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was absolutely fine.
- Yep, that's right, servicemen' skulls are tough.
- Doc, you've seen a lot of skulls. Which ones are tougher?
- Airborne, for sure. They hit their heads constantly against the edge
of the plane's hatch and land on their heads sometimes too, - the hangar
shook with the thunderous laugh this time, - I'm kidding, I'm kidding,
everyone's skull is different. Unfortunately, they don't get any stronger
with careers. Imagine if that was true, how thick colonels' and generals'
skulls would be.
- Yeah, that's funny, imagine, fellows, how thick must be Rolin's
skull! I say it could take a direct hit from a tank cannon.
- He probably wouldn't even need a helmet.
- Hey, help me up over here. There's more here of interest, - Zhenya
again started to climb another rack. - Yeah, exactly what we need! Take it
carefully.
We took down a box from him with cardiamin and some other stuff.
- It's for treating heart failure, - he explained, leaping down and
dusting himself off.
He climbed up a few more racks in this fashion, selected more boxes and
passed them down to us. We, in turn, stockpiled them outside and left them
all there in guards' possession.
After that we visited a few more hangars, smaller than the first one,
where we picked up all sorts of stuff. Everyone's pockets were full of
vitamin tablets and soldiers were carrying huge cans with them. All of us
were already crunching on the tablets and some were even chewing
anti-nicotine chewing gum, hoping to quit smoking right about now. I loaded
up on vitamins too as well as nicotine patches, zhen-shen balsam, tablets
for Yura and some other stuff.
Everyone was in fabulous mood. I looked at my watch and thought that I
might even make it to the briefing. At the thought of the briefing I knew
that relaxation time was nearly over. We must go back.
- Let's move it boys! The sun is setting.
It's true, the noon was almost over.
- Hurry up, will ya. Get the boxes. I'm not in the mood to spend the
night out here.
Suddenly, the noise of sporadic gunfire came over from where we left
our armour.
- What the hell!? I thought, for once we could do something without
interruption. Go, go, fellows! - I sprinted forward, carrying a package with
heavy drugs, given to me by Zhenya.
To get everything out we had to bust a little armoured door. For some
strange reason no one has yet managed to snatch the drugs or may be we were
just lucky. We've got the rare medicines and I had a feeling we'd soon need
them.
The gunfire soon died away which was very strange to say the least.
Perhaps our drivers got it mixed up or maybe, they were not the winners.
- Come on! Move it fellows.
- Go! Go!
- Hold on, guys!
- We'll fry the motherfuckers!
- Let's just hope the carriers are fine!
Kicking and screaming like that we scooted ahead via the school rubble.
The school's upper floors at the rear have all collapsed, having made a
virtual hill with its debris, all the way down to the warehouses. Coming
down was easy enough, but running uphill, stumbling on chips of bricks and
concrete, was no fun at all. A funny kids rhyme suddenly popped in my mind:
"...what a hard work that would be, to pull a hippo from a swamp...".
Breathing heavily, falling down and getting back up again, tearing skin off
our hands and faces and busting ampoules with medicine, we ran up the
school's second floor and dashed down the opposite hill. Since I had the
smallest box, I overtook everyone and was the first to see that our
mechanics were peacefully chatting with some other unfamiliar soldiers next
to the armoured tracks. I stood still in the shadow and carefully looked at
the panorama.
Everything seemed calm. Nobody seemed to be hiding or slinking about.
Haven it was. I caught my breath and spewed with green and yellow slime
again. Damn it. I've got to quit smoking. Others came up. All of us, with
rifles braced, started to come down slowly. Those guys could be deserters or
may be again, escaped cons. OK, we'll see when we get there.
Coming closer, we saw that the guests were like us, "the saviours",
"members of the southern adventure force". Having noticed our arrival, my
mechanic leapfrogged over to me and jerked his hand up to his helmet in
salute and reported:
- Comrade Captain, during your absence nothing particular happened,
with the exception... we mistook our neighbours for ragheads and opened fire
at them...
- And the number of casualties is...
- None, we quickly worked it out.
- That's good. Imagine, if you were better shooters you might've killed
each other.
- Comrade Captain, I am a platoon leader of the 125st artillery
regiment, lieutenant Krikov! -Junior officer, barely any older than his
subordinates, came up to me and saluted.
"Krikov - Kryukov", it rhymed inside my head. Strangely enough, I was
thinking of Kryukov this morning and now see Krikov. It's all too funny.
- When did you graduate? - Someone asked from the back.
- This year, - proudly answered lieutenant.
- Right, - I whistled, - Lucky you didn't kill each other. What the
hell are you doing out here anyway?
- We were getting some water for the division. When we walked down,
there were no one here, but returning we stumbled upon your backup. We've
not enough people and too many heavy water tanks. We had no choice but to do
the run without reconnaissance since every one was carrying water.
Lieutenant was saying "us", like the decisions he was making were based
on his and his men "chinese parliament", which was most probably true. He is
very "green". I had the urge to give him a lecture, but held it in. He won't
learn anything anyway until he steps into his own shit. That shit though
could be his last. Thinking of this I spewed again. What a moron, ha? He'll
die and his men would perish too. I could hold it in no more:
- Next time, lieutenant, take either more men or fewer flasks.
Otherwise, an ambush is out there waiting for you. Get it? - I told him in
low voice.
The man cringed under my look and most probably would say something
daring in response but in the end changed his mind. So very "green" he was
that all his thoughts could easily be read on his face. He thought it over
for a while and then asked:
- Comrade Captain, could you give us a ride for a few blocks to the
regiment, I wouldn't want to tab all the way back. Spooks are always a
problem too, wouldn't want to meet them either.
- Sure, get in. Where do you get your water? - Stupid question, really,
in this situation. Where else but Sunzha?
- From Sunzha, of course. Twice someone shot at us. - Lieutenant was
bragging.
- If they wanted you dead, they would've left one good sniper there and
we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. Where abouts? - I rolled
out the map while we walked back to the carriers.
- Here, - Krikov pointed at the spot, five blocks away from the school.
- And here is the nest the shots came from.
- OK, I wouldn't venture for water out here anymore, tomorrow they'll
be waiting for us up there for sure. Did you at least shoot back?
- Of course.
- Fine, get in the trucks.
We loaded up on the armour and set off. In a few blocks lieutenant
asked to pull over.
I gave the order to stop and APCs halted. Lieutenant and his men leapt
off, waved us good by and walked off to the regiment quarters, crooked under
the heavy weight of their tanks and flasks. Another half an hour and we were
back at our base. Instantly Corpsemen hurried off to their tents to sort out
the spoils. I was off to my cab too where Pashka was feeding firewood to our
stove.
- Tell me news, - I asked him taking off my gear.
- No news. Everyone is at the briefing. Is that true we'll have a go at
Minutka soon?
- Yeah. - I said dryly, - long briefing?
- It's been going on for about hour and a half. They've been calling
for you a few times.
- No shit, - I walked out and lit up on the way to briefing room.
Making my way through the mud, I came over to the HQ. Crowd of officers
and men near the entrance were having a lively discussion. I neither wanted
to put off my sweet cigarette or get in there and continue on discussing
those suicidal plans. The question now was how many hundreds of us will die
out there. The "enemy" at the "North" and Moscow has finally rejected our
appeal for air and artillery support and tightened the time frames. What we
now had to discuss was which battalion was to go in first. Officers tried to
tell me something but I wasn't listening to anybody. In my head, I was
struggling to come up with the right arguments in favour of my plan, which I
haven't even finished composing yet, but some details were already beginning
to build up. There was, it seemed, a small chance to reduce the number of
casualties. Having read my state of mind, the officers left me alone. I
nodded to them in appreciation and tossed off my cigarette, which fell into
the mud in an arc-like trajectory. Just like the life itself, isn't it? As
soon as gets atop, it slams right back down. I was thinking how many lives
would tomorrow fall without even reaching the top. Old men invented the war.
They are already infertile but still lack wisdom and surely have enough
ambitions for all the young ones put together. Their Power lets them push
the youth to die for their old ideals and, after having satisfied their
thirst for blood, they'd be stealing again left, right and forward
whatever's left there. We, officers, the witnesses to their madness, are
pretty much done too. They'll do to us what they did to the veterans of the
afghan campaign. They'll portray us as idols, and then would demote us to
the status of drunks and drug junkies. Those vets are now officially
murderers that had gashed off peaceful afghan population unable to take on a
decent force. Now they're shut out, blamed for everything. Their official
diagnosis - the "afghan syndrome". Jesus, how many more of those "syndromes"
they've forgotten to mention. Every hotspot is another "syndrome". Too many,
if ask me, even for such large state like Russia.
I was just "winding up" myself. It is better to walk in already pissed
off and "wound up" than do it in there. Everybody's already tired of endless
useless arguments and constant dead-end conversations and you are barging
in, aggressive, ready to tear to pieces every one in your way. Your opinion
at this stage is a breath of fresh air.
My ideas have already begun to take shape of a final plan. We depended
heavily though on our captured men not being in that palace, because I was
afraid we could knock them out too.
There is a device that sappers use for pushing mines out. It would work
for us beautifully. The thing consists of a rocket with three jet engines,
one for the flight and two initial boosters. When it takes off it drags
behind it a thick hose stuffed with C4 and only flies in one particular
direction. When that hose (or gut) unwinds all the way, the rocket slumps
and in a few seconds the gut's C4 detonates, making a ditch about four
meters wide. This "dragon" is employed to make ways for infantry inside
minefields. Those mines that do not explode, after the detonation would
surely be pushed out on the surface anyway. Depending on a type of terrain,
the width of the ditch could vary from one meter to four.
Therefore, if we got close to that fricking palace, we could launch a
few of these "dragons" toward it. After that not much of that whorehouse
will be left standing. The most important task would be to destroy the lower
floors. The rest would fall soon after, burying them all in there. But
again, it only worked well in case only the spooks were inside. Anyway, I
walked up to the entrance, moved my AK behind my back, and pushed the door
open.
- May I come in, comrade Colonel? - I interrupted Bahel in the middle
of his explanation.
All battalion commanders, their chiefs, com-brig's XOs and other HQ
officers were looking at the map. A few more men were smoking near the
window breach barricaded with sandbags.
- Come in, Mironov. How was the trip?
- Very well, comrade Colonel.
- Please take a seat and do not interrupt us. Whatever you have missed
you can find out later.
He turned to the map again and moved his pen across it, using it as
pointer. Judging from the spot he was at, we were now storming the State
Bank. Which in turn meant that we have already taken over (on the map that
is) the bridges and successfully moved across the open space under the hail
of gunfire. I should probably ask them afterwards how they did it. For now
I'll just seat here quietly and listen. The time will come for me to stand
up and express my point of view, like any other present here. First, the
lowest ranking officers will speak, then, all the way up the pyramid. It is
done deliberately, so that the opinion of the higher-ranking officers wasn't
weighing on their shoulders. At the end, com-brig will do the summing up.
He, the brigade's commander, is the one responsible for every single thing,
he is to oversee the state of affairs, make decisions, give out orders and
control the way they are carried out. His chief of staff could sometimes get
a piece of the pie, but mostly it is up to him to do all those things. Same
order is in the trenches. Battalion, company or platoon commander is always
responsible for his unit. He is the one who would get all the blame if his
men didn't achieve the objective. Tribunal would be swift, it won't drag on,
I'd vouch for that. Best case scenario, he'll lose his ranks, get kicked out
of the army and go back to farming. Worst case: court martial, dishonourable
discharge, his medals taken away and then jail.
In our country, the most fearful prefix to your status is "ex-". If
they could have a go at the ex-president, an ex-military commander's rank is
no cover for sure. If they found out you were at war, hold on to your pants,
my friend, you are as good as dead. You're now a war criminal. The blood of
innocent civilians is most definitely on your hands. We, law-abiding
citizens killed no one. If any of our countrymen are being slaughtered
somewhere in the south, so be it. What else would you like, Mr President,
maybe send more of our children to the next bloodbath? No problem, sir! We
voted for you so how can you possibly be wrong or lie to us? Not a chance!
Did you, my reader, think like that? Or maybe still thinking?
Chehov once said that one must squeeze a slave out of oneself, drop by
drop. It must be added that our rulers should be daily squeezing big bosses
out.
Just look at the map. How can possibly a republic, so small that it's
marked on the map as dot, be threatening Russia's sovereignty? Unless, you
feed and support this motley general, encouraging his fiery speeches. Come
on, he's nothing but a little Fuhrer with the chechen accent. When they
needed Lev Trozhki dead, he was slain like a street dog, in Mexico, with an
ice picker and without any guided missiles. I refuse to believe that this ex
soviet pilot was so smart as to get away.
For a reward, they'll serve you his head on a plate with salad and
mayonnaise. Every one is worth money. If you can't buy a guy, put a hit on
him. That's tricky though, because he might know the key combination to your
bank account in Zurich, or maybe some other dirt on you.
We, like all fine-bred sheep, would again go to the voting tables and
vote for those who'd send us to another bloody "hood wrangle", send our
children to slaughter and force veterans of the Great Patriotic War fetch
empty cans from the rubbish bins.
It's not about communists, democrats, socialists and other masters of
jabbering. These guys are only after our bread and butter. The purpose of
war is to redirect our attention from that stealfest.
Meanwhile the briefing went on, the plan was drafted and presented. The
time has come for us to speak up. Suddenly, San Sanych was called by an RTO
to take an important phone call. All of us kept silent, may be the whole
thing was called off. He came back to the table horrified and sat down with
a helpless look on his face. Com-brig could no longer hold it:
- Just tell us, will you.
- We are receiving intelligence reports, confirmed by the opposition,
that all our captured wounded are being brought up into the palace. We are
to be extremely careful during the assault. Air support was refused, no
"Grads" or "Uhragans" would be provided either and we are to use only our
own artillery.
Complete silence now hung in the room. The only ones to break it were
the sounds of heavy breathing, moving chairs and a sudden loud crunch of
com-brig's pencil. It seemed he didn't even notice that he broke it. He was
still holding the pieces and staring at the wall. Everyone went into stupor.
- We can't go in without artillery or air support, full stop. - Broke
the silence commander of the first battalion.
- We can't use them either. The hostages will die. But they'd die
regardless whether we have support or not - Continued commander of the tank
battalion.
- Either the spooks will finish them off or we'd stop their sufferings
with an accidental burst, grenade or mortar shrapnel. Same difference. I
wouldn't want to be their murderer in a million years. It's a dead-end
situation. - Third battalion's commander was thinking and talking at the
same time.
- We don't stand a chance in a world to even try and save the
prisoners. But attempting to do so we could lose a lot more of our men.
Neither can we ignore the possibility of counterattacks. - Continued
Com-brig's artillery XO.
Before the pause got too long, Com-brig tossed away pieces of his
pencil:
- Take a ten-minute break. Your men are to be told nothing! After the
break everyone has three minutes to express his opinion on the subject.
All of us poured outside to breathe in some fresh air, take a leak and
have a smoke. While at it, we talked about all the previously mentioned
without the commander.
- We're totally screwed!
- What the hell are they thinking?
- Now, for sure, we'd have to climb those walls like pirates with
knives.
- OK, we've got to think men. - It seemed that the tank battalion
commander was not at all concerned with all this hype. He spoke to the art
battalion commanders and the com-brig's XO. Would you be able to get your
howitzers a little closer to the palace?
- I don't think so. The bridges won't handle the load. My
self-propelled cannons are too heavy, too slow and the on-board ammunition
stocks are too small. They'd have to be resupplied constantly. We'd have to
be somewhere close, but not too close, dug in position. Then, we'd shell
over your heads and houses right where you'd want us.
But the tankers' com-batt wasn't listening to him anymore. He was
mumbling something to himself:
- Small stocks... too slow... Revolver! We should pull a "revolver", a
carousel that is. First, infantry goes in, then, our tanks open up. No APCs
though, their calibre's too small.
He called for his chief of staff and they began to draw something. The
time was up and we all went back to the briefing. When everyone was back in
their chairs, com-brig said:
- Gentlemen, all of us understand the present situation. We cannot
attack like this but we cannot also not to attack. I've made calls to Rolin
and our support units. They are giving us the carte blanche. We are to take
the palace at any cost. Please say what you have to say:
Silence hung about the room. The "chief tanker" took the opportunity:
- As I understand it, we cannot use air force and artillery since our
POWs are in the building. Is my notion correct?
- Yes, it is, - confirmed Com-brig.
- How very observant, - Someone giggled at the back.
- Our APCs on the other hand have too smaller calibre weapons and not
enough armour protection, thus are unable to effectively support us from the
required distance. Correct?
- Yes, - Com-brig again confirmed, still however puzzled by the
com-bat's speech.
- Our tanks, although properly armoured and have large enough calibre
weapons, lack ammunition stocks, thus would still be ineffective since they
would run out of ammo relatively quickly. So, as you can see, the problem
here is how to restock them rapidly. Reloading tanks under enemy fire is
surely a suicide; therefore I propose that the tanks do it themselves. I
also suggest a "tank roundabout" to maintain constant bombardment.
- What roundabout?
- Hey, he's got something there!
- Great idea, man!
Almost everyone grasped the general intent proposed by the tanker. He
walked up to the map and began to tell about his plan:
- First, over here, two tanks roll out across the bridge. One of them
maintains rapid fire; the other backs the first one with rare salvos but
mostly is keeping quiet. The third one stands by in the middle of the bridge
and is waiting for his turn. Meanwhile, on our side of the river, at the
bridge's entrance, the forth tank is awaiting action and finally, the fifth
one is reloading back up here. While, having spent all its ammo, the first
tank is returning to our bank of the river to be reloaded, the one on stand
by, on the middle of the bridge, moves in position and opens up. At the same
time the third one, that was at the bridge's entrance moves forward to the
middle. During all these moves, the tank that was stationary and kept silent
now opens fire to keep the pressure on the enemy and prevent them from
destroying the retreating empty tanks. This way we are able to maintain
constant the required density and precision of bombardment and, at the same
time support our infantry. We'd be acting as artillery, so to say. Although
they usually aim at plazas, we, on the other hand, could aim at windows, -
He finished off his speech on this funny note.
- This is bloody great!
- Thank you, - Com-brig shook his hand.
- I also have an idea, - Third battalion's commander stepped forward. -
I suggest we use sewage network to get into the palace.
- Not a bad idea.
- That way we could save our men and maybe even free the hostages.
- What if they set up an ambush? We'd all be dead before we knew it.
- Not bad, but too risky.
- It's a pretty good idea, but we don't really know where the pipes
could lead us. This and the fact that chechens are already actively using
them as the means of approach and retreat while setting up ambushes.
Therefore, there is a good chance that if we do decide to use the sewer
network we could walk into a trap. Thanks for the idea though. I think we
have to blow them up anyway so that the spooks wouldn't pop up at our rear.
Agreed?
- Agreed. - Com-bat said with a sigh of disappointment and settled back
into his chair.
- Any more suggestions, anyone?
More people spoke but no one could propose anything more radical than
the tankers' "roundabout". Storming hotel "Kavkaz" today was already out of
the question and it was agreed with the "North" that we would transfer the
task to the marines. We also came to the decision to pull our men closer to
the HQ and let them rest as much as possible for now. Equipment had to be
readied too. In conclusion, our HR officer, lieutenant colonel Sergey
Nikolaevich Kazarzhev took the opportunity to speak to us.
He was a short fellow (about a meter and sixty-five centimetres tall),
not skinny though but rather muscular. He took part in the Afghan campaign
some years ago back. He wasn't like the rest of the ex Political Officers
brotherhood. He wasn't nasty to other people, nor was he bugging his
superiors with ludicrous stuff, he was just doing his job. He made every
effort to find common ground with men and was widely respected not just for
his Afghan past but also for his people skills.
- Gentlemen, I have just received a phone call from the "North". Two
Moscow commercial banks are about to celebrate their anniversaries. The
money that they saved up for the festivities, they decided to spend on
supplies aid for the military personnel in Chechnya. So, tomorrow we have to
send a truck to the "North" for the packages. Every one of them contains a
track suite, snickers, toiletries, pack of cigarettes, two cans of beer for
offices, two cans of cola for men and some other stuff.
- Not bad!
- Beer...
- Freebee!
- Lucky for those who'll be distributing that aid.
- Take more, for wounded and KIAs too!
- Yeah, get more.
- Need a hand?
- Which banks?
- "Menatep" and "In-com", - shouting through the noise answered
Kazanzhev.
- "Menatep", hmmm, sounds like NATO.
- Cigarettes!
- Hey, who is non-smoker? I'll buy them off you.
- Hold on. May be they're "Astra" or "Bum in the mountains".
- Right, they can swap the good ones in the "North".
- Yeah, those guys can swipe anything.
- No, they wouldn't, dare.
- Why would they care? They'd rather start distributing after the
assault; more would be left for themselves.
- Quite! - Com-brig barked through the roar.
The noise suddenly abated.
- Quite! - Repeated Com-brig. - We've all got lots to do. Let's not
waste time, shall we. Questions?
Everyone had many questions, but most of them were rhetorical. Knowing,
that answers most probably would be to "get stuffed" and "go away" no one
ventured to ask any. Everybody walked away discussing the freebees.
Yurka and I came up to Kazanzhev:
- Serega, you won't forget about us when you'll be dealing the
packages, won't you? The most important thing is the cigarettes. May be some
people don't smoke, you know.
- Guys, you're not the first and you're not the last to ask me that.
Give me a break, will you, have conscience.
- Yura, what's he talking about?
- Conscience.
- What's that?
- No idea. I know kidney, stomach, liver, but what conscience is I
don't know. How about you?
- Never heard of it.
- Serge, we have an almost absolute monopoly on alcohol around here and
we are, by the way, your neighbours. You can't just tell us off and that's
it. It's not neighbourly.
- Imagine how in good neighbourly spirit we'll be urinating on your
car's tyres and dumping on your porch. Get the picture?
- For the whole duration of this war.
- And we'll keep going like that after the war too. We'll be shitting
on your porch constantly.
- Just imagine, Serge, you're coming out to go to work in the morning
and tumble having slipped on our deifications. All dressed up in sparkling
whites and covered in crap. Wouldn't that be a bummer?
- And all of this because of some pissy cigarettes.
- Idiots.
- Slava, I thing we've heard that one before.
- By the way, while you're at the North, find their airport chief,
Sashka, and tell him we said "hi". Also remind him to put more cigarettes in
and something nice. Let him surprise us.
- I don't think he even remembers you.
- Oh, yes he does.
- So, what's it gonna be?
- About what?
- OK, so you choose to skate on shit till you retire. Or may be you'd
just give us more cigarettes and we'll leave you alone. We don't fight
elderly, you know.
- Get stuffed...
- Yura, he has chosen the shit path.
- Obviously. We're starting tonight, immediately. Pashka will be
crapping too.
- I wonder if it was the blind chance that brought the three of you
together from the whole SibVO and stuck you in one cab?
- Why? Not just SibVO, but also UZN and Yurka, for example, is from
SKVO. It's fate you see. Therefore, you, Srgei Nikolayevich, cannot avert
your destiny too.
- Slipping on crap, every day of the week. But all that could've been
avoided...
- If you had only agreed to give us more cigarettes.
- And if you did, we'd always be happy to see you.
- And we'd tell our kids how wonderful you are. But if you didn't, we'd
also tell them... what an asshole you turned out to be.
- Idiots.
- He's obviously not ready to commit yet.
- Don't worry, he'll fall a few times, he'll commit.
- So?
- OK, we'll talk tomorrow.
- Oh, you should've said so straight away.
- Wonderful! Good night, Serge.
While walking over to the cab I suddenly realised how tired I was. At
"home" Pashka was all smiles at the dinner table. Having pilled off mud from
our boots (it made them look like ski boots), we barged into the cab.
- And what are you so happy about? Won a prize or something? - Yura
asked him. I was silent though, some thoughts, pretty important, as it
turned out, were circling in my head.
- I heard what you did at the "North"...
- Shut up. Shut up and never tell anybody. Got it? Nothing happened up
there. You understand? - I dryly interrupted him. I had the desire to
neither recall nor discuss the events. - Put out what we've got in your
little stash. We'll go wash our hands.
We left the rifles in the cab and popped out with a pot of warm water.
Hosing ourselves, we washed up thoroughly until the skin could finally
breathe again. We sat down on the porch to light up, letting the night
breeze caress our faces. I had the desire to just sit like this forever and
think of nothing. Just sit and smoke with the heat from my cigarette
stinging my fingers. Serenity it was. Yurka interrupted my jolly mood:
- What was that about?
- So that he doesn't go around blabbering everybody everything.
Whatever happened is now in the past. No use now to jump about, especially
for a grunt. Imagine if we told him what happened, he'd be running around
telling everyone at the HQ. Just let him be sad but silent. I think when
it's all over (God help us to get through), we'll yet stand before a jury of
some kind. You'll see. What is it you sons of bitches were thinking about? A
revolt? So I suggest you shut up too.
- Am I supposed to be scared? Cause I'm not.
- We are not, my young friend, taking part in the Great Patriotic War.
This fight is for somebody else's property. So the owner might one day ask
us if we didn't try to turn his own weapons, people and equipment, entrusted
to us for a while, against himself. Yura, we are participants in such cheap
show that we could just laugh outloud if it wasn't so scary. Do you, by any
chance, know why all THIS is?
- Drop it, Slava. You'll go nuts.
- Too late. If I'm asking these questions, I'm already nuts. - I fished
another cigarette out of the packet, lit it from the butt and tossed it off
into the mud.
- We shall be tossed out just like that butt when the time comes and it
will come, trust me, may be even earlier than we all think. They'll wipe the
floor with us and toss out. And just like you spit after you smoke they'll
spit on us. Don't you forget it. If we could now show our teeth to the
general, we could do it again, could we? And may be even jump at his throat
some day. We're too used to blood and death by now. I, for example, cannot
sleep in silence anymore. But if you fired up artillery or air bombardment,
I'll be asleep in a second.
- Yeah, me too. - Quietly noted Yura.
- Just answer me this simple dumb question. What is nationality?
- What do you mean? - Yura couldn't catch my drift. - You're born with
it. God has given it to you, if you will.
- But if, for example, a chechen infant were brought to France. All his
life his parents would hide the fact that he's chechen from him. They would
give him their surname, good education, first in a good school and later in
a university. All cultured up in their little French surroundings. So who is
he? OK, if it's easier for you, imagine it was a Russian child. (Pity it
wasn't me). So Yura, what do think, WHO is he?
- French, I guess, - Yura wasn't particularly confident.
- So, you see - nationality is not biological, it is a rather social
concept. Evidently, people invented this problem, this national criterion so
that they can tell other people apart and now they are using it to bump us
against each other. Remember the romans: "divide and conquer"? Do you also
remember the soviet times, when they proclaimed everyone equal? They also
sent Russians to serve their term in the military at the outskirts of the
empire, whereas Muslims would always get to do theirs in one of the Baltic
republics and Baltic people always went to Ukraine and Moldova? That was
done for a purpose, so that if a revolt breaks out they wouldn't hesitate to
shoot at strangers. And political officers would keep that fire burning at
all times.
- What about patriotism? Loyalty to your motherland?
- Motherland?
- Yes, motherland, - Yurka was jubilant. The question was in fact a
tough one.
- What is motherland, Yura? - I calmly asked him. - I'm not a Jew or a
gipsy, or some nomad. Explain to me what motherland is. What do YOU mean by
that? Once before, our soldiers called out: "for God, Tsar and the
country!", then "for Motherland and Stalin!" and now what, "for Motherland
and President!" or "Motherland and Grachin!". - I spewed. - May be in about
twenty years from now they'll make a movie how grunts march at machinegun
nests with that idiotic cry. As Grachin once said: "the boys died smiling".
I'd like to pump a 7.62 in his belly and see how he would smile to me. So,
what is it, motherland? Is it the president, who fucked it al up and then
dipped us into this burning shit? I don't even have a word in my file about
this. Would motherland that loves her sons send them to their deaths?
Couldn't they kill the bustards from a distance? You know? Of course they
could. And all of us, with the whole world, would applaud at the precision
of that surgical operation. They could do anything but this. Unless you're
on the same team with Dudaev. Patriotism? Hah. Oscar Wild once said that
patriotism is the bastard's last sanctuary. The paradox is that I really
love Russia. I love the country but I hate the government. So this paradox
bears hatred for the whole meaning of the word "motherland". It's tough to
live in a country that you hate.
- So why do you fight? And, I think, you're pretty good at it too.
- Stop kissing my ass, will you. I don't know. Maybe I'm defending my
motherland. God knows why. It's paradox or a mental case. You see it's just
too easy here, like black and white. Like Indians and confederate soldiers.
We're defending our homeland that they are trying to tear apart. I don't
know, I think I'm going nuts. You know this joke when a general arrives at
the barracks to inspect them. He's walking around, checking things out and
stuff. Then suddenly he says to the barracks' commander: "It's too gloomy
around here, could you paint the fence in all colours of the spectrum?" The
commander: "Yes sir!" So they walk further. General goes again: "And arrange
the beds in a chess order, I think it's kinda happier looking that way." The
commander again: "yes sir, general sir!" So the general's finally saying to
him: "Do you have your own opinion on anything at all? To every single
bullshit I propose all you can say is yes sir." But commander suddenly
answers: "I do have my own opinion but I don't have enough years in the
service, otherwise I would've told you to shove your orders up your ass, sir
general sir!" The story of my life, Yura. Not enough years in the service to
happily retire. Otherwise I wouldn't have had this split personality.
- Maybe you have to go see a shrink or something?
- Yeah, and he's going to explain to me what the word "motherland"
means and why exactly I'm here. And while he's at it, he can also try and
explain to me why we cannot blow the shit out of the oil refinery. But
hands, my hands, Yura, are shaking with desire. Just in spite. To pull some
pretty ugly joke on someone. The problem is that I don't think they'll be
restoring it out of their own pockets. Most probably out of the state's
budget. By the way, Yura, are you aware of the fact that our air force,
first and foremost, bombed the shit out of the local finance ministry?
- I am aware of that. So what?
- I can bet you that at this very moment they are bombing not the
palace, not the spooks' barracks, not their ammo depots, but the Chechen
state bank.
- Very unlikely. - Yura wasn't sure, - However, they could, you know.
First the ministry and then bank. Logically, they are letting the reg-heads
know about the assault. Bastards!
- That's exactly what I'm talking about. So, Yura, what is motherland?
- Get stuffed. You bloody sophist. You should've become a political
officer.
- My dad was an ex-serviceman. Therefore I have this unshakable
antipathy for political officers. But sometimes, you know, there can be
descent people amongst them. Rarely though.
- OK, let's go eat. Shall we get pissed tonight?
- I'd be happy to, but I don't think I can. Moreover, it was a crazy
day. Remember we had about 500 grams of liqueur each, with only some chicken
to chase it with, and it had no effect on any of us.
- Yep, - Yurka grimly spewed. - What a life, hah? You want to get drunk
but you can't. When I come home, I'll get totally shitfaced and dive
facedown in salad.
- Yep, salad it is. Up to your ears. Just watch the air supply.
So we laughed. When you ask yourself questions that you cannot possibly
answer, all you can do is relax, go with flow and hold on to your partner.
As we made our way inside the cab, Pashka has already set up the table and
placed an open bottle of vodka in the middle.
- Any more cognac left?
- Yes.
- So put it out, will ya. Cheer up, man.
Yurka looked at me reproachfully. It was pretty clear - no one could
tell if we ever get another chance to drink it later, but his look was
articulate enough to blame me for having a go at the fellow for my own
rotten thoughts.
Pashka left the Vodka where it was and pulled out the cognac. I opened
the bottle and poured it out into almost full glasses. I had a raging desire
to get drunk.
- Let's go! - I lifted my plastic cup.
Others followed my example and bumped their "cups" together. They
rustled and the dark liquid inside them waved when we cheered. I capsized my
glass and heavy syrupy liquid streamed down my stomach and spread out in
there with worm sensation. I closed my eyes for a moment. The next moment we
started eating. This meal was a silent one. There was nothing we could say
or do. Everything was already decided and signed off. So what's the point? I
could probably draw a request for discharge but the thought of that never
even occurred to me at that stage.
We were chewing quickly and when the warmth inside my stomach began to
disappear I poured out whatever was left of cognac. Yurka quickly grabbed
his cup:
- Are we just having a drunken orgy or we actually have a reason? Any
toasts anyone?
- No, we are just having a meal, but if you feel like saying something,
be my guest. But please make it short, I don't usually like to have my
cognac warm or vodka for that matter.
- I would like to make a toast, - began Yura, - to God. He's been on
our side so far and I think I'm speaking for everyone at this table when I
say that I hope he won't leave us now and that we somehow make it out of
this shithole...
- So that in a few years we could get ourselves into a new one... - I
barged in the middle of his toast and continued for him.
- May be we will, but we're here now and maybe tomorrow will have to
storm Minutka, so I ask God to give us strength and bring us luck. To good
fortune!
- Yura, do you realise that you're in the army now?
- Yeah, so?
- So, so. In the army we have this thing called subordination. But you,
over your commander's head, are speaking directly to God. That might go on
your permanent record.
- Get stuffed idiot! - Yurka exhaled air from his lungs and pumped in
the cognac.
Both, Pashka and myself did the same. Something moved inside my head.
Am I really getting pissed?! What a wonderful feeling. I was afraid I could
spook this delicate state away and was thus just sitting there motionless.
The alcohol was actually having effect on me and it was growing too.
- Slava, are you alright?
- Yeah, yeah, I'm fine - I opened my eyes, - Bastard, you scared it
off.
My head was back to normal by now:
- Shit, man!
- Scared what off? - My partner asked me stupefied.
- The grogginess, you moron. I'm sitting there, enjoying myself and now
you've destroyed it.
- I just saw you with that thousand mile look in your eyes, I though
you choked or something. Sorry, man, won't happen again. You might still
catch it, you know.
- Yeah, you try to catch it, - I was really annoyed, - But I can surely
try again.
I picked up the bottle of vodka that Pashka left on the table and
poured it out in cups. Yurka and I weren't chasing it with food anymore. May
be now, mixing the two, I could get a little pissed. I stood up holding the
cup in front of me.
- The third one.
- The third one, - said Yurka.
- The third, - echoed us Pashka.
Having stood like this for a while we drunk the vodka in silence and
almost simultaneously sat back in our chairs and started slowly getting back
into the meal.
- Is that true we'll have to take Minutka head-on? - Pashka asked with
his mouth full.
- Yes, sonny boy, it is, - I answered. I knew he couldn't stand when we
called him "sonny". And sure enough it enraged him this time:
- I'm not your sonny boy! I'm about to have my own sonny.
Then he added:
- Or maybe daughter. So please don't call me "sonny boy".
- You don't have to have a genius IQ to make one, Pasha, it's a ten
minute job, but a lifetime of heavy labour afterwards. Look at you, for
example, we tried really hard to make a person out of you, but yet achieved
nothing.
- Why is it nothing? - Pashka was getting furious.
- You drink too much; respect for elders is a bit of a problem too. And
we treat you like family, you know. I think we should try and be stricter
from now on. What do you think Slava?
- Yep, I guess we should use something more radical this time. Why did
you get the sentry all drunk back on the train? A pissed guard with an
assault rifle is a criminal. Which makes you, my friend, an accessary.
- Accessary to what?
- To a criminal act, dummy. Back in 1937 you would've been charged with
sabotage and next step would've been the firing squad. All nice and quick,
according to the martial law. ...A lead stamp in the back of the head, 9 mm
in diameter. - I touched his occiput, which executioners usually aimed at
and Pashka twitched.
- That is a really dumb joke, Vechaslav Nikolaevich.
I lit up. Yurka and Pashka followed my example.
- Right, Pasha, - I started, - while we're absent...
- And where would you go? - Interrupted me Pavel.
- Down the basement, to hide, - I came back at him. - Don't interrupt
senior citizens, would you. We'll most probably go with the battalions. You,
son of a bitch, are responsible for the cab and everything inside it. You
guard it with you life. If anything happens, you... - I stopped him, already
opening his mouth, with a gesture, - You will return all of it to our
families. You've got it? As for the cab, if anything happens to it, I'll
screw your head off and make it look like you were born like this. Did you
understand everything I just said?
- Yeah, yeah. It's a hundredth time you're telling me all this. By the
way, there isn't much to guard in there besides your dirty socks.
- By the way you might want to wash them then.
- Yeah, right, - Pashka snorted.
- You will, I'm telling you. You'll be washing them and crying while
doing it.
- Even if I do cry, it will be because the stench from them is
unbearable.
- Pasha, - Yura interrupted his speech, - we now have this ritual:
whenever we've got to go about our dangerous business, we tell you what to
do with our dirty stuff. But since you're not so keen on taking on the task
of washing it, you might as well be busily praying God so that he guides us
through successfully, so that you, in turn, wouldn't have to wash the stuff
in case something happens. By the way, have you forgotten what they smell
like, our socks?
- Yeah, like I ever knew! When I was "green", I'd never wash the
- Yep, that's right, servicemen' skulls are tough.
- Doc, you've seen a lot of skulls. Which ones are tougher?
- Airborne, for sure. They hit their heads constantly against the edge
of the plane's hatch and land on their heads sometimes too, - the hangar
shook with the thunderous laugh this time, - I'm kidding, I'm kidding,
everyone's skull is different. Unfortunately, they don't get any stronger
with careers. Imagine if that was true, how thick colonels' and generals'
skulls would be.
- Yeah, that's funny, imagine, fellows, how thick must be Rolin's
skull! I say it could take a direct hit from a tank cannon.
- He probably wouldn't even need a helmet.
- Hey, help me up over here. There's more here of interest, - Zhenya
again started to climb another rack. - Yeah, exactly what we need! Take it
carefully.
We took down a box from him with cardiamin and some other stuff.
- It's for treating heart failure, - he explained, leaping down and
dusting himself off.
He climbed up a few more racks in this fashion, selected more boxes and
passed them down to us. We, in turn, stockpiled them outside and left them
all there in guards' possession.
After that we visited a few more hangars, smaller than the first one,
where we picked up all sorts of stuff. Everyone's pockets were full of
vitamin tablets and soldiers were carrying huge cans with them. All of us
were already crunching on the tablets and some were even chewing
anti-nicotine chewing gum, hoping to quit smoking right about now. I loaded
up on vitamins too as well as nicotine patches, zhen-shen balsam, tablets
for Yura and some other stuff.
Everyone was in fabulous mood. I looked at my watch and thought that I
might even make it to the briefing. At the thought of the briefing I knew
that relaxation time was nearly over. We must go back.
- Let's move it boys! The sun is setting.
It's true, the noon was almost over.
- Hurry up, will ya. Get the boxes. I'm not in the mood to spend the
night out here.
Suddenly, the noise of sporadic gunfire came over from where we left
our armour.
- What the hell!? I thought, for once we could do something without
interruption. Go, go, fellows! - I sprinted forward, carrying a package with
heavy drugs, given to me by Zhenya.
To get everything out we had to bust a little armoured door. For some
strange reason no one has yet managed to snatch the drugs or may be we were
just lucky. We've got the rare medicines and I had a feeling we'd soon need
them.
The gunfire soon died away which was very strange to say the least.
Perhaps our drivers got it mixed up or maybe, they were not the winners.
- Come on! Move it fellows.
- Go! Go!
- Hold on, guys!
- We'll fry the motherfuckers!
- Let's just hope the carriers are fine!
Kicking and screaming like that we scooted ahead via the school rubble.
The school's upper floors at the rear have all collapsed, having made a
virtual hill with its debris, all the way down to the warehouses. Coming
down was easy enough, but running uphill, stumbling on chips of bricks and
concrete, was no fun at all. A funny kids rhyme suddenly popped in my mind:
"...what a hard work that would be, to pull a hippo from a swamp...".
Breathing heavily, falling down and getting back up again, tearing skin off
our hands and faces and busting ampoules with medicine, we ran up the
school's second floor and dashed down the opposite hill. Since I had the
smallest box, I overtook everyone and was the first to see that our
mechanics were peacefully chatting with some other unfamiliar soldiers next
to the armoured tracks. I stood still in the shadow and carefully looked at
the panorama.
Everything seemed calm. Nobody seemed to be hiding or slinking about.
Haven it was. I caught my breath and spewed with green and yellow slime
again. Damn it. I've got to quit smoking. Others came up. All of us, with
rifles braced, started to come down slowly. Those guys could be deserters or
may be again, escaped cons. OK, we'll see when we get there.
Coming closer, we saw that the guests were like us, "the saviours",
"members of the southern adventure force". Having noticed our arrival, my
mechanic leapfrogged over to me and jerked his hand up to his helmet in
salute and reported:
- Comrade Captain, during your absence nothing particular happened,
with the exception... we mistook our neighbours for ragheads and opened fire
at them...
- And the number of casualties is...
- None, we quickly worked it out.
- That's good. Imagine, if you were better shooters you might've killed
each other.
- Comrade Captain, I am a platoon leader of the 125st artillery
regiment, lieutenant Krikov! -Junior officer, barely any older than his
subordinates, came up to me and saluted.
"Krikov - Kryukov", it rhymed inside my head. Strangely enough, I was
thinking of Kryukov this morning and now see Krikov. It's all too funny.
- When did you graduate? - Someone asked from the back.
- This year, - proudly answered lieutenant.
- Right, - I whistled, - Lucky you didn't kill each other. What the
hell are you doing out here anyway?
- We were getting some water for the division. When we walked down,
there were no one here, but returning we stumbled upon your backup. We've
not enough people and too many heavy water tanks. We had no choice but to do
the run without reconnaissance since every one was carrying water.
Lieutenant was saying "us", like the decisions he was making were based
on his and his men "chinese parliament", which was most probably true. He is
very "green". I had the urge to give him a lecture, but held it in. He won't
learn anything anyway until he steps into his own shit. That shit though
could be his last. Thinking of this I spewed again. What a moron, ha? He'll
die and his men would perish too. I could hold it in no more:
- Next time, lieutenant, take either more men or fewer flasks.
Otherwise, an ambush is out there waiting for you. Get it? - I told him in
low voice.
The man cringed under my look and most probably would say something
daring in response but in the end changed his mind. So very "green" he was
that all his thoughts could easily be read on his face. He thought it over
for a while and then asked:
- Comrade Captain, could you give us a ride for a few blocks to the
regiment, I wouldn't want to tab all the way back. Spooks are always a
problem too, wouldn't want to meet them either.
- Sure, get in. Where do you get your water? - Stupid question, really,
in this situation. Where else but Sunzha?
- From Sunzha, of course. Twice someone shot at us. - Lieutenant was
bragging.
- If they wanted you dead, they would've left one good sniper there and
we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. Where abouts? - I rolled
out the map while we walked back to the carriers.
- Here, - Krikov pointed at the spot, five blocks away from the school.
- And here is the nest the shots came from.
- OK, I wouldn't venture for water out here anymore, tomorrow they'll
be waiting for us up there for sure. Did you at least shoot back?
- Of course.
- Fine, get in the trucks.
We loaded up on the armour and set off. In a few blocks lieutenant
asked to pull over.
I gave the order to stop and APCs halted. Lieutenant and his men leapt
off, waved us good by and walked off to the regiment quarters, crooked under
the heavy weight of their tanks and flasks. Another half an hour and we were
back at our base. Instantly Corpsemen hurried off to their tents to sort out
the spoils. I was off to my cab too where Pashka was feeding firewood to our
stove.
- Tell me news, - I asked him taking off my gear.
- No news. Everyone is at the briefing. Is that true we'll have a go at
Minutka soon?
- Yeah. - I said dryly, - long briefing?
- It's been going on for about hour and a half. They've been calling
for you a few times.
- No shit, - I walked out and lit up on the way to briefing room.
Making my way through the mud, I came over to the HQ. Crowd of officers
and men near the entrance were having a lively discussion. I neither wanted
to put off my sweet cigarette or get in there and continue on discussing
those suicidal plans. The question now was how many hundreds of us will die
out there. The "enemy" at the "North" and Moscow has finally rejected our
appeal for air and artillery support and tightened the time frames. What we
now had to discuss was which battalion was to go in first. Officers tried to
tell me something but I wasn't listening to anybody. In my head, I was
struggling to come up with the right arguments in favour of my plan, which I
haven't even finished composing yet, but some details were already beginning
to build up. There was, it seemed, a small chance to reduce the number of
casualties. Having read my state of mind, the officers left me alone. I
nodded to them in appreciation and tossed off my cigarette, which fell into
the mud in an arc-like trajectory. Just like the life itself, isn't it? As
soon as gets atop, it slams right back down. I was thinking how many lives
would tomorrow fall without even reaching the top. Old men invented the war.
They are already infertile but still lack wisdom and surely have enough
ambitions for all the young ones put together. Their Power lets them push
the youth to die for their old ideals and, after having satisfied their
thirst for blood, they'd be stealing again left, right and forward
whatever's left there. We, officers, the witnesses to their madness, are
pretty much done too. They'll do to us what they did to the veterans of the
afghan campaign. They'll portray us as idols, and then would demote us to
the status of drunks and drug junkies. Those vets are now officially
murderers that had gashed off peaceful afghan population unable to take on a
decent force. Now they're shut out, blamed for everything. Their official
diagnosis - the "afghan syndrome". Jesus, how many more of those "syndromes"
they've forgotten to mention. Every hotspot is another "syndrome". Too many,
if ask me, even for such large state like Russia.
I was just "winding up" myself. It is better to walk in already pissed
off and "wound up" than do it in there. Everybody's already tired of endless
useless arguments and constant dead-end conversations and you are barging
in, aggressive, ready to tear to pieces every one in your way. Your opinion
at this stage is a breath of fresh air.
My ideas have already begun to take shape of a final plan. We depended
heavily though on our captured men not being in that palace, because I was
afraid we could knock them out too.
There is a device that sappers use for pushing mines out. It would work
for us beautifully. The thing consists of a rocket with three jet engines,
one for the flight and two initial boosters. When it takes off it drags
behind it a thick hose stuffed with C4 and only flies in one particular
direction. When that hose (or gut) unwinds all the way, the rocket slumps
and in a few seconds the gut's C4 detonates, making a ditch about four
meters wide. This "dragon" is employed to make ways for infantry inside
minefields. Those mines that do not explode, after the detonation would
surely be pushed out on the surface anyway. Depending on a type of terrain,
the width of the ditch could vary from one meter to four.
Therefore, if we got close to that fricking palace, we could launch a
few of these "dragons" toward it. After that not much of that whorehouse
will be left standing. The most important task would be to destroy the lower
floors. The rest would fall soon after, burying them all in there. But
again, it only worked well in case only the spooks were inside. Anyway, I
walked up to the entrance, moved my AK behind my back, and pushed the door
open.
- May I come in, comrade Colonel? - I interrupted Bahel in the middle
of his explanation.
All battalion commanders, their chiefs, com-brig's XOs and other HQ
officers were looking at the map. A few more men were smoking near the
window breach barricaded with sandbags.
- Come in, Mironov. How was the trip?
- Very well, comrade Colonel.
- Please take a seat and do not interrupt us. Whatever you have missed
you can find out later.
He turned to the map again and moved his pen across it, using it as
pointer. Judging from the spot he was at, we were now storming the State
Bank. Which in turn meant that we have already taken over (on the map that
is) the bridges and successfully moved across the open space under the hail
of gunfire. I should probably ask them afterwards how they did it. For now
I'll just seat here quietly and listen. The time will come for me to stand
up and express my point of view, like any other present here. First, the
lowest ranking officers will speak, then, all the way up the pyramid. It is
done deliberately, so that the opinion of the higher-ranking officers wasn't
weighing on their shoulders. At the end, com-brig will do the summing up.
He, the brigade's commander, is the one responsible for every single thing,
he is to oversee the state of affairs, make decisions, give out orders and
control the way they are carried out. His chief of staff could sometimes get
a piece of the pie, but mostly it is up to him to do all those things. Same
order is in the trenches. Battalion, company or platoon commander is always
responsible for his unit. He is the one who would get all the blame if his
men didn't achieve the objective. Tribunal would be swift, it won't drag on,
I'd vouch for that. Best case scenario, he'll lose his ranks, get kicked out
of the army and go back to farming. Worst case: court martial, dishonourable
discharge, his medals taken away and then jail.
In our country, the most fearful prefix to your status is "ex-". If
they could have a go at the ex-president, an ex-military commander's rank is
no cover for sure. If they found out you were at war, hold on to your pants,
my friend, you are as good as dead. You're now a war criminal. The blood of
innocent civilians is most definitely on your hands. We, law-abiding
citizens killed no one. If any of our countrymen are being slaughtered
somewhere in the south, so be it. What else would you like, Mr President,
maybe send more of our children to the next bloodbath? No problem, sir! We
voted for you so how can you possibly be wrong or lie to us? Not a chance!
Did you, my reader, think like that? Or maybe still thinking?
Chehov once said that one must squeeze a slave out of oneself, drop by
drop. It must be added that our rulers should be daily squeezing big bosses
out.
Just look at the map. How can possibly a republic, so small that it's
marked on the map as dot, be threatening Russia's sovereignty? Unless, you
feed and support this motley general, encouraging his fiery speeches. Come
on, he's nothing but a little Fuhrer with the chechen accent. When they
needed Lev Trozhki dead, he was slain like a street dog, in Mexico, with an
ice picker and without any guided missiles. I refuse to believe that this ex
soviet pilot was so smart as to get away.
For a reward, they'll serve you his head on a plate with salad and
mayonnaise. Every one is worth money. If you can't buy a guy, put a hit on
him. That's tricky though, because he might know the key combination to your
bank account in Zurich, or maybe some other dirt on you.
We, like all fine-bred sheep, would again go to the voting tables and
vote for those who'd send us to another bloody "hood wrangle", send our
children to slaughter and force veterans of the Great Patriotic War fetch
empty cans from the rubbish bins.
It's not about communists, democrats, socialists and other masters of
jabbering. These guys are only after our bread and butter. The purpose of
war is to redirect our attention from that stealfest.
Meanwhile the briefing went on, the plan was drafted and presented. The
time has come for us to speak up. Suddenly, San Sanych was called by an RTO
to take an important phone call. All of us kept silent, may be the whole
thing was called off. He came back to the table horrified and sat down with
a helpless look on his face. Com-brig could no longer hold it:
- Just tell us, will you.
- We are receiving intelligence reports, confirmed by the opposition,
that all our captured wounded are being brought up into the palace. We are
to be extremely careful during the assault. Air support was refused, no
"Grads" or "Uhragans" would be provided either and we are to use only our
own artillery.
Complete silence now hung in the room. The only ones to break it were
the sounds of heavy breathing, moving chairs and a sudden loud crunch of
com-brig's pencil. It seemed he didn't even notice that he broke it. He was
still holding the pieces and staring at the wall. Everyone went into stupor.
- We can't go in without artillery or air support, full stop. - Broke
the silence commander of the first battalion.
- We can't use them either. The hostages will die. But they'd die
regardless whether we have support or not - Continued commander of the tank
battalion.
- Either the spooks will finish them off or we'd stop their sufferings
with an accidental burst, grenade or mortar shrapnel. Same difference. I
wouldn't want to be their murderer in a million years. It's a dead-end
situation. - Third battalion's commander was thinking and talking at the
same time.
- We don't stand a chance in a world to even try and save the
prisoners. But attempting to do so we could lose a lot more of our men.
Neither can we ignore the possibility of counterattacks. - Continued
Com-brig's artillery XO.
Before the pause got too long, Com-brig tossed away pieces of his
pencil:
- Take a ten-minute break. Your men are to be told nothing! After the
break everyone has three minutes to express his opinion on the subject.
All of us poured outside to breathe in some fresh air, take a leak and
have a smoke. While at it, we talked about all the previously mentioned
without the commander.
- We're totally screwed!
- What the hell are they thinking?
- Now, for sure, we'd have to climb those walls like pirates with
knives.
- OK, we've got to think men. - It seemed that the tank battalion
commander was not at all concerned with all this hype. He spoke to the art
battalion commanders and the com-brig's XO. Would you be able to get your
howitzers a little closer to the palace?
- I don't think so. The bridges won't handle the load. My
self-propelled cannons are too heavy, too slow and the on-board ammunition
stocks are too small. They'd have to be resupplied constantly. We'd have to
be somewhere close, but not too close, dug in position. Then, we'd shell
over your heads and houses right where you'd want us.
But the tankers' com-batt wasn't listening to him anymore. He was
mumbling something to himself:
- Small stocks... too slow... Revolver! We should pull a "revolver", a
carousel that is. First, infantry goes in, then, our tanks open up. No APCs
though, their calibre's too small.
He called for his chief of staff and they began to draw something. The
time was up and we all went back to the briefing. When everyone was back in
their chairs, com-brig said:
- Gentlemen, all of us understand the present situation. We cannot
attack like this but we cannot also not to attack. I've made calls to Rolin
and our support units. They are giving us the carte blanche. We are to take
the palace at any cost. Please say what you have to say:
Silence hung about the room. The "chief tanker" took the opportunity:
- As I understand it, we cannot use air force and artillery since our
POWs are in the building. Is my notion correct?
- Yes, it is, - confirmed Com-brig.
- How very observant, - Someone giggled at the back.
- Our APCs on the other hand have too smaller calibre weapons and not
enough armour protection, thus are unable to effectively support us from the
required distance. Correct?
- Yes, - Com-brig again confirmed, still however puzzled by the
com-bat's speech.
- Our tanks, although properly armoured and have large enough calibre
weapons, lack ammunition stocks, thus would still be ineffective since they
would run out of ammo relatively quickly. So, as you can see, the problem
here is how to restock them rapidly. Reloading tanks under enemy fire is
surely a suicide; therefore I propose that the tanks do it themselves. I
also suggest a "tank roundabout" to maintain constant bombardment.
- What roundabout?
- Hey, he's got something there!
- Great idea, man!
Almost everyone grasped the general intent proposed by the tanker. He
walked up to the map and began to tell about his plan:
- First, over here, two tanks roll out across the bridge. One of them
maintains rapid fire; the other backs the first one with rare salvos but
mostly is keeping quiet. The third one stands by in the middle of the bridge
and is waiting for his turn. Meanwhile, on our side of the river, at the
bridge's entrance, the forth tank is awaiting action and finally, the fifth
one is reloading back up here. While, having spent all its ammo, the first
tank is returning to our bank of the river to be reloaded, the one on stand
by, on the middle of the bridge, moves in position and opens up. At the same
time the third one, that was at the bridge's entrance moves forward to the
middle. During all these moves, the tank that was stationary and kept silent
now opens fire to keep the pressure on the enemy and prevent them from
destroying the retreating empty tanks. This way we are able to maintain
constant the required density and precision of bombardment and, at the same
time support our infantry. We'd be acting as artillery, so to say. Although
they usually aim at plazas, we, on the other hand, could aim at windows, -
He finished off his speech on this funny note.
- This is bloody great!
- Thank you, - Com-brig shook his hand.
- I also have an idea, - Third battalion's commander stepped forward. -
I suggest we use sewage network to get into the palace.
- Not a bad idea.
- That way we could save our men and maybe even free the hostages.
- What if they set up an ambush? We'd all be dead before we knew it.
- Not bad, but too risky.
- It's a pretty good idea, but we don't really know where the pipes
could lead us. This and the fact that chechens are already actively using
them as the means of approach and retreat while setting up ambushes.
Therefore, there is a good chance that if we do decide to use the sewer
network we could walk into a trap. Thanks for the idea though. I think we
have to blow them up anyway so that the spooks wouldn't pop up at our rear.
Agreed?
- Agreed. - Com-bat said with a sigh of disappointment and settled back
into his chair.
- Any more suggestions, anyone?
More people spoke but no one could propose anything more radical than
the tankers' "roundabout". Storming hotel "Kavkaz" today was already out of
the question and it was agreed with the "North" that we would transfer the
task to the marines. We also came to the decision to pull our men closer to
the HQ and let them rest as much as possible for now. Equipment had to be
readied too. In conclusion, our HR officer, lieutenant colonel Sergey
Nikolaevich Kazarzhev took the opportunity to speak to us.
He was a short fellow (about a meter and sixty-five centimetres tall),
not skinny though but rather muscular. He took part in the Afghan campaign
some years ago back. He wasn't like the rest of the ex Political Officers
brotherhood. He wasn't nasty to other people, nor was he bugging his
superiors with ludicrous stuff, he was just doing his job. He made every
effort to find common ground with men and was widely respected not just for
his Afghan past but also for his people skills.
- Gentlemen, I have just received a phone call from the "North". Two
Moscow commercial banks are about to celebrate their anniversaries. The
money that they saved up for the festivities, they decided to spend on
supplies aid for the military personnel in Chechnya. So, tomorrow we have to
send a truck to the "North" for the packages. Every one of them contains a
track suite, snickers, toiletries, pack of cigarettes, two cans of beer for
offices, two cans of cola for men and some other stuff.
- Not bad!
- Beer...
- Freebee!
- Lucky for those who'll be distributing that aid.
- Take more, for wounded and KIAs too!
- Yeah, get more.
- Need a hand?
- Which banks?
- "Menatep" and "In-com", - shouting through the noise answered
Kazanzhev.
- "Menatep", hmmm, sounds like NATO.
- Cigarettes!
- Hey, who is non-smoker? I'll buy them off you.
- Hold on. May be they're "Astra" or "Bum in the mountains".
- Right, they can swap the good ones in the "North".
- Yeah, those guys can swipe anything.
- No, they wouldn't, dare.
- Why would they care? They'd rather start distributing after the
assault; more would be left for themselves.
- Quite! - Com-brig barked through the roar.
The noise suddenly abated.
- Quite! - Repeated Com-brig. - We've all got lots to do. Let's not
waste time, shall we. Questions?
Everyone had many questions, but most of them were rhetorical. Knowing,
that answers most probably would be to "get stuffed" and "go away" no one
ventured to ask any. Everybody walked away discussing the freebees.
Yurka and I came up to Kazanzhev:
- Serega, you won't forget about us when you'll be dealing the
packages, won't you? The most important thing is the cigarettes. May be some
people don't smoke, you know.
- Guys, you're not the first and you're not the last to ask me that.
Give me a break, will you, have conscience.
- Yura, what's he talking about?
- Conscience.
- What's that?
- No idea. I know kidney, stomach, liver, but what conscience is I
don't know. How about you?
- Never heard of it.
- Serge, we have an almost absolute monopoly on alcohol around here and
we are, by the way, your neighbours. You can't just tell us off and that's
it. It's not neighbourly.
- Imagine how in good neighbourly spirit we'll be urinating on your
car's tyres and dumping on your porch. Get the picture?
- For the whole duration of this war.
- And we'll keep going like that after the war too. We'll be shitting
on your porch constantly.
- Just imagine, Serge, you're coming out to go to work in the morning
and tumble having slipped on our deifications. All dressed up in sparkling
whites and covered in crap. Wouldn't that be a bummer?
- And all of this because of some pissy cigarettes.
- Idiots.
- Slava, I thing we've heard that one before.
- By the way, while you're at the North, find their airport chief,
Sashka, and tell him we said "hi". Also remind him to put more cigarettes in
and something nice. Let him surprise us.
- I don't think he even remembers you.
- Oh, yes he does.
- So, what's it gonna be?
- About what?
- OK, so you choose to skate on shit till you retire. Or may be you'd
just give us more cigarettes and we'll leave you alone. We don't fight
elderly, you know.
- Get stuffed...
- Yura, he has chosen the shit path.
- Obviously. We're starting tonight, immediately. Pashka will be
crapping too.
- I wonder if it was the blind chance that brought the three of you
together from the whole SibVO and stuck you in one cab?
- Why? Not just SibVO, but also UZN and Yurka, for example, is from
SKVO. It's fate you see. Therefore, you, Srgei Nikolayevich, cannot avert
your destiny too.
- Slipping on crap, every day of the week. But all that could've been
avoided...
- If you had only agreed to give us more cigarettes.
- And if you did, we'd always be happy to see you.
- And we'd tell our kids how wonderful you are. But if you didn't, we'd
also tell them... what an asshole you turned out to be.
- Idiots.
- He's obviously not ready to commit yet.
- Don't worry, he'll fall a few times, he'll commit.
- So?
- OK, we'll talk tomorrow.
- Oh, you should've said so straight away.
- Wonderful! Good night, Serge.
While walking over to the cab I suddenly realised how tired I was. At
"home" Pashka was all smiles at the dinner table. Having pilled off mud from
our boots (it made them look like ski boots), we barged into the cab.
- And what are you so happy about? Won a prize or something? - Yura
asked him. I was silent though, some thoughts, pretty important, as it
turned out, were circling in my head.
- I heard what you did at the "North"...
- Shut up. Shut up and never tell anybody. Got it? Nothing happened up
there. You understand? - I dryly interrupted him. I had the desire to
neither recall nor discuss the events. - Put out what we've got in your
little stash. We'll go wash our hands.
We left the rifles in the cab and popped out with a pot of warm water.
Hosing ourselves, we washed up thoroughly until the skin could finally
breathe again. We sat down on the porch to light up, letting the night
breeze caress our faces. I had the desire to just sit like this forever and
think of nothing. Just sit and smoke with the heat from my cigarette
stinging my fingers. Serenity it was. Yurka interrupted my jolly mood:
- What was that about?
- So that he doesn't go around blabbering everybody everything.
Whatever happened is now in the past. No use now to jump about, especially
for a grunt. Imagine if we told him what happened, he'd be running around
telling everyone at the HQ. Just let him be sad but silent. I think when
it's all over (God help us to get through), we'll yet stand before a jury of
some kind. You'll see. What is it you sons of bitches were thinking about? A
revolt? So I suggest you shut up too.
- Am I supposed to be scared? Cause I'm not.
- We are not, my young friend, taking part in the Great Patriotic War.
This fight is for somebody else's property. So the owner might one day ask
us if we didn't try to turn his own weapons, people and equipment, entrusted
to us for a while, against himself. Yura, we are participants in such cheap
show that we could just laugh outloud if it wasn't so scary. Do you, by any
chance, know why all THIS is?
- Drop it, Slava. You'll go nuts.
- Too late. If I'm asking these questions, I'm already nuts. - I fished
another cigarette out of the packet, lit it from the butt and tossed it off
into the mud.
- We shall be tossed out just like that butt when the time comes and it
will come, trust me, may be even earlier than we all think. They'll wipe the
floor with us and toss out. And just like you spit after you smoke they'll
spit on us. Don't you forget it. If we could now show our teeth to the
general, we could do it again, could we? And may be even jump at his throat
some day. We're too used to blood and death by now. I, for example, cannot
sleep in silence anymore. But if you fired up artillery or air bombardment,
I'll be asleep in a second.
- Yeah, me too. - Quietly noted Yura.
- Just answer me this simple dumb question. What is nationality?
- What do you mean? - Yura couldn't catch my drift. - You're born with
it. God has given it to you, if you will.
- But if, for example, a chechen infant were brought to France. All his
life his parents would hide the fact that he's chechen from him. They would
give him their surname, good education, first in a good school and later in
a university. All cultured up in their little French surroundings. So who is
he? OK, if it's easier for you, imagine it was a Russian child. (Pity it
wasn't me). So Yura, what do think, WHO is he?
- French, I guess, - Yura wasn't particularly confident.
- So, you see - nationality is not biological, it is a rather social
concept. Evidently, people invented this problem, this national criterion so
that they can tell other people apart and now they are using it to bump us
against each other. Remember the romans: "divide and conquer"? Do you also
remember the soviet times, when they proclaimed everyone equal? They also
sent Russians to serve their term in the military at the outskirts of the
empire, whereas Muslims would always get to do theirs in one of the Baltic
republics and Baltic people always went to Ukraine and Moldova? That was
done for a purpose, so that if a revolt breaks out they wouldn't hesitate to
shoot at strangers. And political officers would keep that fire burning at
all times.
- What about patriotism? Loyalty to your motherland?
- Motherland?
- Yes, motherland, - Yurka was jubilant. The question was in fact a
tough one.
- What is motherland, Yura? - I calmly asked him. - I'm not a Jew or a
gipsy, or some nomad. Explain to me what motherland is. What do YOU mean by
that? Once before, our soldiers called out: "for God, Tsar and the
country!", then "for Motherland and Stalin!" and now what, "for Motherland
and President!" or "Motherland and Grachin!". - I spewed. - May be in about
twenty years from now they'll make a movie how grunts march at machinegun
nests with that idiotic cry. As Grachin once said: "the boys died smiling".
I'd like to pump a 7.62 in his belly and see how he would smile to me. So,
what is it, motherland? Is it the president, who fucked it al up and then
dipped us into this burning shit? I don't even have a word in my file about
this. Would motherland that loves her sons send them to their deaths?
Couldn't they kill the bustards from a distance? You know? Of course they
could. And all of us, with the whole world, would applaud at the precision
of that surgical operation. They could do anything but this. Unless you're
on the same team with Dudaev. Patriotism? Hah. Oscar Wild once said that
patriotism is the bastard's last sanctuary. The paradox is that I really
love Russia. I love the country but I hate the government. So this paradox
bears hatred for the whole meaning of the word "motherland". It's tough to
live in a country that you hate.
- So why do you fight? And, I think, you're pretty good at it too.
- Stop kissing my ass, will you. I don't know. Maybe I'm defending my
motherland. God knows why. It's paradox or a mental case. You see it's just
too easy here, like black and white. Like Indians and confederate soldiers.
We're defending our homeland that they are trying to tear apart. I don't
know, I think I'm going nuts. You know this joke when a general arrives at
the barracks to inspect them. He's walking around, checking things out and
stuff. Then suddenly he says to the barracks' commander: "It's too gloomy
around here, could you paint the fence in all colours of the spectrum?" The
commander: "Yes sir!" So they walk further. General goes again: "And arrange
the beds in a chess order, I think it's kinda happier looking that way." The
commander again: "yes sir, general sir!" So the general's finally saying to
him: "Do you have your own opinion on anything at all? To every single
bullshit I propose all you can say is yes sir." But commander suddenly
answers: "I do have my own opinion but I don't have enough years in the
service, otherwise I would've told you to shove your orders up your ass, sir
general sir!" The story of my life, Yura. Not enough years in the service to
happily retire. Otherwise I wouldn't have had this split personality.
- Maybe you have to go see a shrink or something?
- Yeah, and he's going to explain to me what the word "motherland"
means and why exactly I'm here. And while he's at it, he can also try and
explain to me why we cannot blow the shit out of the oil refinery. But
hands, my hands, Yura, are shaking with desire. Just in spite. To pull some
pretty ugly joke on someone. The problem is that I don't think they'll be
restoring it out of their own pockets. Most probably out of the state's
budget. By the way, Yura, are you aware of the fact that our air force,
first and foremost, bombed the shit out of the local finance ministry?
- I am aware of that. So what?
- I can bet you that at this very moment they are bombing not the
palace, not the spooks' barracks, not their ammo depots, but the Chechen
state bank.
- Very unlikely. - Yura wasn't sure, - However, they could, you know.
First the ministry and then bank. Logically, they are letting the reg-heads
know about the assault. Bastards!
- That's exactly what I'm talking about. So, Yura, what is motherland?
- Get stuffed. You bloody sophist. You should've become a political
officer.
- My dad was an ex-serviceman. Therefore I have this unshakable
antipathy for political officers. But sometimes, you know, there can be
descent people amongst them. Rarely though.
- OK, let's go eat. Shall we get pissed tonight?
- I'd be happy to, but I don't think I can. Moreover, it was a crazy
day. Remember we had about 500 grams of liqueur each, with only some chicken
to chase it with, and it had no effect on any of us.
- Yep, - Yurka grimly spewed. - What a life, hah? You want to get drunk
but you can't. When I come home, I'll get totally shitfaced and dive
facedown in salad.
- Yep, salad it is. Up to your ears. Just watch the air supply.
So we laughed. When you ask yourself questions that you cannot possibly
answer, all you can do is relax, go with flow and hold on to your partner.
As we made our way inside the cab, Pashka has already set up the table and
placed an open bottle of vodka in the middle.
- Any more cognac left?
- Yes.
- So put it out, will ya. Cheer up, man.
Yurka looked at me reproachfully. It was pretty clear - no one could
tell if we ever get another chance to drink it later, but his look was
articulate enough to blame me for having a go at the fellow for my own
rotten thoughts.
Pashka left the Vodka where it was and pulled out the cognac. I opened
the bottle and poured it out into almost full glasses. I had a raging desire
to get drunk.
- Let's go! - I lifted my plastic cup.
Others followed my example and bumped their "cups" together. They
rustled and the dark liquid inside them waved when we cheered. I capsized my
glass and heavy syrupy liquid streamed down my stomach and spread out in
there with worm sensation. I closed my eyes for a moment. The next moment we
started eating. This meal was a silent one. There was nothing we could say
or do. Everything was already decided and signed off. So what's the point? I
could probably draw a request for discharge but the thought of that never
even occurred to me at that stage.
We were chewing quickly and when the warmth inside my stomach began to
disappear I poured out whatever was left of cognac. Yurka quickly grabbed
his cup:
- Are we just having a drunken orgy or we actually have a reason? Any
toasts anyone?
- No, we are just having a meal, but if you feel like saying something,
be my guest. But please make it short, I don't usually like to have my
cognac warm or vodka for that matter.
- I would like to make a toast, - began Yura, - to God. He's been on
our side so far and I think I'm speaking for everyone at this table when I
say that I hope he won't leave us now and that we somehow make it out of
this shithole...
- So that in a few years we could get ourselves into a new one... - I
barged in the middle of his toast and continued for him.
- May be we will, but we're here now and maybe tomorrow will have to
storm Minutka, so I ask God to give us strength and bring us luck. To good
fortune!
- Yura, do you realise that you're in the army now?
- Yeah, so?
- So, so. In the army we have this thing called subordination. But you,
over your commander's head, are speaking directly to God. That might go on
your permanent record.
- Get stuffed idiot! - Yurka exhaled air from his lungs and pumped in
the cognac.
Both, Pashka and myself did the same. Something moved inside my head.
Am I really getting pissed?! What a wonderful feeling. I was afraid I could
spook this delicate state away and was thus just sitting there motionless.
The alcohol was actually having effect on me and it was growing too.
- Slava, are you alright?
- Yeah, yeah, I'm fine - I opened my eyes, - Bastard, you scared it
off.
My head was back to normal by now:
- Shit, man!
- Scared what off? - My partner asked me stupefied.
- The grogginess, you moron. I'm sitting there, enjoying myself and now
you've destroyed it.
- I just saw you with that thousand mile look in your eyes, I though
you choked or something. Sorry, man, won't happen again. You might still
catch it, you know.
- Yeah, you try to catch it, - I was really annoyed, - But I can surely
try again.
I picked up the bottle of vodka that Pashka left on the table and
poured it out in cups. Yurka and I weren't chasing it with food anymore. May
be now, mixing the two, I could get a little pissed. I stood up holding the
cup in front of me.
- The third one.
- The third one, - said Yurka.
- The third, - echoed us Pashka.
Having stood like this for a while we drunk the vodka in silence and
almost simultaneously sat back in our chairs and started slowly getting back
into the meal.
- Is that true we'll have to take Minutka head-on? - Pashka asked with
his mouth full.
- Yes, sonny boy, it is, - I answered. I knew he couldn't stand when we
called him "sonny". And sure enough it enraged him this time:
- I'm not your sonny boy! I'm about to have my own sonny.
Then he added:
- Or maybe daughter. So please don't call me "sonny boy".
- You don't have to have a genius IQ to make one, Pasha, it's a ten
minute job, but a lifetime of heavy labour afterwards. Look at you, for
example, we tried really hard to make a person out of you, but yet achieved
nothing.
- Why is it nothing? - Pashka was getting furious.
- You drink too much; respect for elders is a bit of a problem too. And
we treat you like family, you know. I think we should try and be stricter
from now on. What do you think Slava?
- Yep, I guess we should use something more radical this time. Why did
you get the sentry all drunk back on the train? A pissed guard with an
assault rifle is a criminal. Which makes you, my friend, an accessary.
- Accessary to what?
- To a criminal act, dummy. Back in 1937 you would've been charged with
sabotage and next step would've been the firing squad. All nice and quick,
according to the martial law. ...A lead stamp in the back of the head, 9 mm
in diameter. - I touched his occiput, which executioners usually aimed at
and Pashka twitched.
- That is a really dumb joke, Vechaslav Nikolaevich.
I lit up. Yurka and Pashka followed my example.
- Right, Pasha, - I started, - while we're absent...
- And where would you go? - Interrupted me Pavel.
- Down the basement, to hide, - I came back at him. - Don't interrupt
senior citizens, would you. We'll most probably go with the battalions. You,
son of a bitch, are responsible for the cab and everything inside it. You
guard it with you life. If anything happens, you... - I stopped him, already
opening his mouth, with a gesture, - You will return all of it to our
families. You've got it? As for the cab, if anything happens to it, I'll
screw your head off and make it look like you were born like this. Did you
understand everything I just said?
- Yeah, yeah. It's a hundredth time you're telling me all this. By the
way, there isn't much to guard in there besides your dirty socks.
- By the way you might want to wash them then.
- Yeah, right, - Pashka snorted.
- You will, I'm telling you. You'll be washing them and crying while
doing it.
- Even if I do cry, it will be because the stench from them is
unbearable.
- Pasha, - Yura interrupted his speech, - we now have this ritual:
whenever we've got to go about our dangerous business, we tell you what to
do with our dirty stuff. But since you're not so keen on taking on the task
of washing it, you might as well be busily praying God so that he guides us
through successfully, so that you, in turn, wouldn't have to wash the stuff
in case something happens. By the way, have you forgotten what they smell
like, our socks?
- Yeah, like I ever knew! When I was "green", I'd never wash the