just gone mad. That's why San Sanytch and Sergei Kazartsev are worried about
your mental health. You better stay, Slava. One just can't go into night
fighting in a state of mind like yours."
"Back off, I'm fine. I'm just cool. I feel really good. Never felt this
good before. Well, maybe that's my reaction to the night before. But I want
to go and I will go into this night fighting. And to hell with the orders, I
don't need any sympathy. So, guys, I do respect you and I love you, but you
can go and screw yourselves."
And even saying that, I was calm as a python. No emotion, just a sober
mind.
We spent the rest of the break shooting alcohol, trying to stay low on
snacks. Yuri was tired of shouting into my ears, so he did not talk much.
And I did not want to turn the evening into a one-actor performance. I had
no intention of pushing the fragile piece of my soul off balance by talking
too much.
So, time passed in silence. I was neither thinking, nor dreaming or
recollecting, I just kept my eye on what was going on around me. I picked up
some ammo, filled my canteen with water, and off I went.
This time we went along with the remains of the 1[st]
Battalion. Sergei Kazartzev was walking next to us. The neighbors attacked
first and engaged with the enemy, but the dukhi were not dumb and they were
waiting for us. Ten minutes after the fighting started we had received
Budalov's order to attack.
The dukhi opened up with tremendous fire. Some of the 2[nd]
Battalion troops could not hold on and turned back, searching for cover near
the State Bank building. For a moment, it seemed the whole Brigade was going
to retreat. But something stopped folks from turning their backs on the
enemy. The troops hesitated, but they did not run back this time.
Running made me sweat, but I stayed calm and collected. I tried to stay
away from corpses and to avoid the point where I had stayed the night
before. My body armor remained there, as was the corpse of that private who
rushed to help me out. It still lay there in the same pose. I just caught
this picture with the corner of my eye, but I had no intention of going
through all that again. I could not resurrect him, but I will remember him
until I die.
The Brigade charged ahead like an avalanche. The dukhi were under
attack from all sides. Ahead, charge ahead! Soon we were under the walls of
the Palace. The dukhi blew up the entrance into the Palace, so it was not
easy to get inside. They were shooting at us from above. Our tanks, hiding
behind the Gosbank building, began firing at their nests in the Palace. The
dukhi returned the fire, shooting back at the Gosbank area. A large piece of
the Gosbank wall collapsed, and some soldiers, who could not hold the
enemy's fire and have turned back in the first minutes of the battle, were
now crouching behind the fallen wall, terrified. They were shooting
chaotically at the Palace, and that attracted more and more of the dukhi's
fire. At that moment, Sergei Kazartzev did what later had became the subject
of many discussions in the Brigade. He rushed toward them and, with kicks
and curses, he managed to rise them up and lead them toward the Palace. It
was sheer madness.
We were just stunned by his courage, and tried to cover him with fire.
But for the dukhi this was just like sports hunting. They were shooting at
him first, then at his group when they charged forward. My heart sank when I
watched this mad racing. I did not breath, all my feelings were with these
guys. Even when I was not looking their way and was shooting up at the
dukhi, I could sense with the back of my head where they were at the moment.
I tried to distract the enemy's attention by keeping up firing, and only
when I changed the mag I glanced at the running men. They seemed close
enough, but still had a lot of space to cover. I could not shoot a bomb up
into the dukhi's nest because it was way too steep. So we just kept shooting
long bursts at them, trying to distract their attention or draw them away
from the windows. And the dukhi also began shooting wildly with long bursts
at the square. Run faster, guys! Faster! Just fucking run! I know you can
make it! Come on, Sergei!
The Gods must have been on our side that night. The guys had made it
safely through the wall of bullets and joined us successfully. They just
could not believe their luck and looked around themselves in dizziness. They
shouted something and we patted them on their shoulders, saying some words
of encouragement. But Sergei, of course, was the real hero. From now on, we
would respect him in a new way. He was rather short and skinny, and I was
always skeptical of the abilities of political officers, but occasionally
you could come across a worthy officer even among their big crowd. He was
sweating, his warm breath clouding, and he drank the whole canteen of water
that somebody gave him. Everyone was trying to greet him. Earlier, in Soviet
times, he would get a Star of a Hero for that, but now only the soldier's
mothers could appreciate his courage. He would never hear them, though. So,
pray, you mothers, for Sergei Kazartzev, a man with a big soul. Wish him
good health.
Meanwhile, the dukhi started putting pressure on us, dropping down some
hand grenades. That did not cause us any damage and we managed to shoot down
a couple of dukhi. One went down with a scream. Others, already dead, fell
down silently. The grunts did not bother to search their dead bodies. Step
by step, we moved on, shooting up at the dukhi above. My neck and shoulders
became stiff from looking up and the gun smoke was getting into my eyes and
lungs. It would be great to stop, bend down and cough this crap out. So, I
had to breath slowly, through my nose. OK, we had reached the walls of the
Palace.
The first group climbed the wall and got inside. I screamed to overcome
my fear, as I tried to jump up the wall. A window nearby was blocked with
sandbags. The bags were made of heavy-duty glossy paper and were packed
densely with sand and soil. My fingers slid on those sandbags, unable to cut
through the surface. My body armor and the AK were pulling me down with
their weight. So I stuck to those sandbags, like snot on a mirror, listening
to the battle raging inside. I felt I could not hold on. In a second I would
have fallen down, but anger at my own clumsiness gave me some extra strength
and I managed to climb up a little. I found an opening between the bags,
with some dirt and some traces of recent shooting. This must have been a
good machine gun nest over here.
When I felt I could hold on, I shifted my AK forward to my chest and
peered inside. I was lucky to spot a small group of the enemy from behind.
Four of the dukhi with their backs turned toward me were shooting at the
grunts that were inside the building.
Almost without aiming, I gave a long burst at their backs. Two of them
fell down, howling; the other two ran away. I saw some grunts bursting into
the room and cried for help. They dragged me in and we ran. No words were
said between us.
The hall at the first floor was rather typical for a large
administrative building. The ceiling was high and numerous columns and
niches provided the defenders with many opportunities to hide, to set up an
ambush or booby-trap the place. Darkness did not help us either. The air was
dense with smoke and dust. I felt how the gunk that accumulated in my lungs
was trying to get out of there.
Surprisingly enough, I was still calm, despite the adrenaline rush that
I just had. My mind was clear and worked like a calculator.
The dukhi were fighting for every inch of the hall, and we kept pushing
them out. We kept shooting, aiming at muzzle flairs, at noises, or simply
intuitively. Some furious gunfire erupted to my left, followed by a
tremendous explosion. Just as it happened before, my hearing had somewhat
improved after the concussion. It was great to hear all the sounds of battle
again. I felt rage and a wild desire to live. My tranquility and numbness
were gone. Charge ahead and kill them all!
The blast had opened a breach in the wall and in rushed our neighbors,
who were also makhra, judging by their uniforms. They were eager to join us.
Some of the dukhi, who made it to the upper floor, were now trying to throw
down hand grenades, but most of the enemy were cut off and cornered in the
end of the hall. They were fighting vigorously, but we were too strong for
them. We kept firing our grenade launchers, and the small fragments from the
bombs killed everything in the closed space.
More troops came in. Siberian makhra, Volga area makhra, some
paratroopers, and even some Interior Ministry troops were all mixed now.
Naturally, there was no one in command and no plan. There was just an
overwhelming desire to destroy the enemy, to dump these jackals down from
the Palace's roof. Charge ahead!
I was out of breath again. Nobody listened to anyone anymore. Shooting
at the enemy, everyone was shouting something of their own, like names of
those friends who were killed in action, pressing the trigger with every
name. We were right in the enemy's den! We lost too many of our comrades on
the damned Square. We cried when we saw our comrades hanged in the windows
of this building. Though now, at the turn of the century, there is a general
cry for kindness and forgiveness in our world, there will be no mercy for
you, dukhi! For using our boys as human shields, death to you all! The
Judgment Day has come!
I kept shooting, excited by the battle again. I put a long burst into
the shadow that jerked ahead of me. I was shouting something, too, like
everybody else, but I don't remember, what. So that is our Reichstag, at
last! We have finally done it! I will remember this moment for the rest of
my life.
Somebody pat me on the shoulder. Whoa, this is it's Yuri! He was also
very excited, his eyes shining with joy. We smile to each other: we are
alive, and if we had survived all that, we will live forever. I tried to
tell him, that I got my hearing back, but the noise was just too terrible.
We moved on together.
Part of our ragtag force went down into the basement. There was no
shooting down there, so the basement must have been clean. In our direction,
it was also clear, and all the surviving dukhi were pushed upstairs. I had
no intention of going upstairs at the moment. It was getting really dark
now. The grunts were throwing some bloodied rags out through the windows. We
did not want to spend the night here with whatever was left of the first
floor defenders.
There was some excitement at the basement entrance, and I saw a group
of makhra with burning torches carrying out corpses of our soldiers from the
basement. Some were carried on improvised stretchers, some were just carried
on hands. Some bodies were still dressed in uniforms, and some were naked.
Many bodies were mutilated and clearly had signs of torture. Many corpses
had their throats slashed, which was a typical style of execution by the
dukhi. Some had eyes poked out, fingers crashed into the bloody mess, and
two corpses had their feet cut off. We screamed in anger. From now on, there
will be no mercy for the enemy!
In that same basement, where the world-known blabber Korolev had spent
some time with his team, our soldiers were tortured to death. They were his
countrymen, his kin. So, what right did he have to talk about our "cruelty"
and " civilian abuse"? He is the same kind of pervert as everyone who
defended this building!
We kept watching, in silence now. Those who had their helmets or wool
caps on, took them off, and watched in great sorrow. Dear friends, forgive
us, for we were too late and failed to rescue you.
They kept carrying the bodies out. No one kept count, but there were no
less than 50. When the sad line stretched outside the building, the dukhi
opened fire. Someone screamed, as only a wounded can scream.
We were suddenly overwhelmed with a thirst for revenge. Forward, and
up!
Nobody gave an order, but we rushed toward the two stairways to the
second floor. The dukhi tried to stop us with a hail of bullets, but we
overpowered them with our grenade launchers. This time we fought in silence.
There were no victorious shouts and that sheer delight of battle we felt
earlier was gone. Only one feeling was left, Revenge! They cannot be left
alive.
Step by step, we moved upstairs. Dead militants were lying on the
steps. We walked right over them. These were not human beings any more, just
some stuff under the feet. All attention was concentrated on aiming. I step
on something soft; it's a militant's corpse. My foot sinks in some soft and
disgusting stuff. Without looking down, I kick it away. The visibility is
very poor, only the wind blows through the shattered windows. It is too dark
to see the enemy. Now the game of who's going to lose his nerve first
begins. Whoever makes the first shot will reveal his position and die. None
of us smoked or talked, we just kept walking very carefully. One of the
grunts picked up an empty can and threw it ahead. At once, three bursts of
automatic fire erupted from different sites. We locked onto those muzzle
flashes and fired back. Those of us who used the other stairway opened up
too. There were more flashes in front of us. We just kept spraying the
second floor with long bursts of fire. Bullets ricocheted from the columns
with terrible noise. It was too dangerous to stay where we were, so we
dispersed.
I shot from kneeling a position, then dodged forward, rolled over and
shot again, then rushed ahead. It was hard to breathe; I was sweating like a
pig again. My feet slipped on broken glass and spent cases. But to stop
meant to die, so we kept moving on. I could hear the steps of the soldiers
behind my back. The open area of the first floor was easier to take. Here
there were plenty of offices, there were pillars and doorways in the
corridor. Inch by inch, cutting the dukhi away from the exits and elevator
shafts we kept moving inside. We reached the office area and began mopping
up cleaning it: one or two hand grenades were thrown inside, then a spray of
gunfire. Most of the doors were gone, so we did not have to kick through the
doors down. Someone screamed to the left of me and cursed loudly in Russian.
I figured, the guy was wounded by the fragments of his own hand grenade. I
could tell from the noise that he was taken downstairs. The dukhi were also
throwing grenades and shooting bombs. More and more often the fallen
soldiers were carried away. Some would become "Cargo 200", and some would
become "Cargo 300"...
But that was not on my mind then: ahead, charge ahead! Again, I had the
salty taste of blood in my mouth; again, adrenaline rushed in my veins. Fear
and excitement are the feelings that motivate men in the battle. When these
two feelings mix, an explosive is formed that can blast with a tremendous
amount of energy.
We got to another office. A couple of hand grenades were thrown in and
we took cover behind the pillars. As two explosions thunder inside the
office, we heard more explosions echoing in the far end of the corridor. We
jumped through the doorway and sprayed the inside of the office with
bullets. Looks like no one was inside. We turn our backs and at once a burst
of fire comes from the inside. Luckily, no one gets hurt. We throw grenades
again, shoot bombs and the AK's. Altogether, about six bombs explode inside,
one by one. We keep shooting the automatics and move inside slowly, stumping
on a corpse of a militant, badly torn by explosions. It's too dark to
inspect the body and we just check his pockets. When we get out of the
office again, we find that the rest of our group had gone far ahead. The
corridor is dark; only some muzzle flashes and grenade explosions, so
deafening when inside the building, light the darkness. Slowly, everything
quiets down. The second floor is taken!
I can feel my sympathy for the militants vanishing with every action. I
felt some remorse initially, that we had come here as conquerors, and I was
tortured by guilt of being an occupant, maybe even a murderer. Now, I do not
give a shit. This is all just about revenge, and nothing else. Everything is
just black and white. We are the good guys, they are the bad guys.
Gradually, the delight of the battle is fading away, and I felt tired and
drowsy. The soldiers around me were chatting in excitement, interrupting
each other, telling the most remembered moments of the fight. Two soldiers
came from the first floor. I figured, one of them had a shoulder wound. The
medics kept operating heavily wounded in the basement.
The soldiers pulled some cotton out from their padded coats to make
improvised torches. A sympathetic crowd gathered at once. The wounded
soldier took his coat off, and we saw that his shoulder was messed up.
Someone gave him a canteen with vodka, or maybe alcohol, and he took a good
drink of it. Then they began cleaning his wound. The wounded clutched a
leather belt between his teeth. And just bit it harder with every touch,
that made his body shiver. He wiped sweat and drops of saliva rolling down
his chin with the back of his hand. Others kept talking, trying to distract
him from pain. Someone offered him a shot of painkiller, but he refused.
His friend was working with his bayonet, and a stiletto, widening the
wound, trying to get to the fragment. When he finally cleared his way to the
piece of metal, he attached the sheath to the bayonet, the way it is
normally done to turn the bayonet into scissors to cut the barbed wire. Only
this time the device would be used as forceps. We already knew that the
fragment must be pulled out quickly, or the patient could lose his
conciousness, or even die from pain shock. The war had turned us into fairly
good medics. Such skills are always valuable here. The helpers held him
tight now. He stiffened, shut his eyes and bit the belt harder, waiting for
the shock to come. His friend carefully reached the fragment inside the
wound with his improvised forceps, and then pulled it out abruptly. The
wounded soldier groaned, jerked backward, then forward. Blood streamed out
of the wound. The soldiers nearby opened the packs of bandages and tried to
stop the bleeding, but it did not work. The blood quickly soaked all
bandages and streamed down his back. Either an artery was cut, or this guy's
blood did not clot fast enough. We realized he could eventually die from
bleeding. Someone took the mag off his assault rifle and quickly took out
several catridges. There was no other way to stop bleeding, but to use this
barbaric approach. We often dusted small scratches with cigarette ashes, and
more serious wounds were treated with gunpowder.
A soldier came forward with two opened cases in his hand. The bandages
were removed at once and he quickly poured the gunpowder from the cases into
the wound. One of the guys touched it with his torch and the powder burned
with a flash that blinded us for a second. The wounded soldier jumped up,
but we saw that the bleeding had stopped. Cries of relief roared through the
group. The shoulder was finally bandaged; the fragment was washed with vodka
and given to the wounded as a souvenir. Then he drank whatever vodka was
left in the canteen. The operation was over. We were facing another long,
cold winter night in Chechnya.
My partner took something out of his pocket and showed it to me. It was
too dark to see the object, so I bent down and in the dim red light of my
cigarette I saw that he was holding a hand grenade, and a fuse. So, he also
kept one in his pocket! Our time has not come yet.
"I see, you did not use it."
"Not yet. Where have you been? I was going to stay with you, but I lost
you somewhere."
"Fuck knows where. I just ran with the pack. I was hoping they were
after some beer, but they had led me here instead."
"There would be a line to get beer. So, how are you doing?"
"Fine. Even my ears can hear something. Just fine."
"Well, just fine?" His voice was skeptical.
"Aren't we both alive? Yes! Unhurt? More or less so. We are on the
second floor of their Reichstag. What else do you need?"
"A shot of vodka and some chow."
"Why don't you go upstairs and ask?"
"Yeah, right. They will give me some. How are we going to spend the
night?"
"I have no idea, Yuri. Let us figure out something. We can't go down to
the basement, cause the medics work down there. How can they operate, I
can't even imagine."
"Well, they got some torches, just like us here."
"Shit! This is the end of the Twentieth Century, and they still operate
in torchlight. It's good to know that the wounds are not treated with snake
oil and witchcraft."
"When you fight with your own people, you end up treating wounds with
witchcraft. What did you expect?"
"Nothing. Can we sneak out of the building?"
"No way! No one could break through, either here or back. That is it,
we are sealed up!"
"Bastards!"
"Who?"
"Not us. Dukhi, of course!"
"Stop that. If you need some action, there are more stories above you.
They will wear us down. We won't hold for long without food, water, ammo and
evacuation of the wounded. So, we have no choice but move up."
"Just wait till they surprise us by blowing up a ceiling right above
our heads, the way they did it in Gosbank. That will be really funny!"
"They won't do that."
"Why not?"
"Cause the upper floors could collapse."
"Big deal. When Muslims fight with unbelievers, they can sacrifice
their lives."
"Everybody wants to live."
"True, but there can always be a couple of fanatics among them, who
don't give a shit. And these could light the fuse. There are enough fools
everywhere."
"I like your optimism. When one needs to hear some encouragement, we
can always bet on you, Slava. You are always there to boost our morale!"
"I am just being realistic. Let's go and find some place to take a
nap."
"We will need to build a fire. Maybe the dukhi left us some firewood."
We slowly walked along the corridor, searching for some firewood in the
offices. We picked up whatever we could find: pieces of broken furniture,
doors and window frames. We carried all that into one of the offices, where
we built a fire with the help of some office paper we found there. The
office furniture was not as good as firewood. It burned slowly, with the
remnants of polish bubbling and blackening. We sat shoulder to shoulder, our
backs to the wall, watching the flames in silence. Soon, our thoughts
drifted far away from reality and from everything that happened today.
The warmth of the fire made us drowsy, and despite hunger and thirst,
we fell asleep. One more day in my life had ended; one more day of war...
We did not sleep comfortably. The limbs became numb every now and then,
and I even got cramps in my leg. Then the fire almost died and I felt really
cold, so I had to stay half awake, keeping an eye on the fire. We woke up
before the dawn and threw the remaining firewood into the fire, then warmed
up doing some squats, jumping jacks and push-ups. We finally warmed up, but
without hot meals and vodka we would not hold out for long. The dukhi would
not let us out, and they will keep the reinforcements away. But we also
would not let them out, no way!
Meanwhile, some shooting began on the square. Carefully, we looked
outside. A large formation the size of a regiment, was trying to break
through into the palace. Judging by their uniforms, they were a mix of
marines and internal ministry troops.
The dukhi were shooting from the upper floors. Only then we had
realized the brutality of what we had managed to fulfill by breaking across
the square earlier. Even in the morning dusk the whole square was clearly
seen from the palace. And the soldiers down there, who were trying to find
cover behind the broken armor and in ditches, were just perfect targets for
shooting practice.
I heard some explosions and small arms fire back in the corridor. We
rushed out of the office. On the second stairway the soldiers were slowly
retreating under the attack of the militants from above. So, the bastards
are trying to break out! Forget about it, you won't!
There was also shooting on the first stairway now. The dukhi were
desperately trying to break out from the trap. Next to me, Yuri launched a
grenade. I knew that he was good in that -- a lot better than I am. I just
lack imagination needed to predict the trajectory of the round. And on many
occasions I was stunned by his ability to shoot a grenade from some kinky
position. It would fly by some unbelievable arc and inevitably hit the
target. And he would always hit it with the very first shot. So now he kept
shooting grenades, staying cool. But I knew that his stony face concealed a
lot of excitement.
The enemy also switched to launching bombs and throwing hand grenades,
and that kept both sides well apart from each other. That grenade duel went
on for a while.
For a second, I thought it would be great if we evacuated the building
and just blew it up with all the dukhi inside, but the brass, of course,
would not go for such radical solution. They need victorious press releases,
with snapshots of the captured Palace on the cover of some hot magazine.
Maybe, with a banner on top, the way it was on the Reichstag building in May
of 1945. They will rush more troops across the square now, and maybe a third
would not make it. They'd gather no less than a division inside the Palace,
and most of them would die there.
Comments:
dukhi a nickname for the Chechen rebels
makhra a nickname for the Russian infantry
your mental health. You better stay, Slava. One just can't go into night
fighting in a state of mind like yours."
"Back off, I'm fine. I'm just cool. I feel really good. Never felt this
good before. Well, maybe that's my reaction to the night before. But I want
to go and I will go into this night fighting. And to hell with the orders, I
don't need any sympathy. So, guys, I do respect you and I love you, but you
can go and screw yourselves."
And even saying that, I was calm as a python. No emotion, just a sober
mind.
We spent the rest of the break shooting alcohol, trying to stay low on
snacks. Yuri was tired of shouting into my ears, so he did not talk much.
And I did not want to turn the evening into a one-actor performance. I had
no intention of pushing the fragile piece of my soul off balance by talking
too much.
So, time passed in silence. I was neither thinking, nor dreaming or
recollecting, I just kept my eye on what was going on around me. I picked up
some ammo, filled my canteen with water, and off I went.
This time we went along with the remains of the 1[st]
Battalion. Sergei Kazartzev was walking next to us. The neighbors attacked
first and engaged with the enemy, but the dukhi were not dumb and they were
waiting for us. Ten minutes after the fighting started we had received
Budalov's order to attack.
The dukhi opened up with tremendous fire. Some of the 2[nd]
Battalion troops could not hold on and turned back, searching for cover near
the State Bank building. For a moment, it seemed the whole Brigade was going
to retreat. But something stopped folks from turning their backs on the
enemy. The troops hesitated, but they did not run back this time.
Running made me sweat, but I stayed calm and collected. I tried to stay
away from corpses and to avoid the point where I had stayed the night
before. My body armor remained there, as was the corpse of that private who
rushed to help me out. It still lay there in the same pose. I just caught
this picture with the corner of my eye, but I had no intention of going
through all that again. I could not resurrect him, but I will remember him
until I die.
The Brigade charged ahead like an avalanche. The dukhi were under
attack from all sides. Ahead, charge ahead! Soon we were under the walls of
the Palace. The dukhi blew up the entrance into the Palace, so it was not
easy to get inside. They were shooting at us from above. Our tanks, hiding
behind the Gosbank building, began firing at their nests in the Palace. The
dukhi returned the fire, shooting back at the Gosbank area. A large piece of
the Gosbank wall collapsed, and some soldiers, who could not hold the
enemy's fire and have turned back in the first minutes of the battle, were
now crouching behind the fallen wall, terrified. They were shooting
chaotically at the Palace, and that attracted more and more of the dukhi's
fire. At that moment, Sergei Kazartzev did what later had became the subject
of many discussions in the Brigade. He rushed toward them and, with kicks
and curses, he managed to rise them up and lead them toward the Palace. It
was sheer madness.
We were just stunned by his courage, and tried to cover him with fire.
But for the dukhi this was just like sports hunting. They were shooting at
him first, then at his group when they charged forward. My heart sank when I
watched this mad racing. I did not breath, all my feelings were with these
guys. Even when I was not looking their way and was shooting up at the
dukhi, I could sense with the back of my head where they were at the moment.
I tried to distract the enemy's attention by keeping up firing, and only
when I changed the mag I glanced at the running men. They seemed close
enough, but still had a lot of space to cover. I could not shoot a bomb up
into the dukhi's nest because it was way too steep. So we just kept shooting
long bursts at them, trying to distract their attention or draw them away
from the windows. And the dukhi also began shooting wildly with long bursts
at the square. Run faster, guys! Faster! Just fucking run! I know you can
make it! Come on, Sergei!
The Gods must have been on our side that night. The guys had made it
safely through the wall of bullets and joined us successfully. They just
could not believe their luck and looked around themselves in dizziness. They
shouted something and we patted them on their shoulders, saying some words
of encouragement. But Sergei, of course, was the real hero. From now on, we
would respect him in a new way. He was rather short and skinny, and I was
always skeptical of the abilities of political officers, but occasionally
you could come across a worthy officer even among their big crowd. He was
sweating, his warm breath clouding, and he drank the whole canteen of water
that somebody gave him. Everyone was trying to greet him. Earlier, in Soviet
times, he would get a Star of a Hero for that, but now only the soldier's
mothers could appreciate his courage. He would never hear them, though. So,
pray, you mothers, for Sergei Kazartzev, a man with a big soul. Wish him
good health.
Meanwhile, the dukhi started putting pressure on us, dropping down some
hand grenades. That did not cause us any damage and we managed to shoot down
a couple of dukhi. One went down with a scream. Others, already dead, fell
down silently. The grunts did not bother to search their dead bodies. Step
by step, we moved on, shooting up at the dukhi above. My neck and shoulders
became stiff from looking up and the gun smoke was getting into my eyes and
lungs. It would be great to stop, bend down and cough this crap out. So, I
had to breath slowly, through my nose. OK, we had reached the walls of the
Palace.
The first group climbed the wall and got inside. I screamed to overcome
my fear, as I tried to jump up the wall. A window nearby was blocked with
sandbags. The bags were made of heavy-duty glossy paper and were packed
densely with sand and soil. My fingers slid on those sandbags, unable to cut
through the surface. My body armor and the AK were pulling me down with
their weight. So I stuck to those sandbags, like snot on a mirror, listening
to the battle raging inside. I felt I could not hold on. In a second I would
have fallen down, but anger at my own clumsiness gave me some extra strength
and I managed to climb up a little. I found an opening between the bags,
with some dirt and some traces of recent shooting. This must have been a
good machine gun nest over here.
When I felt I could hold on, I shifted my AK forward to my chest and
peered inside. I was lucky to spot a small group of the enemy from behind.
Four of the dukhi with their backs turned toward me were shooting at the
grunts that were inside the building.
Almost without aiming, I gave a long burst at their backs. Two of them
fell down, howling; the other two ran away. I saw some grunts bursting into
the room and cried for help. They dragged me in and we ran. No words were
said between us.
The hall at the first floor was rather typical for a large
administrative building. The ceiling was high and numerous columns and
niches provided the defenders with many opportunities to hide, to set up an
ambush or booby-trap the place. Darkness did not help us either. The air was
dense with smoke and dust. I felt how the gunk that accumulated in my lungs
was trying to get out of there.
Surprisingly enough, I was still calm, despite the adrenaline rush that
I just had. My mind was clear and worked like a calculator.
The dukhi were fighting for every inch of the hall, and we kept pushing
them out. We kept shooting, aiming at muzzle flairs, at noises, or simply
intuitively. Some furious gunfire erupted to my left, followed by a
tremendous explosion. Just as it happened before, my hearing had somewhat
improved after the concussion. It was great to hear all the sounds of battle
again. I felt rage and a wild desire to live. My tranquility and numbness
were gone. Charge ahead and kill them all!
The blast had opened a breach in the wall and in rushed our neighbors,
who were also makhra, judging by their uniforms. They were eager to join us.
Some of the dukhi, who made it to the upper floor, were now trying to throw
down hand grenades, but most of the enemy were cut off and cornered in the
end of the hall. They were fighting vigorously, but we were too strong for
them. We kept firing our grenade launchers, and the small fragments from the
bombs killed everything in the closed space.
More troops came in. Siberian makhra, Volga area makhra, some
paratroopers, and even some Interior Ministry troops were all mixed now.
Naturally, there was no one in command and no plan. There was just an
overwhelming desire to destroy the enemy, to dump these jackals down from
the Palace's roof. Charge ahead!
I was out of breath again. Nobody listened to anyone anymore. Shooting
at the enemy, everyone was shouting something of their own, like names of
those friends who were killed in action, pressing the trigger with every
name. We were right in the enemy's den! We lost too many of our comrades on
the damned Square. We cried when we saw our comrades hanged in the windows
of this building. Though now, at the turn of the century, there is a general
cry for kindness and forgiveness in our world, there will be no mercy for
you, dukhi! For using our boys as human shields, death to you all! The
Judgment Day has come!
I kept shooting, excited by the battle again. I put a long burst into
the shadow that jerked ahead of me. I was shouting something, too, like
everybody else, but I don't remember, what. So that is our Reichstag, at
last! We have finally done it! I will remember this moment for the rest of
my life.
Somebody pat me on the shoulder. Whoa, this is it's Yuri! He was also
very excited, his eyes shining with joy. We smile to each other: we are
alive, and if we had survived all that, we will live forever. I tried to
tell him, that I got my hearing back, but the noise was just too terrible.
We moved on together.
Part of our ragtag force went down into the basement. There was no
shooting down there, so the basement must have been clean. In our direction,
it was also clear, and all the surviving dukhi were pushed upstairs. I had
no intention of going upstairs at the moment. It was getting really dark
now. The grunts were throwing some bloodied rags out through the windows. We
did not want to spend the night here with whatever was left of the first
floor defenders.
There was some excitement at the basement entrance, and I saw a group
of makhra with burning torches carrying out corpses of our soldiers from the
basement. Some were carried on improvised stretchers, some were just carried
on hands. Some bodies were still dressed in uniforms, and some were naked.
Many bodies were mutilated and clearly had signs of torture. Many corpses
had their throats slashed, which was a typical style of execution by the
dukhi. Some had eyes poked out, fingers crashed into the bloody mess, and
two corpses had their feet cut off. We screamed in anger. From now on, there
will be no mercy for the enemy!
In that same basement, where the world-known blabber Korolev had spent
some time with his team, our soldiers were tortured to death. They were his
countrymen, his kin. So, what right did he have to talk about our "cruelty"
and " civilian abuse"? He is the same kind of pervert as everyone who
defended this building!
We kept watching, in silence now. Those who had their helmets or wool
caps on, took them off, and watched in great sorrow. Dear friends, forgive
us, for we were too late and failed to rescue you.
They kept carrying the bodies out. No one kept count, but there were no
less than 50. When the sad line stretched outside the building, the dukhi
opened fire. Someone screamed, as only a wounded can scream.
We were suddenly overwhelmed with a thirst for revenge. Forward, and
up!
Nobody gave an order, but we rushed toward the two stairways to the
second floor. The dukhi tried to stop us with a hail of bullets, but we
overpowered them with our grenade launchers. This time we fought in silence.
There were no victorious shouts and that sheer delight of battle we felt
earlier was gone. Only one feeling was left, Revenge! They cannot be left
alive.
Step by step, we moved upstairs. Dead militants were lying on the
steps. We walked right over them. These were not human beings any more, just
some stuff under the feet. All attention was concentrated on aiming. I step
on something soft; it's a militant's corpse. My foot sinks in some soft and
disgusting stuff. Without looking down, I kick it away. The visibility is
very poor, only the wind blows through the shattered windows. It is too dark
to see the enemy. Now the game of who's going to lose his nerve first
begins. Whoever makes the first shot will reveal his position and die. None
of us smoked or talked, we just kept walking very carefully. One of the
grunts picked up an empty can and threw it ahead. At once, three bursts of
automatic fire erupted from different sites. We locked onto those muzzle
flashes and fired back. Those of us who used the other stairway opened up
too. There were more flashes in front of us. We just kept spraying the
second floor with long bursts of fire. Bullets ricocheted from the columns
with terrible noise. It was too dangerous to stay where we were, so we
dispersed.
I shot from kneeling a position, then dodged forward, rolled over and
shot again, then rushed ahead. It was hard to breathe; I was sweating like a
pig again. My feet slipped on broken glass and spent cases. But to stop
meant to die, so we kept moving on. I could hear the steps of the soldiers
behind my back. The open area of the first floor was easier to take. Here
there were plenty of offices, there were pillars and doorways in the
corridor. Inch by inch, cutting the dukhi away from the exits and elevator
shafts we kept moving inside. We reached the office area and began mopping
up cleaning it: one or two hand grenades were thrown inside, then a spray of
gunfire. Most of the doors were gone, so we did not have to kick through the
doors down. Someone screamed to the left of me and cursed loudly in Russian.
I figured, the guy was wounded by the fragments of his own hand grenade. I
could tell from the noise that he was taken downstairs. The dukhi were also
throwing grenades and shooting bombs. More and more often the fallen
soldiers were carried away. Some would become "Cargo 200", and some would
become "Cargo 300"...
But that was not on my mind then: ahead, charge ahead! Again, I had the
salty taste of blood in my mouth; again, adrenaline rushed in my veins. Fear
and excitement are the feelings that motivate men in the battle. When these
two feelings mix, an explosive is formed that can blast with a tremendous
amount of energy.
We got to another office. A couple of hand grenades were thrown in and
we took cover behind the pillars. As two explosions thunder inside the
office, we heard more explosions echoing in the far end of the corridor. We
jumped through the doorway and sprayed the inside of the office with
bullets. Looks like no one was inside. We turn our backs and at once a burst
of fire comes from the inside. Luckily, no one gets hurt. We throw grenades
again, shoot bombs and the AK's. Altogether, about six bombs explode inside,
one by one. We keep shooting the automatics and move inside slowly, stumping
on a corpse of a militant, badly torn by explosions. It's too dark to
inspect the body and we just check his pockets. When we get out of the
office again, we find that the rest of our group had gone far ahead. The
corridor is dark; only some muzzle flashes and grenade explosions, so
deafening when inside the building, light the darkness. Slowly, everything
quiets down. The second floor is taken!
I can feel my sympathy for the militants vanishing with every action. I
felt some remorse initially, that we had come here as conquerors, and I was
tortured by guilt of being an occupant, maybe even a murderer. Now, I do not
give a shit. This is all just about revenge, and nothing else. Everything is
just black and white. We are the good guys, they are the bad guys.
Gradually, the delight of the battle is fading away, and I felt tired and
drowsy. The soldiers around me were chatting in excitement, interrupting
each other, telling the most remembered moments of the fight. Two soldiers
came from the first floor. I figured, one of them had a shoulder wound. The
medics kept operating heavily wounded in the basement.
The soldiers pulled some cotton out from their padded coats to make
improvised torches. A sympathetic crowd gathered at once. The wounded
soldier took his coat off, and we saw that his shoulder was messed up.
Someone gave him a canteen with vodka, or maybe alcohol, and he took a good
drink of it. Then they began cleaning his wound. The wounded clutched a
leather belt between his teeth. And just bit it harder with every touch,
that made his body shiver. He wiped sweat and drops of saliva rolling down
his chin with the back of his hand. Others kept talking, trying to distract
him from pain. Someone offered him a shot of painkiller, but he refused.
His friend was working with his bayonet, and a stiletto, widening the
wound, trying to get to the fragment. When he finally cleared his way to the
piece of metal, he attached the sheath to the bayonet, the way it is
normally done to turn the bayonet into scissors to cut the barbed wire. Only
this time the device would be used as forceps. We already knew that the
fragment must be pulled out quickly, or the patient could lose his
conciousness, or even die from pain shock. The war had turned us into fairly
good medics. Such skills are always valuable here. The helpers held him
tight now. He stiffened, shut his eyes and bit the belt harder, waiting for
the shock to come. His friend carefully reached the fragment inside the
wound with his improvised forceps, and then pulled it out abruptly. The
wounded soldier groaned, jerked backward, then forward. Blood streamed out
of the wound. The soldiers nearby opened the packs of bandages and tried to
stop the bleeding, but it did not work. The blood quickly soaked all
bandages and streamed down his back. Either an artery was cut, or this guy's
blood did not clot fast enough. We realized he could eventually die from
bleeding. Someone took the mag off his assault rifle and quickly took out
several catridges. There was no other way to stop bleeding, but to use this
barbaric approach. We often dusted small scratches with cigarette ashes, and
more serious wounds were treated with gunpowder.
A soldier came forward with two opened cases in his hand. The bandages
were removed at once and he quickly poured the gunpowder from the cases into
the wound. One of the guys touched it with his torch and the powder burned
with a flash that blinded us for a second. The wounded soldier jumped up,
but we saw that the bleeding had stopped. Cries of relief roared through the
group. The shoulder was finally bandaged; the fragment was washed with vodka
and given to the wounded as a souvenir. Then he drank whatever vodka was
left in the canteen. The operation was over. We were facing another long,
cold winter night in Chechnya.
My partner took something out of his pocket and showed it to me. It was
too dark to see the object, so I bent down and in the dim red light of my
cigarette I saw that he was holding a hand grenade, and a fuse. So, he also
kept one in his pocket! Our time has not come yet.
"I see, you did not use it."
"Not yet. Where have you been? I was going to stay with you, but I lost
you somewhere."
"Fuck knows where. I just ran with the pack. I was hoping they were
after some beer, but they had led me here instead."
"There would be a line to get beer. So, how are you doing?"
"Fine. Even my ears can hear something. Just fine."
"Well, just fine?" His voice was skeptical.
"Aren't we both alive? Yes! Unhurt? More or less so. We are on the
second floor of their Reichstag. What else do you need?"
"A shot of vodka and some chow."
"Why don't you go upstairs and ask?"
"Yeah, right. They will give me some. How are we going to spend the
night?"
"I have no idea, Yuri. Let us figure out something. We can't go down to
the basement, cause the medics work down there. How can they operate, I
can't even imagine."
"Well, they got some torches, just like us here."
"Shit! This is the end of the Twentieth Century, and they still operate
in torchlight. It's good to know that the wounds are not treated with snake
oil and witchcraft."
"When you fight with your own people, you end up treating wounds with
witchcraft. What did you expect?"
"Nothing. Can we sneak out of the building?"
"No way! No one could break through, either here or back. That is it,
we are sealed up!"
"Bastards!"
"Who?"
"Not us. Dukhi, of course!"
"Stop that. If you need some action, there are more stories above you.
They will wear us down. We won't hold for long without food, water, ammo and
evacuation of the wounded. So, we have no choice but move up."
"Just wait till they surprise us by blowing up a ceiling right above
our heads, the way they did it in Gosbank. That will be really funny!"
"They won't do that."
"Why not?"
"Cause the upper floors could collapse."
"Big deal. When Muslims fight with unbelievers, they can sacrifice
their lives."
"Everybody wants to live."
"True, but there can always be a couple of fanatics among them, who
don't give a shit. And these could light the fuse. There are enough fools
everywhere."
"I like your optimism. When one needs to hear some encouragement, we
can always bet on you, Slava. You are always there to boost our morale!"
"I am just being realistic. Let's go and find some place to take a
nap."
"We will need to build a fire. Maybe the dukhi left us some firewood."
We slowly walked along the corridor, searching for some firewood in the
offices. We picked up whatever we could find: pieces of broken furniture,
doors and window frames. We carried all that into one of the offices, where
we built a fire with the help of some office paper we found there. The
office furniture was not as good as firewood. It burned slowly, with the
remnants of polish bubbling and blackening. We sat shoulder to shoulder, our
backs to the wall, watching the flames in silence. Soon, our thoughts
drifted far away from reality and from everything that happened today.
The warmth of the fire made us drowsy, and despite hunger and thirst,
we fell asleep. One more day in my life had ended; one more day of war...
We did not sleep comfortably. The limbs became numb every now and then,
and I even got cramps in my leg. Then the fire almost died and I felt really
cold, so I had to stay half awake, keeping an eye on the fire. We woke up
before the dawn and threw the remaining firewood into the fire, then warmed
up doing some squats, jumping jacks and push-ups. We finally warmed up, but
without hot meals and vodka we would not hold out for long. The dukhi would
not let us out, and they will keep the reinforcements away. But we also
would not let them out, no way!
Meanwhile, some shooting began on the square. Carefully, we looked
outside. A large formation the size of a regiment, was trying to break
through into the palace. Judging by their uniforms, they were a mix of
marines and internal ministry troops.
The dukhi were shooting from the upper floors. Only then we had
realized the brutality of what we had managed to fulfill by breaking across
the square earlier. Even in the morning dusk the whole square was clearly
seen from the palace. And the soldiers down there, who were trying to find
cover behind the broken armor and in ditches, were just perfect targets for
shooting practice.
I heard some explosions and small arms fire back in the corridor. We
rushed out of the office. On the second stairway the soldiers were slowly
retreating under the attack of the militants from above. So, the bastards
are trying to break out! Forget about it, you won't!
There was also shooting on the first stairway now. The dukhi were
desperately trying to break out from the trap. Next to me, Yuri launched a
grenade. I knew that he was good in that -- a lot better than I am. I just
lack imagination needed to predict the trajectory of the round. And on many
occasions I was stunned by his ability to shoot a grenade from some kinky
position. It would fly by some unbelievable arc and inevitably hit the
target. And he would always hit it with the very first shot. So now he kept
shooting grenades, staying cool. But I knew that his stony face concealed a
lot of excitement.
The enemy also switched to launching bombs and throwing hand grenades,
and that kept both sides well apart from each other. That grenade duel went
on for a while.
For a second, I thought it would be great if we evacuated the building
and just blew it up with all the dukhi inside, but the brass, of course,
would not go for such radical solution. They need victorious press releases,
with snapshots of the captured Palace on the cover of some hot magazine.
Maybe, with a banner on top, the way it was on the Reichstag building in May
of 1945. They will rush more troops across the square now, and maybe a third
would not make it. They'd gather no less than a division inside the Palace,
and most of them would die there.
Comments:
dukhi a nickname for the Chechen rebels
makhra a nickname for the Russian infantry