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"vet's" socks. I'm not about to start now. - Pashka was boiling.
His anger only encouraged us.
- Pasha, you know when a person is dying; his last will is the law. You
might've heard about it.
- Yeah, so?
- So, - my tone turned declamatory. - Our last will, when we die, you
must wash our socks, press them and return to our families. One pair from
each of us you may keep for yourself. As a memory. You might want to hang
them on the wall above you bed.
- But you're not dying yet.
- But what if...
- I'm not going to wash nothing! - Pashka turned grim.
- OK, OK, we're joking, man. Don't be sad. Better yet pour out the
remains, will ya.
He thoroughly poured out last of the vodka equally amongst three cups.
We patiently waited until last drops fell into his glass. We were actually
counting them.
- Twenty-two, - said Yura, breaking the silence.
- I've heard somewhere that it is possible to squeeze out thirty-three
drops from any bottle. - I added to the conversation.
We picked up our plastic cups.
- Welcome to the brand new day. What's it going to be? - Asked us Yura.
- Fuck knows. - Pashka answered for everyone.
- Whatever happens let it be. And let's drink to that, shall we. To
good fortune and her majesty fate! - I said the toast.
- That's right! - Yura supported me, - To fate and fortune.
Then he added, almost to himself, but we all heard him clearly:
- We must be prepared for death. Although, let us hope to avoid it, -
and drank his share.
- What you just said is right. We must be prepared so that the death is
not fully unexpected. We must finish the deeds we have started and not make
any big debts so that our families don't end up having to pay them off. Let
us hope to avoid all this, - I repeated his words and finished off my cup.
Pashka drank his too and we ate some more out of the almost empty
plates and cans in silence. Then we lit up again but now in a definitely
better mood than before. The coming day did not seem so dark anymore.
- What was it you were talking about, the deeds and stuff? - Pashka
asked me, taking a deep puff out of his cigarette.
- Jesus said it right before his death, talking to his father. He knew
he was about to die and he was scared. So just in case he asked him not to
do it. - I explained to him. - When you've got time, read The Bible, Pasha.
You'll find a lot of interesting stuff in there.
- Ah, a book... - stretched Pashka.
- Read, Pasha, read. Wisdom of centuries of generations is in books
like that. You see, you can't just live according to your own experiences.
What would you teach your son? Which life examples are you going to tell him
about? Whose life? Yours? But you haven't seen much besides the constant
booze. Is that what you'd teach him? How to drink? Or how to get a sentry
pissed? - Yurka obviously had a philosophical twirl up his ass.
- Yura, don't twist his brain, - I interrupted his lecture. - At least
he won't become a schizophrenic.
- Why is that?
- Back in the military college I had a girlfriend, she was majoring in
medicine. So she told me once that on a psychology lecture she heard that if
a person does not read books, it is very unlikely that he or she would ever
suffer from schizophrenia. Because when you read a book you do in your mind
everything the characters do. You suffer, love, hate, and fight like they
do. This way his or her personality is replicated onto yourself and then you
have got your personality also deviated. Then something else happens which I
can't remember because it was all medical terms.
- Hmmm, you're right, you know. Pashka is certainly unlikely to suffer
from schizophrenia. But alcohol poisoning is definitely a possibility. -
Yura signed off on his resume.
- If, while we're absent, they'll be dispensing the aid, you come to
the brigade's political officer, lieutenant colonel Kazartsev and tell him
we sent you. Then you pick up the aid for yourself and us. If we come back
and you, bastard, drank our beer, you'd better hang yourself. You know our
sizes, don't you? I'll write them down once again, just in case. The most
important thing is the cigarettes, he should give you more of those. If he
forgets, remind him that he promised them to us. Understood?
- Yep. How much more cigarettes?
- I don't know, but we hope a lot. Don't worry, you'd be smoking them
too. Have we ever deprived you of anything?
- Nope, never.
- You see. We're struggling to feed you and you, bastardo, don't even
want to wash our socks! - Yura started the "socks" talk again.
- I'm not going to wash your socks! - Pashka exploded.
- Don't you yell at officers or I might want to mess up that pretty
little face of yours. - Said Yura to his rage. - We'll pop out for a leak.
You clean up in here, will ya, and think about the socks. Air out the cab so
that we could get some sleep, I can't see the palm of my hand.
- I'm not going to wash your socks! - Not as loud as before, but still
as angry, Pashka said through his teeth.
- Why are you winding him up? - I asked Yura, lighting up and standing
next to him.
- Bored, - simply said Yura.
- No, it seems something is eating you on the inside.
- Nothing is eating me on the inside. I just can't get that speech of
yours about the motherland out of my head. What's motherland?
- Oh, so you've got it now too. So what is motherland?
- As I said before, get stuffed!
- No, no, no. Don't tell me to get stuffed. You answer the question.
- You should've asked about the meaning of life.
- No Yura. Nobody knows that for sure, but you should know about the
motherland.
- You're right about one thing though. Motherland and government are
two totally different things.
- No, motherland and state.
- Yeah, it's OK when your country is of only one culture, like Israel,
for example.
- But what about the States. It's like a bloody Babylon in there and
they're all fine, all understand each other. No one wants to create an
independent state on the territory of, say, Texas. Why? Because they have
work over there. If you're not a bum, you live like a human being.
- That's right. By comparison, we're like walking backwards.
- OK, let's just drop this subject shall we. No use would come out of
it anyway and Pashka's already gone bananas.
- Yeah, that's for sure. Let's shoot? - Yura pulled a few signal
rockets out of his pocket.
- Let's do it! - I took a couple from him.
Having split up, we walked some distance away from each other, then
lifted the rockets and fired them, jerking the trigger cords. Almost
simultaneously two claps boomed in the air and the hissing rockets raced
into the night skies. Once at the end of their journeys they popped open
with lights and slowly started their descend back down to earth. The guards
also periodically launched these rockets, thus everything around here was
illuminated by this dead artificial light. All things had unusual, funny
looking sharp shadows. When you fire those rockets it seems like Christmas
back home. Every time, on the New Year's eve, I brought home some of these
rockets from the garrison and after the midnight we all came out of the
house and launched them. We were so happy, me and my son. The same feeling
of happiness for some reason overwhelmed me right now. I chucked off the
empty shell and picked up another rocket. Without waiting for Yura I fired
it into skies again. Heavy smell of the burnt gunpowder hung in the air.
Yura was catching up fast.
- Let's go get some sleep? - I asked Yura after the last rockets faded.
- Let's have the last cigarette and that's it for today. - My partner
said back to me.
We lit up and just sat there in silence.
- You think they'll send us together? - Yura broke the silence.
- I don't know. Maybe. Who knows.
- They might stick us into the second battalion until they find a
replacement for their chief of operations.
- Nah, they've got plenty of good company commanders there. Really,
there is no shortage of people in our brigade, who would like to become a
chief of Ops.
- Not really, but not many of them have enough experience to be one.
- You think they'll let you command the Ops?
- Maybe. It won't be you, that's for sure. You are the interaction
officer.
- Yep, we'll see.
- Imagine the guys in battalions are now busting their balls, getting
equipment and people ready. Verifying the details of the operation, people
and ammunition. Isn't it wonderful we no longer have to do this? The worst
position in the army is a company commander. They are running around like
crazy dogs.
- That's right. There is a good joke about it. Only it's about the
Navy, but still pretty relevant. They summon this old submarine captain to
the HQ of submarine operations and tell him: "We would like to introduce new
privileges to the sub crew members. What do you think about that?" The
captain, old sea dog, says "Fine, I think it's about time". So the HQ chief
again says "we would like to increase you wages, housing quota, holidays and
family leave. We are thinking when the shore-based servicemen find out about
it, they'll die of jealousy. What do you think?" The captain says: "Yeah,
that's right, but still, when the first one of them dies, could you put me
in his spot." Same goes for us, whatever privileges they promise company or
platoon leaders, we must stay away from these posts.
- OK, let's go. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day.
- Yeah, who knows when we'd be able to catch a descent sleep. You know,
Slava, you're such a bastard.
- Why is that?
- With your dumb motherland questions. My head is spinning.
- But I've let it all out and feel much better now. Let the others
suffer. You, for example.
- That's what I said, bastard.
- Don't worry about it too much. Take it easy and forget for now. If
we'll live through, we'll talk afterwards. In the nearest future, I think we
might have to lay off such conversations. Let the reflexes work for now.
- True, let the nerve system labour. I feel for the boys though. Lots
of them will probably stay here forever.
- "Nineteen year olds forever", like Baklanov wrote.
- OK. Let's go or you'll start it again.
We came up to the cab, tossed the butts out and walked in. While we
were out, Pashka cleaned up and was already in bed.
- You're not on the guard duty tonight?
- No. I'm on tomorrow during the day.
- Wow, what a fluke? Who's going to guard my sleep tonight?
- It's your sleep, so you guard it.
- You're being an asshole again, Pasha. I guess we should make you dig
a foxhole... for your horse and you together.
- Together?
- Yep, that's right. You let your tongue run free too often these days.
- How big would the horse's hole be?
- Three meters high.
- Three meters? There are no such horses.
- Sure there are. Have you been to Moscow? There is statue of Yuriy
Dolgorukiy there. His horse is about that big. So you'll be digging a
foxhole for his horse and himself if you don't keep your mouth shut.
Understood?
- Yeah, sure. - Grumbled Pashka, turning away. He knew we could make
him do it if he got to us.
All we took off was our boots and socks. The rest we kept on and only
loosened our belts a little. My AK was on the floor, next to my bed, Yurka
hung his on the wall above his head. A few hand-grenades went under my
pillow. I chambered a round in my captured suppressed Makarov, put it back
on "safety" and stashed it under the matrass on the same level as my waist.
Now we can try and catch some sleep. Pity, I didn't get pissed tonight.
Yurka, bastard, got in the way, but I'll get back at him tomorrow. I
unscrewed the light bulb above my head and everything sank into darkness. To
sum it all up for today I declared:
- At ease, boys.
So one more long day of this war was over. God and fate allowed me to
stay alive this one more day. Let's hope they won't change their minds
later. All my life in the past didn't mean much any more because tomorrow we
would have to go and try that suicidal assault at the Minutka. God, please
give me guidance! After this appeal to God I finally fell asleep.
---------------------------------------------------------------
© Copyright 2001 translation by Marta Malinovskaya and Konstantin S.Leskov
---------------------------------------------------------------
We split a bottle of vodka among all the officers including companies'
commanders, gobbled some ice-frozen canned beef. Meanwhile, our artillery
finished pounding Chechen positions. The roar of bombers ceased two minutes
later. Silence fell interrupted only by an occasional riffle cracking and
machine gun fire.
"Comrade lieutenant-colonel!" A soldier emerged from the battalion
commander's APC. "Order from the "twenty second" (it was the brigade
commander's code): five-five-five".
"Tell him: understood!" Battalion commander ran to his vehicle. We
followed him. Tank crews and officers of the second battalion also rushed to
their armored vehicles. A block before Minutka square our reconnaissance
unit soldiers stopped us and told that they succeeded in pushing the "dukhs"
from the bridge on our side, but the Chechens consolidated their position in
the middle of the bridge and on the other bank. It seemed like the bridge
was not mined, but I would not bet on it. Infantry jumped from the APCs and
waited for a command hiding behind the vehicles and ruins. Tanks had
arrived. It was agreed that infantry would go ahead with tanks following
fifty meters behind.
The Battalion Commander was in the head of his advancing unit, breaking
all instructions to stay behind during the attack. My buddy Yura and I had
no choice but to follow him. Sneaking through destroyed buildings, covering
short distances in each run, we reached the bridge. Our scouts were barely
holding the violent push of the "dukhs". A fortified stockade made of
concrete blocks had been erected in the middle of the bridge. "Dukhs" were
pouring our bank heavily with lead from behind of it not allowing us to
raise a head. Chechen mortars started covering us with shells. At first they
fired randomly, shells went into water, but after some corrections they
started to explode closer and closer and hit our bank. In addition "dukhs"
began shooting at us from grenade launchers. Reverberation was unbearable.
The bellow of mortar shells increased. Bullets were constantly knocking at
concrete blocks, which served us as a cover.
There were first casualties. In the first company, where Yura and I
were, a shell exploded very close to us, and a large fragment of it tore a
half of soldier's head off. The body was lying belly down, a half of the
neck was absent and another half bent to the right under the weight of what
was left of the head. Blood was gushing from the devastated artery staining
the wall red. Another soldier crawled to the dead, not to help, but to take
off a chain with his personal number from the torn neck and to pull
documents from the inner pocket of the uniform. When this guy turned the
dead on his back, corpse's hands trembled grasping his assault rifle as if
he did not want to part with it.
I switched my attention back to "dukhs". Chechens accumulated more
force on their side. An APC arrived to support them. We heard clanging and
engine roar from the back. It was ours tanks. They could have come earlier.
The front tank spat out a shell without good aiming. The projectile flew far
above "dukh's" heads and exploded somewhere behind them. Second shot came
closer. It scattered a crowd of "dukhs". Several bodies remained still on
the ground. Few more were screaming and squirming in pain. Mortar shelling
ceased, as well as automatic rifle fire. Battalion commander ordered:
"Second company! Podstwolniks ready! Fire! First and third companies
forward!" He jumped out of his hiding place and, ushering other people, ran
ahead being bent almost to the ground. We followed him screaming and cursing
on top of our lungs. Yurka and I blended with this rushing wave. Grenades
from the podstwolniks rustled over our heads. Shrapnel from the exploded
grenades clicked and banged on the bridge and on the other bank of the
river. Tank cannons thundered behind us. Their shells dispersed Chechen
infantry. "Dukhs" backed up from the bridge and hid behind a burned tank.
Mortar shelling resumed. The howl of flying missiles drove me crazy even
more then the noise from explosions. It I felt the air vibrating, hitting my
eardrums, already callous from explosions. My will was paralyzed. The howl
of falling shells made me feel that I knew which one was sent to hound me. I
could almost imagine it falling down on me and tearing me into hundreds of
pieces and scattering them around. I forced myself back to reality.
The second company pulled closer to us. Radio told us that the first
and the third battalions arrived and were ready to support us with fire
during the bridge takeover. A minute later, the cannons of BMPs which
belonged to two fresh battalions joined the chorus of tanks and
Kalashnikovs. Rifle's voices of the first battalion sounded like dogs'
barking, accompanied by more substantial large caliber shots of the third.
"Dukhs" almost stopped responding. The opposite bank was cloaked in
dust from shell and grenade explosions. It seamed as if we could feel this
thick air with our hands. Teeth were grinding dust. My throat was sore from
the gas from burned explosives and some other crap in the air. My eyes were
watered. But horror of the first minutes of the battle started to pass away.
Blood was pounding in my temples, sweat was dropping from under the helmet.
I unbuttoned my coat and weakened the buckle of the armored vest. Then I
rolled over to my back, fished out a pack of cigarettes, matches and lit the
cigarette. Yurka, who was next to me, reached out his hand asking for a
smoke. I shared my cigarette with him. Talking in this hellish roar was
absolutely impossible. I inhaled cigarette smoke and did not feel its taste;
just bitterness mixed with gunpowder gases and nicotine. My experience told
me that in five-ten minutes this cacophony would end and we would have to
attack running, crawling on that bridge. I don't want to! I want to lie down
and stare at the sky. A fragment of a prayer came up to my mind. I could not
remember it all. The most important - go onward and survive. Following our
Battalion Commander's order, the fire shifted deeper into the "dukh's"
defensive line. BMPs calmed down to avoid hitting us. Chief shouted,
"Forward! Hurraaah!" People sprinted forward from their hiding places. I ran
too. "dukhs" opened fire. Someone screamed on my right. Ahead of me a
soldier stumbled on invisible obstacle and was thrown back with his arms
wide spread. His Kalashnikov fell under my feet, I stepped on it and almost
slipped. Passing I glanced on the body. The groin was torn. Pants swelled
from blood, open eyes were looking at the sky without blinking. "Gone", a
thought flew in my brain. I felt terror again. A taste of blood in my mouth
returned. Dreadful, very dreadful. My legs felt as if were made of cotton. I
screamed something unintelligible. Yelled, screamed from horror. Lord God,
help! Help me to survive!
We were not too far from the bridge. Here it is, littered with
fragments of concrete, bricks, wrapped in barbed wire. Thirty men ahead of
us got out on the bridge. The other side opened heavy fire. First ten people
fell down, two of them were still moving, trying to crawl back. The rest
backed up and hid behind the ruins of the former "dukh's" stockade.
I flopped down too and crept behind a piece of concrete, stuck out my
automatic and gave a short burst in the direction of "dukh's" bank, then
looked back. All other officers were slightly behind. That meant that I
would be in charge here. Trying to over cry thunder of the battle, I yelled
that someone should drag the wounded back from the bridge. Soldiers ahead of
me nodded showing that they understood. Two of them crawled forward and the
rest opened fire to cover them. Seeing that the help is coming, the wounded
tried to crawl in our direction, but seemingly, were not able to move well.
Battalion commander appeared from behind and wheezed in my ear,
"You are a good runner, Slava."
"I would run back even faster", I answered.
"Isn't it creepier than it was at the airport of Severny here?"
"Exactly. I only wish not to let them blow up the bridge."
"For that, Slavyan, we need to take over it as soon as possible," and
he shouted again. "Forward! Forward, guys!"
Soldiers started getting out of their hiding holes despite the danger
of being killed by bombs. Battalion commander jumped from behind of a
concrete slab and ran forward. I followed him. The advance guard got on the
bridge again. Those who were retrieving the wounded rose and joined the
others. I got on the bridge, it was whistling and roaring around. "Dukhs"
shifted the mortar fire. Strong thunder came. I fell then sat up examining
myself. Everything was fine, except I couldn't hear a thing. I flapped at
one ear with open palm as if knocking the water out. It didn't help. Deaf
curtain separated me from the world. It had to be a concussion. A strong air
wave whipped my eardrums and popped them outside in, nothing terrible. It
would pass over. I looked where the shell exploded. I remembered four people
running ahead of me. Where were they? Right there. Devastated bodies of four
soldiers were lying on the bridge. Apparently, they had taken all shrapnel
as if they guarded me from it, at least so far. I felt sick and through up
partially from the concussion, partially from the view of mutilated bodies.
My fear contributed to it. I spat some bail out.
Surprisingly, deafness passed over with vomit. I started to hear
sounds. People ran by me. Some fell and moved no more. I was sitting like a
fool by the puddle of my own puke feeling good. I was alive! I had nasty
bitter taste in my mouth and was thirsty. I found my flask and took a sip. I
spat it out immediately because me friend Pashka had filled it with brandy.
I exhaled and made another sip. Head slowly cleared. All right, let's get
out of here. I could not leave the battle field with concussion, that would
be dishonest. I looked again at the remains of the soldiers, who took my
shrapnel.
Forward! Forward! Thoughts were mixed up still. I got up as if
breaching through a thick cotton pad . It was difficult to keep upright. But
I kept telling myself that everything was fine. It would pass over in an
hour. It was not my first concussion. You cure it with shameless vodka
drinking. Everything would be all right. Forward! I stubbornly made several
steps then stopped and looked around. Soldiers were lying down ahead of me,
in the middle of the bridge. Like a scarecrow, I was standing behind them
and shaking. It was my luck that I still had not been shot. I found a spot
where I could stand upright without problem. Then on half-bent, still infirm
legs, I ran toward my comrades. Forward. Forward... About ten meters short
from them I flopped down and started to crawl. After reaching ours
positions, I leaned against a concrete fragment. Soldiers, who were just
ahead of me, looked back and shouted something, but my brain refused to
comprehend. Judging by their approving and encouraging gestures, it was
something good. They figured that my hearing was impaired and lifted their
thumbs up. I nodded and yelled back:
"It's just a concussion"
Tanks began to shoot above our heads. Hostile fire faded and we went
forward again. Now I was dragging myself somewhere in the middle of the
attack group. I was afraid of firing because I could shoot our own guys.
Soldiers of the first battalion had already taken over the bridge. It was
ours at last. From now on, the main task was to keep it. I looked back.
"Dukhs" employed strong mortar fire to force the first battalion to move
back. There were only soldiers from our battalion on the enemy's bank. The
bridge was covered with corpses, I counted about fifty . Fifty died for
hundred and fifty meters of bridge. It was a horrible math. Companies of the
first battalion took the wounded with them.
"Dukhs" continued pounding bridge with shells and, at the same time,
started to shoot at us. They released a smoke-screen, which was a sign of
their coming attack. There was enough smoke even without it. Chief's order
was spread: "Get podstwolniks ready. Fire!" We started to shoot at the
swelling black cloud with grenades. Some soldiers, who did not have
podstwolniks, sprayed the smoke with long bursts from their semiautomatic
weapons. I heard screaming of wounded coming from the cloud as well as from
the our side. They were followed by clanging of tracks from behind the
smoke-screen. It was either a tank or a BMP. It began to pound our
positions. Random rocks and concrete fragments provided bad cover from
shells. Roar came from the above. Those were our planes. It looked as if the
sky opened and poured down bombs. Have you ever been under bombing? No? God
blessed you. Bombs, five hundred kilos of metal and explosives each, are
approaching the ground with debilitating howl. The roar of mortar shells is
a sweet serenade in comparison with it. Aviation bomb howl paralyzes the
body with horror, makes every cell of your body resonate. Thoughts go away
and you are lying just like a piece of meat, trembling from fear and
awaiting your death. Everything human leaves your body, you become a
trembling beast. People said that many of our soldiers had been killed by
our own aviation, but I myself had not been under friendly fire yet. First
bomb exploded far ahead. Apparently, it induced panic among Chechens,
because their fire from behind the smoke-screen stopped. A shook wave came
from the explosion. It engulfed us with horrible thunder and hot air. It
felt as if this roaring atmosphere was going to rip off my uniform, break my
ribcage, tear my mouth and cheeks. Eardrums would collapse. Blood was
already dripping out of my ears. A hail of small stones descended on us.
Someone was yelling. I looked there. A soldier was rolling on the ground,
holding hands on his eye. Blood was streaming between the fingers. A
paramedic was crawling toward him. Soldiers who were next to the wounded
grabbed the unfortunate and pressed strongly against the ground. One gave
him a water bottle, another ripped his uniform to bare a forearm. Then he
took a tube with painkiller from a medical kit and made an injection. I did
not watch the rest. Judging by the noise, pilots were about to make a second
barrage. That terrible, paralyzing howl started again. It was increasing.
Following my instincts, I squeezed myself into earth and listened the
silence that followed. Everybody was waiting where, whose chance would be to
meet with Madam Death.
An explosion happened unexpectedly close, on the left flank of our
battalion. A hail of stones showered us again. It was strange, but after all
these blasts, my hearing restored. The world of sounds rushed into my brain.
A buzz in my head had not passed yet, but I tried not to pay any attention
to it. I looked in the direction of the explosion. There was a huge crater,
about ten meters in diameter. Around it... Scattered around it were body
parts of our soldiers who happened to be close to epicenter. Smoke was
rising from the crater. There was an acrid smell, a mixture of explosives,
charred meat and burned wool. It made me sick again. Like a wave, nausea
came and rolled back. I tried to remember how many people were there. It
turned out that at least a platoon and a half. About fifty people. Oh, my
God! We had lost hundred people already and still had not strengthened our
grip on this bank! I heard Battalion Commander shouting obscenities into a
radio set. He was not using any code names, screw the discipline! He was
simply yelling into the microphone: "Recall those plains! Recall those
Goddamn plains, you whore! These faggots killed half of my battalion! Recall
immediately! I cannot hold it with my people! Why? Ask those bastards who
don't give a shit where they drop their bombs! Thank them for me! Recall
those perverts! I need support! I'm starting to dig in. Dukhs will attack in
a moment. Did you recall the plains? Good job! I'm not sure, but I think I
have more than a hundred "two-hundredths" and about sixty "hundredths". What
am I to do with them? Get me some help! I need paramedics and evacuators.
Some of my wounded are non-transportable. If no help comes, I'm out of here.
Get me some support and not like this one from the air, you jerk. The real
support! They promised vaunted paratroopers and marines! Where are those
scoundrels? Ask Severny where they are! Ask Khankala. I'm done talking. Fuck
off! Come here and you'll see why I've got no time to waist on you!"
"Dukhs" opened massive dense fire at us and at the opposite bank.
Mortars and BMP cannons hit us again. Their podstwolniks, Kalashnikovs and
machine guns did not idle either. With infuriating noise, bullets and
shrapnel plunged continuously into asphalt in front of our weak shelter
grinding bricks and concrete fragments. Squeaking of ricocheting bullets was
exasperatingly loud. The air became hot from the amount of metal bodies in
it. I heard again the shouts and moaning of freshly wounded.
Mechanic clanging came from behind. We looked back. Two our tanks drove
on the bridge and started shooting. "Dukhs" cut their zeal and transferred
all fire on them. Now it was our turn to attack. Chief ordered again:
"Forward!" We left our wounded waiting for assistance and rushed ahead. It
was so smoky that we could not see a thing on that square. We spread in a
chain, shooting randomly from hips into the smoke. Eyes were watery from
gunpowder gases. Forward! Only forward! I was screaming together with
others. Some were shouting "Hurrah!" some cursing, "Sons of the bitches!
Death to sons of the bitches!" I simply screamed with my mouth wide open
"Aaaaah!" It helped to stay cool. Adrenaline was raging in blood. I could
have head the world record in running beaten. Suddenly an automatic fire
came from the behind of the smoke screen. Chechens shot the same way as we
were doing, long bursts from hips. Apparently, they had allowed us to come
closer deliberately. We dropped down. It was suicidal to lie on the open
square. I rolled over, then again. Aha, here was a chunk of some wall. I
flattened myself against it bruising my shoulder. Then I began firing back.
The distance between us and the enemy was no more than fifteen meters,
but they had unquestionable advantage. They were hidden behind the walls
whereas we were with butts up in the middle of the square. My assault rifle
clicked and shut up, it was out of ammunition at a wrong time as usual. The
attached clips were empty too. I raised the barrel of my Kalashnikov and put
a grenade into the launcher. It would be better to shoot from the knee, but
I had no choice. I pressed the trigger with my left hand finger. Detonator
exploded and grenade flew toward the enemy. It went too far. I corrected the
aiming. Another grenade went into the launcher and the trigger was pulled.
While the grenade was flying, I swiftly detached the empty clip and pushed
the paired new one in. Thunder came from the behind. I looked back. Fuck!
"Dukhs" hit both our tanks. They were engulfed in flames. Cartridges were
cracking. Soon shells would explode. Yes, a moment later, deafening
explosion thundered, followed by another one. Tanks' towers flew off. Almost
synchronously, they slowly, very slowly went up in the air and, turning over
and over, flew in the opposite directions. The first tower fell into the
water with a loud splash, the second dropped on our side of the river. What
was left of tanks continued to burn. The body of the first one split right
in the middle. Cartridges were still bursting in flames.
Rabid from their victory, "dukhs" switched their attention and fire to
us. Mortar shells started to gather their crop again. Soldiers had to dig in
under this hurricane fire. The luckiest ones appeared to be those who found
themselves spots with asphalt destroyed by tanks' or BMP's tracks. There was
mud there, in which a soldier would dig in up to his ears. Our ranks were
dwindling with every second. Many were wounded. Sun could not break through
the dense smoke. I was hoping to hear shooting from the other side of the
square where, according to commanders' plan, paratroopers and marines were
supposed to attack. But there was nothing going on there. So it was just us,
a pity handful, no more than a hundred and fifty people, battling on the
open space with well-fortified enemy. Shouts and bursts of automatic fire
came from behind again. I turned back and saw first battalion trying to
cross the bridge. With doubled efforts, we began to pour bullets and
grenades on "dukhs". But the guys did not succeed in their attack and rolled
back once more. Our ranks shivered. The feeling of emptiness and futility of
our efforts enveloped us and crushed our will. Fear, dark fear smashed under
its immense weight everything human in our souls. The instinct of
self-preservation worked. Without any order, we began to retreat. Not to
run, but to retreat, snapping back with bursts of automatic fire and sparse
shots from the launchers, carrying our wounded, leaving our dead. Leaving
them, however we knew that if we did not pick them up by tonight, "dukhs"
would come and mutilate their bodies, would dismember them. They would cut
off noses, ears, and private parts and would throw them, together with the
body remains into the Sunzha River to feed fish. Please, forgive us, guys!
We retreated to our former positions, where our own aviation bombed us.
Suddenly we heard a shout: "Daddy is wounded!" Everybody turned and saw
Battalion Commander to a shelter, his left arm hanging like a piece of rope.
His left foot stampeded, he fell on his side. Soldiers ran to him and pulled
him out from under the fire into a temporary shelter. Officers of the
battalion began to show up, crawling and rolling on the ground. I hurried
too. I saw my buddy Yura among them. Alive! I had lost him from my sight
since the beginning of the fight. Major Ivan Genrihovich Kugel, a battalion
commander deputy came as well.
A paramedic was trying to stop Chief's hemorrhaging using rubber band
and sterile bandage. Battalion commander was intermittently losing and
gaining consciousness. He breathed hard. Something was croaking in his chest
impeding ventilation. He was pale, big drops of sweat were constantly
rolling down his face leaving gray traces on his dusty skin.
"Why did you drag your butts up here?" he asked after opening his eyes.
"Go, work. Don't leave people. Fuck off. While I'm here, my deputy is Kugel.
Get out! Work, you shitheads, work!" He closed his eyes again and passed
out. We turned to the paramedic.
"How's he? Will he make it out?"
"Leg arteries are punctured. Large blood loss is dangerous. I don't
know, I need to get him to the hospital."
"Save him! Listen you! Save the Chief or I'll make holes in you!" Vanya
Kugel yelled at the guy.
"Don't swear at him, Ivan! Let's carry him out," Commander of the first
company said.
"Take him and try to break through! We'll cover you up!" Ivan said. "
Try! Carry Daddy out!" And then loudly to cover the roar of fight, "Listen
to my order! I'm in command while Battalion Commander is incapacitated!
First company has to break through and carry him out. We all will cover
them! Dig in and fight until the last one! Radio operator, where the hell
are you?"
"There's no operator, the guy's killed, " one of the soldiers shouted.
"Tune companies' transmitters on brigade's frequency and tell that in
five minutes we'll try to carry our Chief out. Tell them to meet us and
cover with fire. Is it clear? Forward! Forward!"
First company went back under terrible fire, directed at the exposed
bridge. They were carrying Battalion Commander, who was unconscious and
three other wounded. They could not take any more with them. Only
thirty-three men were left of the company, slightly more than a platoon. We
were shooting, shooting, changing clips and shooting again. I looked over my
shoulder. Five men from the first company lay still on the bridge adding
their bodies to already so many fallen. The luckier ones had reached the
middle. Just a little bit more, guys! Press forward! "Dukhs" were furiously
shooting at us and at the first company. I hoped we had enough munitions to
respond. Don't worry, sons of the bitches, we'll talk to you in a little
while, you damn bastards!
Suddenly my soul calmed down in peace. It happens when the decision has
been made and you understand that this it is the final one. There is only an
end of the story ahead and, unfortunately, you have no influence to change
it. All you have to do is to sell your body and soul as high as possible. I
did not want to die, but I had no fear of death any more, just absolute
calmness. My head was clear. Thoughts were precise. Reflexes were sharp.
Some kind of invigorating sense came, similar to that of gambling. Who would
win? We were the good guys and they were the bad. Everything was simple. I
remembered our boot camp song:
We have everything we need,
Frozen vodka goes with meet.
Our girlfriends are the best,
So is my AKMS!
Let's make war, bastards!
---------------------------------------------------------------
© Copyright 2001 translation by Konstantin S. Leskov
---------------------------------------------------------------
Everybody around me was slowly digging in. That's right. An infantry
soldier will bite asphalt, but hold the position. I did not have a sapper's
spade. A dead man was lying three meters from me. A spade in a slipcase was
attached to his belt. I rolled to him and tried to unfasten the case. It did
not work out. Bullet whistled close to me. Instinctively, I ducked. However
it is known that the bullet, which you can hear, is not yours, I duck
anyway. With a jerk, I turned the body over, unbuckled and pulled off the
belt. Rolled back to my place. As soon as I found cover, a bullet pierced
the dead body and made it shiver. They could have hit me, fucking souls.
Explored my site. Asphalt was crashed in several places. I started to scoop
its pieces out with a spade and put them in front of me. Here is earth mixed
with stones. Not paying attention to my ground to blood fingers, I was
continuing digging and building a parapet. Soil was cold. My chest and belly
had already been in a small trench. Head and legs were still on the surface.
I was completely dirty, ripped off the skullcap from under the helmet. Head
was steaming. Hot, very hot.
Heard clanging and roar from behind again. Looked back. Tanks had roped
their burnt colleagues with wire hawsers and tried to pull them aside.
"dukhs" began to shot at them with mortars and grenade launchers over our
heads. We stopped digging and opened fire at the Chechen fortifications.
With dread I heard dry click of my Kalashnikov. Shit, no ammo whatsoever.
Only seven grenades were left for the launcher. Kaput! A water bottle and a
clip bag were hanging from the dead soldier's belt. I weighted the bag. Oho!
Heavy. We'll live for a while then. I pulled out three clips and examined
them. Full. Three clips thirty shots each - ninety. Not too much, but it's
the best we have. When there is no fish, even a dick is meat. I loaded the
automatic, took an aim, and gave a short burst at barely visible shadow. It
disappeared. Might be hit, might be not. Switched to single shots just in
case. Started to dig in again.
Suddenly, piercing screams of "dukhs" came from ahead. They cannot talk
quietly even in normal life, on the war they scream so that ears get
blocked. I heard a familiar clang. A tank and a BMP rolled out. Very nice.
Retreating was impossible because of risk being shot in the back and a
success of advance was also futile. It is very uncomfortable wrestle with a
tank on the open square. Different weight categories. Ivan Kugel shouted
something, but, because of distance and shooting, I could not hear anything.
I only heard the result: popping of our launchers. It's hard to get a tank
with a small launcher grenade, especially when it is coated in "active"
armor. It's a good thing for tanks, the "active" armor. A number of square
boxes are lain next to each other on the hull. There is a
high-temperature-activated explosive inside each of them. When a cumulative
shell or a "Mukha" grenade hits a tank, it produces a narrow stream of heat,
which normally penetrates steel shields. When "active" armor is used,
explosive blasts and breaks the direction of the stream. The tank remains
intact.
The enemy tank, which was moving in our direction, was decorated with
those boxes like a Christmas tree. The bastards came prepared to meet us. A
grenade launcher shot popped on the left flank. Judging by the sound,
someone used "Mukha". Cumulative grenade precisely hit the junction between
hull and tower. Explosion thundered. Smoke went up from the tank. Then
flame. Deafening blast came next. Tower was ripped off and thrown back. It
fell on "dukh's" positions. A wall collapsed in a cloud of dust. We heard
yells. Flame was raging in the tank. Ammunition was cracking inside it's
belly.
We ourselves exploded with joyful exclamations and shouts. Aha,
bitches, you have seen! What a shot! What a great shooter! I wouldn't spare
a Star of Hero for such a shot! Great job!
"Dukh's" BMP rolled back and began shelling us. Projectiles blasted in
front of us, then behind our backs. Shrapnel hit several soldiers, but did
not kill them, just wounded. To our luck, their crew was bad at aiming. An
anti-aircraft cannon, installed on the BMP might have tear our humble
fortifications into pieces.
Two our tanks stopped at the beginning of the bridge ready to open
fire. The third one was moving to our, or "dukh's", bank shooting randomly.
Infantrymen were hiding behind it. They were launching grenades into the
enemy over the tank and our heads. Great! "Dukh's" BMP retreated far back
and disappeared from the view. Our tank came closer, stopped and shot
"dukh's" positions at almost point-blank. Infantry ran from behind it. It
was our first company, which returned, and a part of the first battalion.
More infantry was running on the bridge. Those were first and third
battalions. They told that Combat died. Unconscious, he kept shouting out
orders, was restless, then calmed down and passed away. All soldiers and
officers were shaken by the news. Alexander Petrovich had been an embodiment
of courage, a colossus, something eternal and unshakable. He had been an
axle of the battalion, and he was not with us anymore. It was hard to
believe it had happened. We had used to losing close friends on the war, but
him... No I could not believe it. I did not want to believe. Everybody
around looked devastated. Petrovich was not only a commander, but for his
soldiers and officers he was a teacher, big brother, "Batya", "Papa". Sad,
too sad.
The arrived brought more ammo. It was quickly distributed and loaded
into empty clips, grenade bags, leaving the "novices" the pleasure of
shooting at the "dukhs" and digging trenches for themselves. Shelling the
enemy positions, tank backed up without turning the tower. Another one
started from "our" bank its cannon firing as it was moving toward us. Its
place was immediately occupied by the third one. Tank "carousel" was
working. The fun was about to begin. Adrenalin raged in blood again. Steam
was rising from skin. Excitement of battle came back. I looked at the
nearest soldiers. The same effect. Only half an hour ago all of thought how
to sell our lives as dear as possible, now everybody seemed to have the same
hunter's heat. Cornered rabbits, we turned into mature wolves. No! Not
wolves. Chechens are wolves. They have a wolf under the Moon on their flag.
His anger only encouraged us.
- Pasha, you know when a person is dying; his last will is the law. You
might've heard about it.
- Yeah, so?
- So, - my tone turned declamatory. - Our last will, when we die, you
must wash our socks, press them and return to our families. One pair from
each of us you may keep for yourself. As a memory. You might want to hang
them on the wall above you bed.
- But you're not dying yet.
- But what if...
- I'm not going to wash nothing! - Pashka turned grim.
- OK, OK, we're joking, man. Don't be sad. Better yet pour out the
remains, will ya.
He thoroughly poured out last of the vodka equally amongst three cups.
We patiently waited until last drops fell into his glass. We were actually
counting them.
- Twenty-two, - said Yura, breaking the silence.
- I've heard somewhere that it is possible to squeeze out thirty-three
drops from any bottle. - I added to the conversation.
We picked up our plastic cups.
- Welcome to the brand new day. What's it going to be? - Asked us Yura.
- Fuck knows. - Pashka answered for everyone.
- Whatever happens let it be. And let's drink to that, shall we. To
good fortune and her majesty fate! - I said the toast.
- That's right! - Yura supported me, - To fate and fortune.
Then he added, almost to himself, but we all heard him clearly:
- We must be prepared for death. Although, let us hope to avoid it, -
and drank his share.
- What you just said is right. We must be prepared so that the death is
not fully unexpected. We must finish the deeds we have started and not make
any big debts so that our families don't end up having to pay them off. Let
us hope to avoid all this, - I repeated his words and finished off my cup.
Pashka drank his too and we ate some more out of the almost empty
plates and cans in silence. Then we lit up again but now in a definitely
better mood than before. The coming day did not seem so dark anymore.
- What was it you were talking about, the deeds and stuff? - Pashka
asked me, taking a deep puff out of his cigarette.
- Jesus said it right before his death, talking to his father. He knew
he was about to die and he was scared. So just in case he asked him not to
do it. - I explained to him. - When you've got time, read The Bible, Pasha.
You'll find a lot of interesting stuff in there.
- Ah, a book... - stretched Pashka.
- Read, Pasha, read. Wisdom of centuries of generations is in books
like that. You see, you can't just live according to your own experiences.
What would you teach your son? Which life examples are you going to tell him
about? Whose life? Yours? But you haven't seen much besides the constant
booze. Is that what you'd teach him? How to drink? Or how to get a sentry
pissed? - Yurka obviously had a philosophical twirl up his ass.
- Yura, don't twist his brain, - I interrupted his lecture. - At least
he won't become a schizophrenic.
- Why is that?
- Back in the military college I had a girlfriend, she was majoring in
medicine. So she told me once that on a psychology lecture she heard that if
a person does not read books, it is very unlikely that he or she would ever
suffer from schizophrenia. Because when you read a book you do in your mind
everything the characters do. You suffer, love, hate, and fight like they
do. This way his or her personality is replicated onto yourself and then you
have got your personality also deviated. Then something else happens which I
can't remember because it was all medical terms.
- Hmmm, you're right, you know. Pashka is certainly unlikely to suffer
from schizophrenia. But alcohol poisoning is definitely a possibility. -
Yura signed off on his resume.
- If, while we're absent, they'll be dispensing the aid, you come to
the brigade's political officer, lieutenant colonel Kazartsev and tell him
we sent you. Then you pick up the aid for yourself and us. If we come back
and you, bastard, drank our beer, you'd better hang yourself. You know our
sizes, don't you? I'll write them down once again, just in case. The most
important thing is the cigarettes, he should give you more of those. If he
forgets, remind him that he promised them to us. Understood?
- Yep. How much more cigarettes?
- I don't know, but we hope a lot. Don't worry, you'd be smoking them
too. Have we ever deprived you of anything?
- Nope, never.
- You see. We're struggling to feed you and you, bastardo, don't even
want to wash our socks! - Yura started the "socks" talk again.
- I'm not going to wash your socks! - Pashka exploded.
- Don't you yell at officers or I might want to mess up that pretty
little face of yours. - Said Yura to his rage. - We'll pop out for a leak.
You clean up in here, will ya, and think about the socks. Air out the cab so
that we could get some sleep, I can't see the palm of my hand.
- I'm not going to wash your socks! - Not as loud as before, but still
as angry, Pashka said through his teeth.
- Why are you winding him up? - I asked Yura, lighting up and standing
next to him.
- Bored, - simply said Yura.
- No, it seems something is eating you on the inside.
- Nothing is eating me on the inside. I just can't get that speech of
yours about the motherland out of my head. What's motherland?
- Oh, so you've got it now too. So what is motherland?
- As I said before, get stuffed!
- No, no, no. Don't tell me to get stuffed. You answer the question.
- You should've asked about the meaning of life.
- No Yura. Nobody knows that for sure, but you should know about the
motherland.
- You're right about one thing though. Motherland and government are
two totally different things.
- No, motherland and state.
- Yeah, it's OK when your country is of only one culture, like Israel,
for example.
- But what about the States. It's like a bloody Babylon in there and
they're all fine, all understand each other. No one wants to create an
independent state on the territory of, say, Texas. Why? Because they have
work over there. If you're not a bum, you live like a human being.
- That's right. By comparison, we're like walking backwards.
- OK, let's just drop this subject shall we. No use would come out of
it anyway and Pashka's already gone bananas.
- Yeah, that's for sure. Let's shoot? - Yura pulled a few signal
rockets out of his pocket.
- Let's do it! - I took a couple from him.
Having split up, we walked some distance away from each other, then
lifted the rockets and fired them, jerking the trigger cords. Almost
simultaneously two claps boomed in the air and the hissing rockets raced
into the night skies. Once at the end of their journeys they popped open
with lights and slowly started their descend back down to earth. The guards
also periodically launched these rockets, thus everything around here was
illuminated by this dead artificial light. All things had unusual, funny
looking sharp shadows. When you fire those rockets it seems like Christmas
back home. Every time, on the New Year's eve, I brought home some of these
rockets from the garrison and after the midnight we all came out of the
house and launched them. We were so happy, me and my son. The same feeling
of happiness for some reason overwhelmed me right now. I chucked off the
empty shell and picked up another rocket. Without waiting for Yura I fired
it into skies again. Heavy smell of the burnt gunpowder hung in the air.
Yura was catching up fast.
- Let's go get some sleep? - I asked Yura after the last rockets faded.
- Let's have the last cigarette and that's it for today. - My partner
said back to me.
We lit up and just sat there in silence.
- You think they'll send us together? - Yura broke the silence.
- I don't know. Maybe. Who knows.
- They might stick us into the second battalion until they find a
replacement for their chief of operations.
- Nah, they've got plenty of good company commanders there. Really,
there is no shortage of people in our brigade, who would like to become a
chief of Ops.
- Not really, but not many of them have enough experience to be one.
- You think they'll let you command the Ops?
- Maybe. It won't be you, that's for sure. You are the interaction
officer.
- Yep, we'll see.
- Imagine the guys in battalions are now busting their balls, getting
equipment and people ready. Verifying the details of the operation, people
and ammunition. Isn't it wonderful we no longer have to do this? The worst
position in the army is a company commander. They are running around like
crazy dogs.
- That's right. There is a good joke about it. Only it's about the
Navy, but still pretty relevant. They summon this old submarine captain to
the HQ of submarine operations and tell him: "We would like to introduce new
privileges to the sub crew members. What do you think about that?" The
captain, old sea dog, says "Fine, I think it's about time". So the HQ chief
again says "we would like to increase you wages, housing quota, holidays and
family leave. We are thinking when the shore-based servicemen find out about
it, they'll die of jealousy. What do you think?" The captain says: "Yeah,
that's right, but still, when the first one of them dies, could you put me
in his spot." Same goes for us, whatever privileges they promise company or
platoon leaders, we must stay away from these posts.
- OK, let's go. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day.
- Yeah, who knows when we'd be able to catch a descent sleep. You know,
Slava, you're such a bastard.
- Why is that?
- With your dumb motherland questions. My head is spinning.
- But I've let it all out and feel much better now. Let the others
suffer. You, for example.
- That's what I said, bastard.
- Don't worry about it too much. Take it easy and forget for now. If
we'll live through, we'll talk afterwards. In the nearest future, I think we
might have to lay off such conversations. Let the reflexes work for now.
- True, let the nerve system labour. I feel for the boys though. Lots
of them will probably stay here forever.
- "Nineteen year olds forever", like Baklanov wrote.
- OK. Let's go or you'll start it again.
We came up to the cab, tossed the butts out and walked in. While we
were out, Pashka cleaned up and was already in bed.
- You're not on the guard duty tonight?
- No. I'm on tomorrow during the day.
- Wow, what a fluke? Who's going to guard my sleep tonight?
- It's your sleep, so you guard it.
- You're being an asshole again, Pasha. I guess we should make you dig
a foxhole... for your horse and you together.
- Together?
- Yep, that's right. You let your tongue run free too often these days.
- How big would the horse's hole be?
- Three meters high.
- Three meters? There are no such horses.
- Sure there are. Have you been to Moscow? There is statue of Yuriy
Dolgorukiy there. His horse is about that big. So you'll be digging a
foxhole for his horse and himself if you don't keep your mouth shut.
Understood?
- Yeah, sure. - Grumbled Pashka, turning away. He knew we could make
him do it if he got to us.
All we took off was our boots and socks. The rest we kept on and only
loosened our belts a little. My AK was on the floor, next to my bed, Yurka
hung his on the wall above his head. A few hand-grenades went under my
pillow. I chambered a round in my captured suppressed Makarov, put it back
on "safety" and stashed it under the matrass on the same level as my waist.
Now we can try and catch some sleep. Pity, I didn't get pissed tonight.
Yurka, bastard, got in the way, but I'll get back at him tomorrow. I
unscrewed the light bulb above my head and everything sank into darkness. To
sum it all up for today I declared:
- At ease, boys.
So one more long day of this war was over. God and fate allowed me to
stay alive this one more day. Let's hope they won't change their minds
later. All my life in the past didn't mean much any more because tomorrow we
would have to go and try that suicidal assault at the Minutka. God, please
give me guidance! After this appeal to God I finally fell asleep.
---------------------------------------------------------------
© Copyright 2001 translation by Marta Malinovskaya and Konstantin S.Leskov
---------------------------------------------------------------
We split a bottle of vodka among all the officers including companies'
commanders, gobbled some ice-frozen canned beef. Meanwhile, our artillery
finished pounding Chechen positions. The roar of bombers ceased two minutes
later. Silence fell interrupted only by an occasional riffle cracking and
machine gun fire.
"Comrade lieutenant-colonel!" A soldier emerged from the battalion
commander's APC. "Order from the "twenty second" (it was the brigade
commander's code): five-five-five".
"Tell him: understood!" Battalion commander ran to his vehicle. We
followed him. Tank crews and officers of the second battalion also rushed to
their armored vehicles. A block before Minutka square our reconnaissance
unit soldiers stopped us and told that they succeeded in pushing the "dukhs"
from the bridge on our side, but the Chechens consolidated their position in
the middle of the bridge and on the other bank. It seemed like the bridge
was not mined, but I would not bet on it. Infantry jumped from the APCs and
waited for a command hiding behind the vehicles and ruins. Tanks had
arrived. It was agreed that infantry would go ahead with tanks following
fifty meters behind.
The Battalion Commander was in the head of his advancing unit, breaking
all instructions to stay behind during the attack. My buddy Yura and I had
no choice but to follow him. Sneaking through destroyed buildings, covering
short distances in each run, we reached the bridge. Our scouts were barely
holding the violent push of the "dukhs". A fortified stockade made of
concrete blocks had been erected in the middle of the bridge. "Dukhs" were
pouring our bank heavily with lead from behind of it not allowing us to
raise a head. Chechen mortars started covering us with shells. At first they
fired randomly, shells went into water, but after some corrections they
started to explode closer and closer and hit our bank. In addition "dukhs"
began shooting at us from grenade launchers. Reverberation was unbearable.
The bellow of mortar shells increased. Bullets were constantly knocking at
concrete blocks, which served us as a cover.
There were first casualties. In the first company, where Yura and I
were, a shell exploded very close to us, and a large fragment of it tore a
half of soldier's head off. The body was lying belly down, a half of the
neck was absent and another half bent to the right under the weight of what
was left of the head. Blood was gushing from the devastated artery staining
the wall red. Another soldier crawled to the dead, not to help, but to take
off a chain with his personal number from the torn neck and to pull
documents from the inner pocket of the uniform. When this guy turned the
dead on his back, corpse's hands trembled grasping his assault rifle as if
he did not want to part with it.
I switched my attention back to "dukhs". Chechens accumulated more
force on their side. An APC arrived to support them. We heard clanging and
engine roar from the back. It was ours tanks. They could have come earlier.
The front tank spat out a shell without good aiming. The projectile flew far
above "dukh's" heads and exploded somewhere behind them. Second shot came
closer. It scattered a crowd of "dukhs". Several bodies remained still on
the ground. Few more were screaming and squirming in pain. Mortar shelling
ceased, as well as automatic rifle fire. Battalion commander ordered:
"Second company! Podstwolniks ready! Fire! First and third companies
forward!" He jumped out of his hiding place and, ushering other people, ran
ahead being bent almost to the ground. We followed him screaming and cursing
on top of our lungs. Yurka and I blended with this rushing wave. Grenades
from the podstwolniks rustled over our heads. Shrapnel from the exploded
grenades clicked and banged on the bridge and on the other bank of the
river. Tank cannons thundered behind us. Their shells dispersed Chechen
infantry. "Dukhs" backed up from the bridge and hid behind a burned tank.
Mortar shelling resumed. The howl of flying missiles drove me crazy even
more then the noise from explosions. It I felt the air vibrating, hitting my
eardrums, already callous from explosions. My will was paralyzed. The howl
of falling shells made me feel that I knew which one was sent to hound me. I
could almost imagine it falling down on me and tearing me into hundreds of
pieces and scattering them around. I forced myself back to reality.
The second company pulled closer to us. Radio told us that the first
and the third battalions arrived and were ready to support us with fire
during the bridge takeover. A minute later, the cannons of BMPs which
belonged to two fresh battalions joined the chorus of tanks and
Kalashnikovs. Rifle's voices of the first battalion sounded like dogs'
barking, accompanied by more substantial large caliber shots of the third.
"Dukhs" almost stopped responding. The opposite bank was cloaked in
dust from shell and grenade explosions. It seamed as if we could feel this
thick air with our hands. Teeth were grinding dust. My throat was sore from
the gas from burned explosives and some other crap in the air. My eyes were
watered. But horror of the first minutes of the battle started to pass away.
Blood was pounding in my temples, sweat was dropping from under the helmet.
I unbuttoned my coat and weakened the buckle of the armored vest. Then I
rolled over to my back, fished out a pack of cigarettes, matches and lit the
cigarette. Yurka, who was next to me, reached out his hand asking for a
smoke. I shared my cigarette with him. Talking in this hellish roar was
absolutely impossible. I inhaled cigarette smoke and did not feel its taste;
just bitterness mixed with gunpowder gases and nicotine. My experience told
me that in five-ten minutes this cacophony would end and we would have to
attack running, crawling on that bridge. I don't want to! I want to lie down
and stare at the sky. A fragment of a prayer came up to my mind. I could not
remember it all. The most important - go onward and survive. Following our
Battalion Commander's order, the fire shifted deeper into the "dukh's"
defensive line. BMPs calmed down to avoid hitting us. Chief shouted,
"Forward! Hurraaah!" People sprinted forward from their hiding places. I ran
too. "dukhs" opened fire. Someone screamed on my right. Ahead of me a
soldier stumbled on invisible obstacle and was thrown back with his arms
wide spread. His Kalashnikov fell under my feet, I stepped on it and almost
slipped. Passing I glanced on the body. The groin was torn. Pants swelled
from blood, open eyes were looking at the sky without blinking. "Gone", a
thought flew in my brain. I felt terror again. A taste of blood in my mouth
returned. Dreadful, very dreadful. My legs felt as if were made of cotton. I
screamed something unintelligible. Yelled, screamed from horror. Lord God,
help! Help me to survive!
We were not too far from the bridge. Here it is, littered with
fragments of concrete, bricks, wrapped in barbed wire. Thirty men ahead of
us got out on the bridge. The other side opened heavy fire. First ten people
fell down, two of them were still moving, trying to crawl back. The rest
backed up and hid behind the ruins of the former "dukh's" stockade.
I flopped down too and crept behind a piece of concrete, stuck out my
automatic and gave a short burst in the direction of "dukh's" bank, then
looked back. All other officers were slightly behind. That meant that I
would be in charge here. Trying to over cry thunder of the battle, I yelled
that someone should drag the wounded back from the bridge. Soldiers ahead of
me nodded showing that they understood. Two of them crawled forward and the
rest opened fire to cover them. Seeing that the help is coming, the wounded
tried to crawl in our direction, but seemingly, were not able to move well.
Battalion commander appeared from behind and wheezed in my ear,
"You are a good runner, Slava."
"I would run back even faster", I answered.
"Isn't it creepier than it was at the airport of Severny here?"
"Exactly. I only wish not to let them blow up the bridge."
"For that, Slavyan, we need to take over it as soon as possible," and
he shouted again. "Forward! Forward, guys!"
Soldiers started getting out of their hiding holes despite the danger
of being killed by bombs. Battalion commander jumped from behind of a
concrete slab and ran forward. I followed him. The advance guard got on the
bridge again. Those who were retrieving the wounded rose and joined the
others. I got on the bridge, it was whistling and roaring around. "Dukhs"
shifted the mortar fire. Strong thunder came. I fell then sat up examining
myself. Everything was fine, except I couldn't hear a thing. I flapped at
one ear with open palm as if knocking the water out. It didn't help. Deaf
curtain separated me from the world. It had to be a concussion. A strong air
wave whipped my eardrums and popped them outside in, nothing terrible. It
would pass over. I looked where the shell exploded. I remembered four people
running ahead of me. Where were they? Right there. Devastated bodies of four
soldiers were lying on the bridge. Apparently, they had taken all shrapnel
as if they guarded me from it, at least so far. I felt sick and through up
partially from the concussion, partially from the view of mutilated bodies.
My fear contributed to it. I spat some bail out.
Surprisingly, deafness passed over with vomit. I started to hear
sounds. People ran by me. Some fell and moved no more. I was sitting like a
fool by the puddle of my own puke feeling good. I was alive! I had nasty
bitter taste in my mouth and was thirsty. I found my flask and took a sip. I
spat it out immediately because me friend Pashka had filled it with brandy.
I exhaled and made another sip. Head slowly cleared. All right, let's get
out of here. I could not leave the battle field with concussion, that would
be dishonest. I looked again at the remains of the soldiers, who took my
shrapnel.
Forward! Forward! Thoughts were mixed up still. I got up as if
breaching through a thick cotton pad . It was difficult to keep upright. But
I kept telling myself that everything was fine. It would pass over in an
hour. It was not my first concussion. You cure it with shameless vodka
drinking. Everything would be all right. Forward! I stubbornly made several
steps then stopped and looked around. Soldiers were lying down ahead of me,
in the middle of the bridge. Like a scarecrow, I was standing behind them
and shaking. It was my luck that I still had not been shot. I found a spot
where I could stand upright without problem. Then on half-bent, still infirm
legs, I ran toward my comrades. Forward. Forward... About ten meters short
from them I flopped down and started to crawl. After reaching ours
positions, I leaned against a concrete fragment. Soldiers, who were just
ahead of me, looked back and shouted something, but my brain refused to
comprehend. Judging by their approving and encouraging gestures, it was
something good. They figured that my hearing was impaired and lifted their
thumbs up. I nodded and yelled back:
"It's just a concussion"
Tanks began to shoot above our heads. Hostile fire faded and we went
forward again. Now I was dragging myself somewhere in the middle of the
attack group. I was afraid of firing because I could shoot our own guys.
Soldiers of the first battalion had already taken over the bridge. It was
ours at last. From now on, the main task was to keep it. I looked back.
"Dukhs" employed strong mortar fire to force the first battalion to move
back. There were only soldiers from our battalion on the enemy's bank. The
bridge was covered with corpses, I counted about fifty . Fifty died for
hundred and fifty meters of bridge. It was a horrible math. Companies of the
first battalion took the wounded with them.
"Dukhs" continued pounding bridge with shells and, at the same time,
started to shoot at us. They released a smoke-screen, which was a sign of
their coming attack. There was enough smoke even without it. Chief's order
was spread: "Get podstwolniks ready. Fire!" We started to shoot at the
swelling black cloud with grenades. Some soldiers, who did not have
podstwolniks, sprayed the smoke with long bursts from their semiautomatic
weapons. I heard screaming of wounded coming from the cloud as well as from
the our side. They were followed by clanging of tracks from behind the
smoke-screen. It was either a tank or a BMP. It began to pound our
positions. Random rocks and concrete fragments provided bad cover from
shells. Roar came from the above. Those were our planes. It looked as if the
sky opened and poured down bombs. Have you ever been under bombing? No? God
blessed you. Bombs, five hundred kilos of metal and explosives each, are
approaching the ground with debilitating howl. The roar of mortar shells is
a sweet serenade in comparison with it. Aviation bomb howl paralyzes the
body with horror, makes every cell of your body resonate. Thoughts go away
and you are lying just like a piece of meat, trembling from fear and
awaiting your death. Everything human leaves your body, you become a
trembling beast. People said that many of our soldiers had been killed by
our own aviation, but I myself had not been under friendly fire yet. First
bomb exploded far ahead. Apparently, it induced panic among Chechens,
because their fire from behind the smoke-screen stopped. A shook wave came
from the explosion. It engulfed us with horrible thunder and hot air. It
felt as if this roaring atmosphere was going to rip off my uniform, break my
ribcage, tear my mouth and cheeks. Eardrums would collapse. Blood was
already dripping out of my ears. A hail of small stones descended on us.
Someone was yelling. I looked there. A soldier was rolling on the ground,
holding hands on his eye. Blood was streaming between the fingers. A
paramedic was crawling toward him. Soldiers who were next to the wounded
grabbed the unfortunate and pressed strongly against the ground. One gave
him a water bottle, another ripped his uniform to bare a forearm. Then he
took a tube with painkiller from a medical kit and made an injection. I did
not watch the rest. Judging by the noise, pilots were about to make a second
barrage. That terrible, paralyzing howl started again. It was increasing.
Following my instincts, I squeezed myself into earth and listened the
silence that followed. Everybody was waiting where, whose chance would be to
meet with Madam Death.
An explosion happened unexpectedly close, on the left flank of our
battalion. A hail of stones showered us again. It was strange, but after all
these blasts, my hearing restored. The world of sounds rushed into my brain.
A buzz in my head had not passed yet, but I tried not to pay any attention
to it. I looked in the direction of the explosion. There was a huge crater,
about ten meters in diameter. Around it... Scattered around it were body
parts of our soldiers who happened to be close to epicenter. Smoke was
rising from the crater. There was an acrid smell, a mixture of explosives,
charred meat and burned wool. It made me sick again. Like a wave, nausea
came and rolled back. I tried to remember how many people were there. It
turned out that at least a platoon and a half. About fifty people. Oh, my
God! We had lost hundred people already and still had not strengthened our
grip on this bank! I heard Battalion Commander shouting obscenities into a
radio set. He was not using any code names, screw the discipline! He was
simply yelling into the microphone: "Recall those plains! Recall those
Goddamn plains, you whore! These faggots killed half of my battalion! Recall
immediately! I cannot hold it with my people! Why? Ask those bastards who
don't give a shit where they drop their bombs! Thank them for me! Recall
those perverts! I need support! I'm starting to dig in. Dukhs will attack in
a moment. Did you recall the plains? Good job! I'm not sure, but I think I
have more than a hundred "two-hundredths" and about sixty "hundredths". What
am I to do with them? Get me some help! I need paramedics and evacuators.
Some of my wounded are non-transportable. If no help comes, I'm out of here.
Get me some support and not like this one from the air, you jerk. The real
support! They promised vaunted paratroopers and marines! Where are those
scoundrels? Ask Severny where they are! Ask Khankala. I'm done talking. Fuck
off! Come here and you'll see why I've got no time to waist on you!"
"Dukhs" opened massive dense fire at us and at the opposite bank.
Mortars and BMP cannons hit us again. Their podstwolniks, Kalashnikovs and
machine guns did not idle either. With infuriating noise, bullets and
shrapnel plunged continuously into asphalt in front of our weak shelter
grinding bricks and concrete fragments. Squeaking of ricocheting bullets was
exasperatingly loud. The air became hot from the amount of metal bodies in
it. I heard again the shouts and moaning of freshly wounded.
Mechanic clanging came from behind. We looked back. Two our tanks drove
on the bridge and started shooting. "Dukhs" cut their zeal and transferred
all fire on them. Now it was our turn to attack. Chief ordered again:
"Forward!" We left our wounded waiting for assistance and rushed ahead. It
was so smoky that we could not see a thing on that square. We spread in a
chain, shooting randomly from hips into the smoke. Eyes were watery from
gunpowder gases. Forward! Only forward! I was screaming together with
others. Some were shouting "Hurrah!" some cursing, "Sons of the bitches!
Death to sons of the bitches!" I simply screamed with my mouth wide open
"Aaaaah!" It helped to stay cool. Adrenaline was raging in blood. I could
have head the world record in running beaten. Suddenly an automatic fire
came from the behind of the smoke screen. Chechens shot the same way as we
were doing, long bursts from hips. Apparently, they had allowed us to come
closer deliberately. We dropped down. It was suicidal to lie on the open
square. I rolled over, then again. Aha, here was a chunk of some wall. I
flattened myself against it bruising my shoulder. Then I began firing back.
The distance between us and the enemy was no more than fifteen meters,
but they had unquestionable advantage. They were hidden behind the walls
whereas we were with butts up in the middle of the square. My assault rifle
clicked and shut up, it was out of ammunition at a wrong time as usual. The
attached clips were empty too. I raised the barrel of my Kalashnikov and put
a grenade into the launcher. It would be better to shoot from the knee, but
I had no choice. I pressed the trigger with my left hand finger. Detonator
exploded and grenade flew toward the enemy. It went too far. I corrected the
aiming. Another grenade went into the launcher and the trigger was pulled.
While the grenade was flying, I swiftly detached the empty clip and pushed
the paired new one in. Thunder came from the behind. I looked back. Fuck!
"Dukhs" hit both our tanks. They were engulfed in flames. Cartridges were
cracking. Soon shells would explode. Yes, a moment later, deafening
explosion thundered, followed by another one. Tanks' towers flew off. Almost
synchronously, they slowly, very slowly went up in the air and, turning over
and over, flew in the opposite directions. The first tower fell into the
water with a loud splash, the second dropped on our side of the river. What
was left of tanks continued to burn. The body of the first one split right
in the middle. Cartridges were still bursting in flames.
Rabid from their victory, "dukhs" switched their attention and fire to
us. Mortar shells started to gather their crop again. Soldiers had to dig in
under this hurricane fire. The luckiest ones appeared to be those who found
themselves spots with asphalt destroyed by tanks' or BMP's tracks. There was
mud there, in which a soldier would dig in up to his ears. Our ranks were
dwindling with every second. Many were wounded. Sun could not break through
the dense smoke. I was hoping to hear shooting from the other side of the
square where, according to commanders' plan, paratroopers and marines were
supposed to attack. But there was nothing going on there. So it was just us,
a pity handful, no more than a hundred and fifty people, battling on the
open space with well-fortified enemy. Shouts and bursts of automatic fire
came from behind again. I turned back and saw first battalion trying to
cross the bridge. With doubled efforts, we began to pour bullets and
grenades on "dukhs". But the guys did not succeed in their attack and rolled
back once more. Our ranks shivered. The feeling of emptiness and futility of
our efforts enveloped us and crushed our will. Fear, dark fear smashed under
its immense weight everything human in our souls. The instinct of
self-preservation worked. Without any order, we began to retreat. Not to
run, but to retreat, snapping back with bursts of automatic fire and sparse
shots from the launchers, carrying our wounded, leaving our dead. Leaving
them, however we knew that if we did not pick them up by tonight, "dukhs"
would come and mutilate their bodies, would dismember them. They would cut
off noses, ears, and private parts and would throw them, together with the
body remains into the Sunzha River to feed fish. Please, forgive us, guys!
We retreated to our former positions, where our own aviation bombed us.
Suddenly we heard a shout: "Daddy is wounded!" Everybody turned and saw
Battalion Commander to a shelter, his left arm hanging like a piece of rope.
His left foot stampeded, he fell on his side. Soldiers ran to him and pulled
him out from under the fire into a temporary shelter. Officers of the
battalion began to show up, crawling and rolling on the ground. I hurried
too. I saw my buddy Yura among them. Alive! I had lost him from my sight
since the beginning of the fight. Major Ivan Genrihovich Kugel, a battalion
commander deputy came as well.
A paramedic was trying to stop Chief's hemorrhaging using rubber band
and sterile bandage. Battalion commander was intermittently losing and
gaining consciousness. He breathed hard. Something was croaking in his chest
impeding ventilation. He was pale, big drops of sweat were constantly
rolling down his face leaving gray traces on his dusty skin.
"Why did you drag your butts up here?" he asked after opening his eyes.
"Go, work. Don't leave people. Fuck off. While I'm here, my deputy is Kugel.
Get out! Work, you shitheads, work!" He closed his eyes again and passed
out. We turned to the paramedic.
"How's he? Will he make it out?"
"Leg arteries are punctured. Large blood loss is dangerous. I don't
know, I need to get him to the hospital."
"Save him! Listen you! Save the Chief or I'll make holes in you!" Vanya
Kugel yelled at the guy.
"Don't swear at him, Ivan! Let's carry him out," Commander of the first
company said.
"Take him and try to break through! We'll cover you up!" Ivan said. "
Try! Carry Daddy out!" And then loudly to cover the roar of fight, "Listen
to my order! I'm in command while Battalion Commander is incapacitated!
First company has to break through and carry him out. We all will cover
them! Dig in and fight until the last one! Radio operator, where the hell
are you?"
"There's no operator, the guy's killed, " one of the soldiers shouted.
"Tune companies' transmitters on brigade's frequency and tell that in
five minutes we'll try to carry our Chief out. Tell them to meet us and
cover with fire. Is it clear? Forward! Forward!"
First company went back under terrible fire, directed at the exposed
bridge. They were carrying Battalion Commander, who was unconscious and
three other wounded. They could not take any more with them. Only
thirty-three men were left of the company, slightly more than a platoon. We
were shooting, shooting, changing clips and shooting again. I looked over my
shoulder. Five men from the first company lay still on the bridge adding
their bodies to already so many fallen. The luckier ones had reached the
middle. Just a little bit more, guys! Press forward! "Dukhs" were furiously
shooting at us and at the first company. I hoped we had enough munitions to
respond. Don't worry, sons of the bitches, we'll talk to you in a little
while, you damn bastards!
Suddenly my soul calmed down in peace. It happens when the decision has
been made and you understand that this it is the final one. There is only an
end of the story ahead and, unfortunately, you have no influence to change
it. All you have to do is to sell your body and soul as high as possible. I
did not want to die, but I had no fear of death any more, just absolute
calmness. My head was clear. Thoughts were precise. Reflexes were sharp.
Some kind of invigorating sense came, similar to that of gambling. Who would
win? We were the good guys and they were the bad. Everything was simple. I
remembered our boot camp song:
We have everything we need,
Frozen vodka goes with meet.
Our girlfriends are the best,
So is my AKMS!
Let's make war, bastards!
---------------------------------------------------------------
© Copyright 2001 translation by Konstantin S. Leskov
---------------------------------------------------------------
Everybody around me was slowly digging in. That's right. An infantry
soldier will bite asphalt, but hold the position. I did not have a sapper's
spade. A dead man was lying three meters from me. A spade in a slipcase was
attached to his belt. I rolled to him and tried to unfasten the case. It did
not work out. Bullet whistled close to me. Instinctively, I ducked. However
it is known that the bullet, which you can hear, is not yours, I duck
anyway. With a jerk, I turned the body over, unbuckled and pulled off the
belt. Rolled back to my place. As soon as I found cover, a bullet pierced
the dead body and made it shiver. They could have hit me, fucking souls.
Explored my site. Asphalt was crashed in several places. I started to scoop
its pieces out with a spade and put them in front of me. Here is earth mixed
with stones. Not paying attention to my ground to blood fingers, I was
continuing digging and building a parapet. Soil was cold. My chest and belly
had already been in a small trench. Head and legs were still on the surface.
I was completely dirty, ripped off the skullcap from under the helmet. Head
was steaming. Hot, very hot.
Heard clanging and roar from behind again. Looked back. Tanks had roped
their burnt colleagues with wire hawsers and tried to pull them aside.
"dukhs" began to shot at them with mortars and grenade launchers over our
heads. We stopped digging and opened fire at the Chechen fortifications.
With dread I heard dry click of my Kalashnikov. Shit, no ammo whatsoever.
Only seven grenades were left for the launcher. Kaput! A water bottle and a
clip bag were hanging from the dead soldier's belt. I weighted the bag. Oho!
Heavy. We'll live for a while then. I pulled out three clips and examined
them. Full. Three clips thirty shots each - ninety. Not too much, but it's
the best we have. When there is no fish, even a dick is meat. I loaded the
automatic, took an aim, and gave a short burst at barely visible shadow. It
disappeared. Might be hit, might be not. Switched to single shots just in
case. Started to dig in again.
Suddenly, piercing screams of "dukhs" came from ahead. They cannot talk
quietly even in normal life, on the war they scream so that ears get
blocked. I heard a familiar clang. A tank and a BMP rolled out. Very nice.
Retreating was impossible because of risk being shot in the back and a
success of advance was also futile. It is very uncomfortable wrestle with a
tank on the open square. Different weight categories. Ivan Kugel shouted
something, but, because of distance and shooting, I could not hear anything.
I only heard the result: popping of our launchers. It's hard to get a tank
with a small launcher grenade, especially when it is coated in "active"
armor. It's a good thing for tanks, the "active" armor. A number of square
boxes are lain next to each other on the hull. There is a
high-temperature-activated explosive inside each of them. When a cumulative
shell or a "Mukha" grenade hits a tank, it produces a narrow stream of heat,
which normally penetrates steel shields. When "active" armor is used,
explosive blasts and breaks the direction of the stream. The tank remains
intact.
The enemy tank, which was moving in our direction, was decorated with
those boxes like a Christmas tree. The bastards came prepared to meet us. A
grenade launcher shot popped on the left flank. Judging by the sound,
someone used "Mukha". Cumulative grenade precisely hit the junction between
hull and tower. Explosion thundered. Smoke went up from the tank. Then
flame. Deafening blast came next. Tower was ripped off and thrown back. It
fell on "dukh's" positions. A wall collapsed in a cloud of dust. We heard
yells. Flame was raging in the tank. Ammunition was cracking inside it's
belly.
We ourselves exploded with joyful exclamations and shouts. Aha,
bitches, you have seen! What a shot! What a great shooter! I wouldn't spare
a Star of Hero for such a shot! Great job!
"Dukh's" BMP rolled back and began shelling us. Projectiles blasted in
front of us, then behind our backs. Shrapnel hit several soldiers, but did
not kill them, just wounded. To our luck, their crew was bad at aiming. An
anti-aircraft cannon, installed on the BMP might have tear our humble
fortifications into pieces.
Two our tanks stopped at the beginning of the bridge ready to open
fire. The third one was moving to our, or "dukh's", bank shooting randomly.
Infantrymen were hiding behind it. They were launching grenades into the
enemy over the tank and our heads. Great! "Dukh's" BMP retreated far back
and disappeared from the view. Our tank came closer, stopped and shot
"dukh's" positions at almost point-blank. Infantry ran from behind it. It
was our first company, which returned, and a part of the first battalion.
More infantry was running on the bridge. Those were first and third
battalions. They told that Combat died. Unconscious, he kept shouting out
orders, was restless, then calmed down and passed away. All soldiers and
officers were shaken by the news. Alexander Petrovich had been an embodiment
of courage, a colossus, something eternal and unshakable. He had been an
axle of the battalion, and he was not with us anymore. It was hard to
believe it had happened. We had used to losing close friends on the war, but
him... No I could not believe it. I did not want to believe. Everybody
around looked devastated. Petrovich was not only a commander, but for his
soldiers and officers he was a teacher, big brother, "Batya", "Papa". Sad,
too sad.
The arrived brought more ammo. It was quickly distributed and loaded
into empty clips, grenade bags, leaving the "novices" the pleasure of
shooting at the "dukhs" and digging trenches for themselves. Shelling the
enemy positions, tank backed up without turning the tower. Another one
started from "our" bank its cannon firing as it was moving toward us. Its
place was immediately occupied by the third one. Tank "carousel" was
working. The fun was about to begin. Adrenalin raged in blood again. Steam
was rising from skin. Excitement of battle came back. I looked at the
nearest soldiers. The same effect. Only half an hour ago all of thought how
to sell our lives as dear as possible, now everybody seemed to have the same
hunter's heat. Cornered rabbits, we turned into mature wolves. No! Not
wolves. Chechens are wolves. They have a wolf under the Moon on their flag.