it in one of my
pockets.
- Give me paper, will you. I'll start on the sniper's report.
Pashka gave me paper and sat down near:
- Kozaks arrived, asking to let them fight. Even submitted letter of
recommendation from the Commander in Chief, - Pashka said softly while
cleaning up the remainders of my dinner. Meanwhile I was finishing off the
report.
- Well, if they are so anxious to fight for mother Russia - let them do
it. In Moldova they fought pretty well, even captured weapons for
themselves, - said I without raising my head.
- Bahel said the same thing and sent them to the recon guys. All five
of them.
- I suppose I should go and meet them at some stage.
All of a sudden, somewhere close by, a furious skirmish broke out. Both
I flew up the stairs and felt no wheeze. On the roof, nailed to the
cross, a dead soldier's body was resting, just like Jesus. His own cut off
penis stuck in his mouth. Without even looking at his dirty face, I knew: it
was he, Semeonov. I probably only saw him about 10 times before and never
even spoke to the man. But suddenly tears were in my eyes and something
pinched in my nose. Now I regretted that I never got the chance to properly
meet the lad. I think he wasn't even one of the permanent staff. Right
before the Chechen campaign, he was attached to our brigade from Abakan.
- They nailed him to the cross and put it up on the roof. The cross
collapsed from the explosion and that's probably why we didn't notice it
before. - Picasso tried to explain something to me, feeling a little awkward
that we didn't discover the body earlier.
- He's one of ours. - I pronounced, labouring to stay calm, - Semeonov,
of the sappers. Disappeared off the "North" while minesweeping. I found his
ID tag on one of the shooters.
The grunts were like lightning-struck; they fussed about Semeonov,
removing him carefully from the cross. While doing that, they tried not to
hurt him, handling his body like he was still alive, whispering not to wake
him up and tears were falling down their faces complicating this chilling
job even further. I looked away, pulled out a smoke and lit it up. Thirstily
inhaling I tried to push the clog in my throat further down, glancing at the
hustling grunts at times to see how things were moving along. When
Semeonov's body was at last removed from the cross, lads placed it on some
kind of stretchers they put together from all sorts of rubbish they could
collect around here. When it was all over I said:
- Glue, get on the "boxes". Tell them to come closer and that we are
coming with a "cargo 200"... Our "cargo 200".
I was coming down the stairs ahead of the rest, checking for anything
suspicious along the way. My grunts were carefully carrying the stretchers,
like the man on them was only wounded. At the rear, Glue was struggling
under the weight of his radio transmitter and scraps of the armoury we
discovered at the rag-heads' nest.
We loaded the body into the infantry compartment inside our APC and
started for the home. I felt that for any "spook" that tried to stick his
nose out now, this attempt would be, for sure, his last. Confirmation to my
thoughts was the empty and terrifying look in my grunts' eyes, were I could
see the reflection of my own feelings. Only the fire of vengeance was
blazing inside them and nothing else. Blood; blood; I now only craved for
blood to drown my rage, breaking their skulls with my rifle's butt, crushing
their ribs under my boots, tearing and ripping their veins with my finger
nails, looking in his, her, their eyes and asking: "Why, why did you shoot
at the Russian soldiers?"
OK, hold on motherfuckers, I'm coming. No mercy for anyone, not for the
elderly, not for the children, not for the women - NO BODY will be spared.
Ermolov and Stalin were both right - these folk are not to be re-educated,
only exterminated.
Our APCs were both speeding ahead. It seemed they were feeling our mood
too with their engines running absolutely fine now. Periodically, they
drenched us with their oily exhaust fumes, adding some kind of foppish gloss
to our black appearance. But our eyeballs were ablaze with mad fury,
demanding vengeance and there was now no place in our minds for fear.
Probably, in this state of mind, men run at machinegun nests to save others'
lives at the price of their own. Desire for vengeance suddenly grows into
care for those who are close to you and self-sacrifice for others.
Glinting at the surroundings I could feel movement inside the rubbles
with my skin. Resting AK on my elbow, I pulled out other ID tags and flicked
through a few more. Petrov Andrey Aleksandrovich - Maikop Brigade. Elizariev
Evgeniy Anatolievich - Internal Forces (they and the Rangers have their
garrison numbers marked with four digits and The Army have theirs marked
with five). Altogether, eight IDs - eight lives. Where are you boys?
Probably, no one will ever know and your mothers will be crying tears until
the end of their lives: their dead sons will have no graves. All of this is
awful. I finished off reading all of the remaining IDs, I was positive there
were no more grunts from our brigade in there. I hid them back in my inner
pocked, looked at my "cavalry" and shook my head, assuring them that none of
the remaining IDs belonged to anyone of ours. They again turned away,
watching out, racing past onetime battlefields. Demolished houses, torn down
trees, burnt and given up machinery. It was mostly tanks with torn
caterpillars and their turrets ripped off and tossed over to great
distances. APCs, with their thinner armour plates, were just blasted to
pieces. All depended on where the rockets hit and how much ammo the "boxes"
had onboard. Some drivers were lucky, others - not so much.
With pain I was looking at the trees. I like nature. Humans have a
choice. They can refuse to come here and go to jail for desertion or self
inflict an injury, thus buying themselves "the white" ticket out of here:
crafty Russians are capable of anything. But the trees and animals are
helpless. Men planted them at will; others came and wiped them out. And they
can do nothing in response. Neither trees, nor animals can flee or defend
themselves. Thus many died together with their owners on their porches. What
remain, people will eat later because of the famine. These-days people are
frequently seen tottering about like shadows amongst the rubble. Mostly
these are elderly men or middle-aged women. Everyone, who could fire weapons
and more or less think clearly, escaped into the mountains seeking
vengeance. No problem, we, in turn, will take revenge on them. Thus, closing
up this vicious circle. Every one of us thinks he's right. We all believe in
our own gods, praying them to help us and demanding retribution for deaths
of our friends and brothers. But God deals spoils and losses equally for
everyone. OK, so we'll fight. It would be pretty tough to fight the whole
nation though, as opposed to a regular army of one particular state. That's
what we've been taught to do. In an open field, busted your opponent,
occupied a town, picked up the spoils and back to the field. Here it's more
like in Afghanistan, fight the folk all you want. The whole thing is not
even a war. According to the law, all this is a piddling policing operation,
exclusive purpose of which is reinstating of the constitutional order.
However, no one knows what this order used to be like in the first place.
OK, while the "spooks" and us are mincing one another, someone in Moscow has
hit the jackpot. We've all seen a lot of that going on. For some, war is
like their mother. Not even one son of a bitch went down for all the blood
they've spilt in our spacious former Union. Not counting the Baltic States -
a couple of squealers and OMON guys went to jail, so what? They did nothing
but avenge the deaths of their friends, but those who gave them orders...
their bellies I would twitch with my bayonet, looking in their wide-open
from pain and fear eyes, listening to their deafening screams and breathing
in smell of their blood. That would be fun.
Yet here, people lived by penitentiary laws for four years. We fed them
with money, supplied with weapons and taught how to use them. Then we sent
them to fight in Osetia and Abhazia for us, - like we are not even aware of
what's going on. And when there was no longer need for them, they should've
been eliminated, but no, - we tried to domesticate the Chechen. Yeah, right!
He turned against our Moscow gang. Why, though, should the whole country
suffer? We even came here from Siberia to break up the dogs. China is closer
to us than Chechnya. Then men from ZabVO, DalVO and TOF were dragged down
here too. They can walk to the States or Japan. One thing isn't clear
though. Why is it so that the rag-heads left the oil refinery intact? We,
too, were strictly ordered not so much as touch it. Here is our Air Force,
happily bombing the city's living quarters, but as for the Staropromyslovsky
part - no way.
All of which means: the plant is somebody's property. Somebody who can
hush our Defence Minister and tell him specifically to leave it alone, - you
can level the whole town to the ground, but don't you dare ruining the
refinery. Of coarse, when Russian soldier is in rage, he's very difficult to
hold back, so too the rag-heads, not all are aware of the refinery's
importance. They naively think that they are actually fighting for their own
fucking freedom and don't get it, morons, that we are all simply taking part
in an ordinary criminal quarrel, very big though. One little baron decided
to screw The Big Daddy and start his own business. Then, Big Daddy sent his
own hood, the Russian Army, over, to bang the little fellow. But the baron
was a smart chap; he squalled with independence and sent his "bulls" in.
That's how the quarrel has begun. Now, no one can remember why the whole
thing started in the first place. The hoods are busy taking vengeance on
each other; meanwhile, their barons are making big bucks expropriating
salaries and pensions. The little one is pulling in Islamic World now, with
his cheap religious mottos. God, help us and forgive!
My APC took a sharp U-turn, which nearly cast me off the "armour".
That's right, moron, your business is to keep your teeth from clapping:
you'll break your neck one day, falling off the "armour" or a sharpshooter
snaps you. Your COs are there to think for you and supply you with the
ready-made decisions. Your objective is to survive and complete the task.
All else is shit. Take Andrei Petrov, former mortar platoon commander. He
had principles, right? He demanded that he be given two weeks to prepare his
men, considering the fact that his grunts were only drafted in November and
have only seen their rifles once before - during the oath. He was dismissed,
made an example, like a coward, a deserter. Replaced with a raw lieutenant -
two-year-termer college graduate. Where is that lieutenant now with his
mortar platoon? During the Airport assault he lost almost all of his men
and, himself, perished too. You see? They draft too many morons in The Army.
Some of them you have to stand for two years, others for twenty-five.
We tried to reason with our multi-star commanders that we are not ready
for any war, not technically, not logistically. Men are not prepared
physically. Then, in December, when the order came to load the gear onto the
locomotives and step out, the weather was freezing cold. As it is always
done in our Army, the diesel fuel, that vehicles were filled with, was of
the summer kind and rather depicted a tomato sauce. So, some smart ass from
our garrison came up with the idea to mix this "sauce" with kerosene. Yep!
You guessed it. One of the APCs blew up right in the parking lot with its
full ammo complement onboard; by some weird luck nobody was hurt. Second
burst while loading onto cars. And again God was on our side. And, as it is
customary in The Army, these events were used to write off much of the
property, just like Suvorov described in his "Saviour". According to the
official documents, those APCs had on board: not less than fifty uniform
coats, twenty-five night-vision devices, no fewer than a hundred pairs of
shoes and BDUs. When the papers were to be signed by the HQ representative,
he read that masterpiece and pronounced: "Add one more parka plus one more
BDUs, for me". Supplies XO added each of them by one and the General signed
the papers with his eyes shut.
Now this general is here somewhere. Thank God, he's just signing
papers. "Material battle losses" is probably his credo.
For now, my mind was occupied by thoughts of the dead sniper. What do I
tell at the HQ? How did it happen that he didn't make here? I knew well,
that no one would be breathing in my face with his honourable anger, only
with disappointment that they couldn't hank his guts themselves.
Particularly, the GRU and recon guys will be sad. It's their cup of tea,
just let them play with the fellow, they'd make him talk. We can do that
too, quick and simple, but they handle it gracefully. Liquor can't kill the
mastery.
Suddenly something moved in the rubble, twinkling with rays of the
setting sun. My mind hasn't even produced a thought yet, but my hands
already responded, quickly raising my AK, finger clung to the trigger. And
only then my judgement kicked in - I saw our artillery spotters, the lads
constructed their positions in one of the remaining pieces of a house by the
road. They too met us with their rifle barrels. All of us, however, managed
to keep our cool and hold fire. Moreover, they just began to wind their
"Shilka" in our direction. It is a large calibre anti-aircraft gun (ZSU)
with four barrels. It would've chopped us to chips for sure. Alright, at
least we identified each other in time. We shouted merrily something to each
other for greetings. This meant the HQ is near. Yep, there is the blazing
fire-fountain from the breached gas pipe. 200 or so yards and we're "home".
Now we can relax a little.
- Hey, radioman, - I said to Glue, - Let them know we're coming, or
they'll shoot us to hell.
Glue tattled something in his headset and nodded to me that we were OK
to go. Talking or rather shouting through roaring diesels seemed senseless
and inappropriate with the dead man onboard our APC. Everyone felt a little
guilty for some strange reason, although, on the other hand, knew well that
he, himself, could've been down there in his place.
Cars retarded a bit and, manoeuvring this way, we passed a virtual
labyrinth of remaining concrete blocks and bricks. Soldiers watched us
through their sights from behind every corner. Their faces were all covered
with dust and, from that, seemed made of stone. They all looked exhausted,
with their dog-tired red eyes. The lads greeted us with smiles and gestures,
lowering their guns. We greeted guards the same way. I knew, our officers
and men would be betting on me delivering the sniper alive and well.
Personally, I wouldn't put my money on his safe journey.
Lucky, we returned before the daybreak. Some smarty-pants in the
defence ministry invented a new password system for us. Before, everything
was nice and simple, but now, the thing is a brain surgery, without ten
years of high school or lots of liqueur, impossible to translate. For
example, before, the password was "Saratov" and the reply to it was
"Leningrad", even a moron could understand that. Some grunts can barely read
or write: outcomes of the "perestroika". The core of the new system is the
number: say thirteen. The guard, seeing a silhouette in the dark, calls out:
"Stop! Password - seven!" Now, you have to instantly take away seven out of
thirteen and quickly yell back: "Reply - six!". After all this, the guard
must add his "seven" and your "six", get "thirteen" and then let you pass.
But, if any one of you can't count well enough or has something else on his
mind, then, according to the Statute of the armed guard service, the guard
can, and will, shoot you on the spot without any further investigation. And
no one prosecutor would lift his finger to pursue this issue any further.
You, moron, should've been learning your math back in high school. Fine, if
you are not completely deaf and the grunt on duty can actually count, but
some smart asses call out fractions and negative numbers. That's when you
recall all of his relatives, and your math skills, while you're at it. For
all this, some shithead got promoted back in Moscow, or maybe, even a medal
on his chest. Those snakes are capable of anything.
Thinking this way, we stopped near the partly demolished kindergarten,
where our brigade's HQ was now situated. I jumped off the APC, rubbed my
stalled and frozen feet and started for the entrance dragging my stiff legs.
I had to see our HQ's CO, Lieutenant Colonel, Alexandr Alexandrovich Bilich
first. All of us called him San Sanych. Already on my way, I ordered my
grunts:
- Start offloading our hero, carefully.
Grunts nodded understandingly.
San Sanych was about 1.75m tall with broad shoulders and constant
sparks in his blue eyes. Or were the sparks just a fruit of our imagination?
San Sanych was somehow different from all the officers in our Brigade. He
was actually well mannered. At first, it seemed superficial, but the more
you got to know him the more you were convinced that it is really in his
nature. It seemed, he should've been born in times of chivalry, high society
and duels, definitely not in our mad century. Even now, when we are more or
less bottled in OK and started hammering our opposition, when the war, maybe
only at times for now, but has taken a proper shape of the trench warfare,
every day our lieutenant colonel Bilich has found the time for brief morning
exercises.
Every morning, if it was possible to catch any sleep at all at night,
we crawled out of our cellars shacking from the cold. Because it's winter,
may be southern, but still a winter. As a rule, there was no water, and our
old unshaven whiskers were no longer rough, but felt rather fuzzy. However,
looking at your CO, you, unwillingly, pick yourself up and find the time,
the water and the razor. Although, many officers, some superstitious or some
just plane lazy, grew beards and moustaches. Some even looked great like
that. The only one who looked exactly like a Chechen, was, our recon platoon
leader, Hlopov Roman, naturally possessing dark skin and having grown a
dense beard. This way, during the Station siege, he was nearly shot by his
own grunts. Luckily, he put on a helmet and his armoured west; otherwise,
our sporty protectors would've definitely done him. Since then, Hlopov - we
called him Hlop - developed a habit to shave every morning no matter what.
About one and a half weeks ago, when he and the reconnaissance CO broke
through to the Airport "North", the allied commander's HQ, on the way back
they ran into an ambush. Their APC was blasted by RPG fire from a point
blank range. Hlop died instantly, the CO had a bad concussion. For two days,
skirmishing along the way, their grunts were slowly sneaking home. They
brought back the Hlop's mutilated body and the severely concussed, almost
deaf and blind, reconnaissance CO, Captain Stepchenko Sergey Stanislavovich.
As they recounted afterwards, the days they spent in basements and at
nights, risking the bullet from Chechens or from us, they crept back to
their home base. They slept in turns, using parts of the poor Hlop's body as
pillows.
Maybe after his concussion or maybe after hiding in basements with the
corpse, Sereoga Stepchenko started having problems. We almost cured his
sight and hearing with liquor, but he couldn't stand closed and tight spaces
anymore. Mostly he's OK, working and fighting, but sometimes he's just
mumbling something completely out of this world. Our brigade's Commander,
Colonel Bahel Alexandr Antonovich, placed an order to dismiss Stepchenko
from his post, and watch him so he doesn't make any trouble. There was no
chance to medivac the man as even our wounded were lying in bunkers:
choppers couldn't land. He was, temporarily, replaced by senior lieutenant
Krivosheev Stepan. Bilich San Sanych was taking care of Stepchenko, not just
him though, of everyone around him. He arranged for the grunts that brought
him and the Hlop's body back, to be awarded each by the Hero Of Russia
Medal. But for now, the papers were kept in Chiefs of Staff's safe.
Out of his principles, Bilich didn't recognised physical methods during
conversations with the enemy or cursing with his own men. But the
interesting part was, I knew from my own personal experience, that if you
yell cursing at somebody, everything is done more quickly and clearly.
And now I had to explain to this gentleman that I failed to deliver the
sniper because grunts' thin patience wore off and they hung him off a tank's
barrel. Trying a few combinations in my mind that could spare San Sanych's
delicate hearing and let the Com-Batt and Ivan off the hook, I entered the
HQ. On the way in I met our Supplies XO, Kleymeonov Arkadi Nikolaevich.
Everybody was describing him with Suvorov's words: "...we can comfortably
hang any supply officer in one year time...". Looking at the well-shaped
figure of our "rear XO", you knew that the Generalissimos was absolutely
right: in his time, Kleimeonov would've being dangling off the tree by now.
His personal luggage has been growing in size by the day, regardless of the
heavy fighting.
- Ah, Slava, how was the trip? Got the sniper?
- No such luck, Arkadiy Nikolaeich, he passed away, - I made a
compassionate face, my eyes were telling a different story though and the
rear XO picked up on my game.
- Really? - Kleymeonov made a puzzled face and asked me, sounding
surprised.
- Weak heart, - I smiled, - he was wounded too, so didn't survive the
departure. Now I have to delicately explain it to San Sanych. He'll be
really sad.
- He's too busy for that now. By the way, nobody believed you'd bring
him anyway. Il'in and yourself could've thrown him harakiri over there on
the spot. It is a petty though; we had people queuing up to converse with
him, - Kleymeonov shone his teeth.
- They were betting, weren't they? - I asked.
- Sure, but mostly on your failure.
- By the way, I also brought a soldier with me, Semeonov, disappeared
during the "North" siege; my grunts are offloading him now. What else is
new?
- You were only gone for four hours. Oh, yeah, - his voice turned
gloomy, - Chief of Staff of the Second Battalion was wounded.
It seemed that the walls around us swayed.
- Sashka Pahomenko? - I asked.
- Himself. They are trying to break through to the hotel "Kavkaz".
There are as many rag-heads there as there are demons in hell, so he caught
a bullet in his chest. Medics couldn't get up there. Sargent patched him up
for now. Now we're getting a storm group ready, made of scouts. Under the
cover of dark, they'll try to get him out of there, - I could see Kleymeonov
was pretty sad, telling me all that.
Captain Pahomenko Alexandr Il'ich was loved by all in our brigade. Very
tall fellow, open-minded, he loved having fun. He knew countless gags, funny
stories and practical jokes, never malicious. The main thing about him was
his openness and honesty. It always deeply affected people who knew him.
While taking to him, in about ten minutes you felt like you had known the
man since your college years. With all that he was never a layabout or an
idler. He was always the first one where it was the hardest, always rushed
in to help everyone. Our officers and men liked him unmeasurably. He could
help with his words or action, he could also swear like hell - was a real
virtuoso in that field. He could get behind the steering wheel of an APC, in
freezing cold fix an engine or give soldiers a good lecture. Well, the very
type of officer that our information sources were always pounding us with.
Detesting his enemy, never hiding his genuine feelings, never refusing to
give a helping hand. A bit loud at times, but you get used to it in time.
That's what he's been to us, Sashka Pahomenko, who always asked to call him
"simply Il'ich". Strange, but at war, these little, long forgotten things
are suddenly surfacing in your mind. And now this young man was lying in
some basement with a hole in his chest. God help him.
- OK, Arkadiy Nikolaevich, I'm off to see San Sanych, - I nodded and
headed off along the corridor.
- He's in there with an Allied HQ representative. Bahel is out in the
Third Battalion's HQ, meanwhile this clean-cut chap is stamping Sanych's
brain. They'll probably throw us in to push somewhere, where our elite
forces shitted themselves. It's always like that, they get to receive medals
and fire at the parliament palace in Moscow and we, Siberian mahra, to
crunch asphalt in winter. For that, we get to go home and they will pose for
cameras and tell stories to girls, - he spewed and wondered off.
The corridor was full of officers and soldiers. Some were smoking, some
taking a snooz, leaning against walls riddled by bullets and shrapnel and
raising their heads time to time from close explosions.
We paid one hell of a price for this kindergarten. In his time, Dudaev
announced that Chechnya does need scientists but needs warriors. Thus, boys
should go to school for three years and girls for only one. Since women stay
at home at all times anyway, kindergartens became obsolete. Then, people,
close to his government, some with bribes, some with force, has claimed them
all. This one too was rebuilt as a villa and belonged to one of the Dudaev's
bandits. The owner and his gang fought for it with ferocity.
We were busting these snakes out of here for 12 hours straight and when
finally broke in, learnt that he maintained a pretty good live style in
here: all floors were covered in carpets, not the cheap stuff but handmade.
Design furniture, crystal and china, appliances we only ever saw in
brochures. Left around photos had all his family pictured. We lacked women
here, that's for sure, but I have never seen a pretty Chechen, not on
pictures, not in real life. All had small faces, narrow eyes, hooklike noses
and thin lips. Just like rats, if you ask me. Everyone has different tastes
though. As we say, - "there are no ugly women, there is just not enough
liquor, but I couldn't drink that much..."
Occupied by this kind of thoughts I entered the main HQ's room in the
basement. I pushed the door covered up by a raincoat-tent and felt the
warmth coming from the army camping heater in the corner. I guess these
heaters are only still alive in the Army. As long as the army exists they'll
always be there on manoeuvres and at war, to offer soldiers warmth and
comfort.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, captain Mironov, reporting back to duty,
- I reported, looking at Bilich, who was leaning at the map. Next to him,
bent over the map, were my partner or, as we called each other, "henchman",
major Ryzhov Yuri Nikolaevich and some other officer.
- We've been waiting for you, Vechaslav Nikolaevich. Did you pick up
the sniper? - The Chief of staff asked me, inquisitively looking in my eyes.
- Here is your mate, - he nodded at Ryzhov, - was betting a six-pack of
cognac that you won't.
- If I had only known about the cognac, Alexandr Alexandrovich, I
would've brought back at least his head. But the dog died from his wounds
and probably from some kind of heart condition. The son of a bitch was, from
his own words, our compatriot, from Siberia. Thirty-two slashes I found on
his rifle's butt and a fine Japanese scope too.
- Where is the rifle? - Took interest in our conversation Ryzhov.
- I left it back there. They show it to the grunts for ferocity and not
a bad feed for themselves too.
- Yeah right, "feed". We all need only one feed now - air support,
probable enemy positioning and where the bustards are getting their
resupplies from. They were not ready for this war for sure and prepared
nothing: no arms, no ammunition and no food.
- That's not all, - I interrupted Bilich, - on the way back we were
fired upon and took on the rag-heads. After the counterattack, destroyed our
enemy and found these on the corpses... - I reached my hand out with the
dead soldier's ID tag. - One of ours. Semeonov.
Again a clog was stuck in my throat, making it difficult to talk or
breath. I pulled my cigarettes out. Bilich wouldn't object, realising what
state I was in, although himself was a non-smoker. After a few deep gasps I
felt the clog disappearing and continued:
- The snakes, probably, were torturing him for some time, and likely
while he was still alive, cut his penis off. Then nailed him to a cross,
like Jesus. Penis stuck in his mouth. We brought him back; my grunts are
probably offloading him now. Here is some more, - I fetched the rest of the
IDs, - them too I got off the dead "spook". No more of ours though.
San Sanych carefully listened to me, looking straight into my eyes,
then, took the ID tags, briefly flicked through them, noting only the
garrison numbers, added them up in a little pyramid and handed it to the
unfamiliar officer.
- By the way, let me introduce you, - he turned to the major, - Major
Karpov Vechaslav Viktorovich, Allied HQ representative, General Command HQ
officer. And this, - he said pointing at me, - Captain Mironov, our
Brigade's HQ senior officer, an adventurer and a warrior. Still can't get
accustomed to the fact that he is a HQ officer now not a combat company
commander, - San Sanych somewhat fatherly lectured me.
I was a bit stunned by the fact that my CO would speak of me so
heartily. I reached out and shook the major's hand.
- Vechaslav, - he introduced himself.
Namesake. We'll see, what kind of bird you are and what the hell you're
here for. I figure, one of the big boys, since was sent to us. They might
want us softened up before giving some suicidal task or maybe find out in
what state of affairs the brigade is in and then fire the CO. These fat cats
from Moscow love this kind of tricks.
I looked at him a bit more carefully this time. The face definitely
looks familiar, but where I saw him before, I, for now, couldn't recall. OK,
we'll figure that one out later. The fact that he was from Moscow and from
the General Command HQ, immediately made me, like any other line combat
officer, dislike him. All grievances come from them. They are all bastards
and voracious rats. All soldiers knew this axiom, watching them do nothing
but drink themselves stupid at every inspection and then departing for home
with generous gifts. Human garbage, from first to last. It's their fault
we're here in the first place. Moscow has planned the first and this Grozny
assaults. 25[th] of November and 1[st] of January will
both be black pages in the Russian Army's History Book.
I thought about it while I was shaking the Moscow officer's hand and
squeezing out of my face some kind of smile. Although, I think, my parched
face reflected all my thoughts pretty well. But I couldn't send this coxcomb
to hell right here, in front of San Sanych, whom I respected too much.
- Vechalsav, - I introduced myself back to this Moscow rooster.
- Major Karpov, take these IDs to the HQ please, let them work out
which regions the soldiers are from and notify their families, - San Sanych
passed the tags to him.
The rep nodded, took the IDs and without even looking or counting,
dropped them into one of his parka's outer pockets. Any normal officer
would've at least counted them respectful of the dead.
I was a bit disturbed by this and asked the son of a bitch with badly
hidden irritation:
- Aren't you going to loose them like this, my honourable man? Human
lives are behind them.
Spotting the rage in my voice, San Sanych and Ryzhov looked at the guy
like he was an enemy of the state. He must've understood his lapse, mumbled
something and placed the IDs in one of his flank jacket inner pockets,
meanwhile giving me a very expressive look, like he wanted to grind me into
dust. Alright, my boy, look all you want, I can chill a drunken soldier with
my look, as for you, dandy ass, I can bring you down to your knees. I calmly
stood the look of his watery eyes. He even seemed flimsy. About a meter
seventy in hight, may be less, skinny and with small head. All blond, like
albino, except his eyes, they weren't red, but rather colourless. His
appearance was just repulsive, and his quiff, that he was fixing constantly,
was even adding something female to it. Maybe he's gay: a funny thought
breezed through my mind. The General Command HQ Officer is a homo. That
would make a lot of noise. Well, I heard, in Moscow, it's very fashionable
these days - alternative sexual lifestyles. I don't think I'll be sleeping
next to him. Though, I think he's just lifeless, like a jellyfish. I might
offer to paint this queer orange, for fun. Would make snipers' job easier
too.
For a second, I imagined the major painted in red colour and a smile
stretched my lips. Karpov studied himself nervously - something wrong with
his dress? Having ensured that his uniform was intact and finally realising
that I'm just laughing at him, he stared at me angrily in response.
Knowing my wild character and to relieve the tension in the air, San
Sanych declared, talking to everyone at the same time:
- Let's stop plotting against each other for now and go see Semeonov's
corpse. We'll fill in the paperwork and you, Vechaslav Viktorovich, - he
looked at Karpov, - would have to take him with you to the airport and send
home.
We all moved for the exit. Officers and men were already out in the
yard. The corpse was carefully placed on the rolled out canvas, hands folded
on his chest. Nail holes in the wrists were clearly seen, his face was
thoughtfully covered with a soldiers' handkerchief. Hats off, all present
were just standing around in silence. What was on their minds could only be
read on their tight-lipped faces. Lucky for the sniper, he was dead. Here,
he would've lived a long time, to his distress.
Bilich came over to the diseased, lifted up the handkerchief, looked at
his dirty face with forever frozen mask of terror on it, sighed and, turning
toward standing next to him Kleymeonov, gave him an order:
- Arkadiy Nikolaevich, fill in the ID report and prepare the body to be
sent home. The HQ representative will take it with him.
- Sure, Alexandr Nikolaevich, - and then to the surrounding him grunts,
- Take the man inside. It's warmer in there. Call for the bookkeeper; tell
him to write up the ID Act, the death notification and whatever else is
needed.
Everyone suddenly went active. Bilich announced, talking to Ryzhov, the
Moscow dandy and me:
- Let's go eat.
I had, of coarse, nothing against throwing something in my stomach and
tipping a nip or two, but not in the company of this faceless shit, that's
why I politely refused his offer:
- Thank you so much, comrade Colonel, but I'd rather do it later. I
have to wash off the dust first and get the sniper and Semeonov's reports
out of the way. Other paperwork can't wait for too long either.
- As you wish. But at 2100, please be here at my meeting. Com-brig
should be too back by then, - carefully looking at me, said San Sanych. It
seemed that he figured out what the real reason for my refusal was.
They went inside. I watched the grunts carrying away all that remained
of Semeonov, then turned around and wandered off to my truck. Every
brigade's HQ officer had his own truck. With Yurka Ruzhov, between the two
of us, we shared GAZ-66 with a plywood cab. Although, most officers
preferred to spend those few minutes of rest in basements, we loved our cab.
We also had a personal driver, Harin Pashka, one meter and seventy tall,
with broad bone, big and always twinkly face, little eyes but red hair,
short, almost shaved, hairdo at the back, according to soldiers' fashion,
and always waving long quiff. Naturally, Pashka was a crook and a worm, but
I repeatedly observed him in gunfights: many times he pulled out the truck,
with us, from under fire, for that we cared for him and trusted him. In
peacetime Pashka was a leave abuser, bitter disciplinary offender, big
liquor fan and a womaniser. His pregnant fiance was waiting for him back
where we came from. He had another year to serve before discharge. Pashka
knew practically everything that was going on in the brigade thanks to his
friendship with the grunts from the HQ, communications hub and canteen. He
supplied us with news, some of which he found out significantly earlier than
we did, receiving his information from the comms operators. All of this gave
us more time to think about it and then come forward with good advice and
initiatives during the Sanych's or Com-brig's meetings, while others were
only chewing on the newly received information. For that our superiors
regarded us highly as competent officers. Although, we've always been on top
as it is, the head start was never a burden.
Walking up to our truck I noticed with satisfaction that Pashka managed
to fill up the sandbags and enclosed the truck with them. Now we can breath
almost freely. There was a thin puff of smoke rising from the pipe meaning
that we've got heat, hot water and dry cigarettes. I came up to the door and
called out without opening:
- Pashka! Where are you?
- I'm here, comrade Captain. Guarding.
Pashka's figure emerged from the dark; I glanced at the position, he
has chosen for his guard and noted to myself that he did it rather cleverly.
- All right, my lovechild, what've you got to make your father happy?
Did you behave? - I asked him jokingly.
- Everything's fine, Vechaslav Nikolaevich. Enclosed the truck with
sand, got some food too.
Food was a problem, same as matrasses, linen and the BDUs.
Reinforcement columns were left behind at the airport; it made no sense
dragging them down with us under fire. Only the tankers, carefully guarded,
carried over fuel for vehicles and power generators. Of coarse, every
officer and soldier had reserves in their tanks and APCs: canned stew and
meat kasha containers. But that's no real food, a paved road to stomach
ulcer. That's why everyone was constantly busy hounding for nutrition.
During the assault on this nice kindergarten, in its basements, we
found a decent supply of food and beverages. Much of that we've already
eaten and drunk, but we all knew who amassed most of it and using Pahka's
personal charm or his cheeky character, periodically expropriated some from
the comms operators.
- Sonny, - talking to Pashka, I worked my way into the cab, - What
kinds of entree and oversees brandy do you have to soften up your old and
sick father?
- Dutch ham, roasted lamb, sardines, I think French, and two bottles of
cognac, judging from the labels, also French.
- Got the hot water? - I inquired taking off my rifle, coat and other
apparel.
- Yep, full kettle, - reported Pashka, throwing the rifle behind his
back.
- Let's go, flush some on to me and then have dinner, - I have already
comfortably settled in the warm atmosphere of the cab and now unwillingly
stepped out into the night cold undressed.
I scrubbed myself slowly and carefully, huffing and spitting out dirt
and dust that clogged my nostrils and mouth. We had no steamer here so far;
for that reason we gathered a lot of fresh towels and some cheap polish
fragrance in the airport and periodically, stripping naked, rubbed ourselves
with them. Our underwear we just chucked, putting on new pairs each time.
I got back into the cab, put some cloths on and was wiping up my rifle
with a piece of cloth. Meanwhile, Pashka cut up the ham and smelly lamb ribs
and opened up a can of sardines. In the centre of the table he set up the
sealed bottle of cognac "Hennessey". I opened it and smelled the contents.
Not bad at all. Poured out some of it into plastic glasses, a bit more for
myself. I lifted the glass, looked though it at the light, shook it and
smelled once more, I definitely liked the aroma.
- So, Pavel, to good luck.
We cheered and tipped the glasses.
- Vechaslav Nikolaevich, what happened to the sniper?
- Don't you know already? Glue, Semeon, Americanets and the others
must've told you all about it by now. He died from the heart condition and
his wounds; the rest is none of your business. Now give me the news. Isn't
the war over yet?
- Not by a long shot, - pronounced Pashka, - on the contrary, the order
came through, to speed up the assault of the hotel "Kavkaz". They even
promised us air support. And then the brigade will be thrown in to storm the
Minutka Square with the Dudaev's Palace.
- That's where we'll all drop dead, because it is an obvious suicide to
attack a structure of this kind with only one brigade. What else?
- The second batt's Chief of Staff was wounded and some artist is up
there stuck with them. Shevchuk from "DDT". Ever heard of him?
- No, never heard of him before. What's he doing up there anyway?
- Nothing really. He came to Grozny for a concert and then asked for a
ride to the front line. Left all his musicians at the airport and popped up
over here. Who could predict that the second batt would be then screwed like
this? So now he's stuck there. Lads said on the radio he's pretty snappy,
not scared at all and even rushing into battle.
- Yep, now they'll throw our reserves in there to get him out and maybe
even take the hotel for once. Finally medivac all our wounded to the airport
and then go home.
- The Moscow officer was going around taking to grunts. What's up in
the brigade and how they're coping?
- You should've told him to go screw himself and that's that. They
won't send you any further than here. We've got our own zampolit to do this.
We've all seen him in action; he's not hiding behind grunts' backs and
doesn't crunch on his rations under the bed. And never throws any theatrical
shit either. OK, I'll figure out later what to do with that dick. It's
killing me that I can't remember where I saw him before, but I did for sure.
- He says he was in the Prednestrovie at some stage. Something like
this went down there. You were there too, weren't you? May be that's where
you met the man?
- May be so. Only I can tell you, Pashka, Pridnestravie of coarse was a
lot of fun, but compared to Chachnya all that was like an innocent walk in
the park. Over there, the war was more of a classic trench style, although,
Bendery and Dubosary did change hands a few times. But overall, compared to
this madhouse - boy-scout camp "Sunrise".
Now I noticed that Pashka was wearing a rifle bullet on a piece of rope
around his neck - an ancient soldiers' amulet; supposedly this very bullet
was meant for you. If it was only so! These "charms" only relax you
unnecessarily and flatten your sense of vigilance. I smirked:
- You better hang a hand-grenade there by its safety pin, and I'll
fetch it, or a mine. How about artillery round? How do you know that this
bullet was cast for you? Not shrapnel or a concrete block? Go ahead, hang
everything on your neck, it might be useful. Remember that grunt from the
tank battalion? They found him strangled by this very rope with bullet, just
like yours. It didn't save him. Thus, don't be a moron - take it off and use
the bullet as intended
Gabbing this way, I slowly wiped out the food on the table and leant
back. Lighting up a sniper's cigarette I took a puff. The packet was a bit
wet though, possibly from my sweat or humidity.
- Pashka, got dry cigarettes?
- Yep, - he handed me a packet of "Palmira", or, as we call it, "Bum in
the mountains". Because the packet depicted some kind of hobo with a stick
over his shoulder, wearing vocational panama and jellaba (just like a
"spook") and a mountain gorge on the background. - Please, Vechaslav
Nikolaevich. I've got more drying out on the heater. Give me yours; I'll fix
them up too.
I took the packet, twirled it, then lit up and stashed it in one of my
pockets.
- Give me paper, will you. I'll start on the sniper's report.
Pashka gave me paper and sat down near:
- Kozaks arrived, asking to let them fight. Even submitted letter of
recommendation from the Commander in Chief, - Pashka said softly while
cleaning up the remainders of my dinner. Meanwhile I was finishing off the
report.
- Well, if they are so anxious to fight for mother Russia - let them do
it. In Moldova they fought pretty well, even captured weapons for
themselves, - said I without raising my head.
- Bahel said the same thing and sent them to the recon guys. All five
of them.
- I suppose I should go and meet them at some stage.
All of a sudden, somewhere close by, a furious skirmish broke out. Both