With caution, we came up the third floor. In two neighbouring flats the
rag-heads made up their firing nests. In the first one we found the "Shmel"
shooter, in the second - two of his unlucky comrades, with one RPK each. The
most disturbing thing was: they were just kids, most probably only about 13
to 15 years old. One of them was still alive and while unconscious was
quietly groaning. Judging from the fact that one of his legs was torn off
and he was bleeding heavily, I figured he wouldn't live for much longer. It
seemed like one of our cannon rounds dropped into the room where he was
launching his rockets from and blasted to shit his ammunition store. I
looked around, my good mood was totally gone by now. Of coarse these
rag-heads tried to blow us and all but... they're just kids for God's sake.
Damn it. I spewed and gave another order to my grunts: "Finish him off and
then sweep the block, someone might've got away." Although even I had doubts
that anyone of them could escape.
My grunts, Semeon, Glue and Picasso each let off a burst into the
disfigured body, one after another. The kid's body flexed out, bullets
ripping his chest open, some blasted his head to pieces and it sprayed the
walls in red clots of his brain. I calmly watched this murder. Then I looked
away from the corpse, still not used to this or maybe it's just normal human
reaction? Who can tell? I fetched the sniper's Marlboro packet and handed
some cigarettes to my grunts.
- Didn't you hear what I just said? "Sweep the block". Anyone not
clear? - I uttered, taking a puff. The grunts left, mumbling something.
Left alone, trying hard no to vomit, I went through the dead rag-heads'
pockets.
Wow! An Army ID tag and many of them, OK, let's see: Semeonov Aleksey
Pavlovich, born 1975. Semeonov, Semeonov, Semeonov... It suddenly clicked in
my mind. Is that the Semeonov from the engineering regiment, which went
missing after we stormed the Airport? They sent the fellow for some mine
sweeping cord and he vanished. Was that he, shooting at us? I carefully
studied the dead rag-heads' faces, matching them to the badly preserved
photo on the ID Tag; I even looked inside the breach in the wall and at the
dead "Shmel" launcher's face. No, not him, thank God. Turned a few more
pages in his ID. Shit! Yes! Our division. Our Semeonov. Your deaths saved
you a lot of trouble, assholes! Your end would've been brutal. I would've
dealt with you myself. During my adventures in the former Soviet Union, I
learnt well how to make people talk, make them last long and stay conscious
all the way.
My sadness was gone in a heartbeat. I cared about the dead boys' souls
no more. My teeth cramped in rancour. If needs be, I'll tear anybody apart
for Russian soldier. I'll crush anything just to return the youngster home
alive and in one piece.
All of a sudden somebody was screaming from upstairs:
- Comrade Captain, Comrade Captain, they found some guy up there on the
roof. I think one of ours! - Americanets was fretting.
I flew up the stairs and felt no wheeze. On the roof, nailed to the
cross, a dead soldier's body was resting, just like Jesus. His own cut off
penis stuck in his mouth. Without even looking at his dirty face, I knew: it
was he, Semeonov. I probably only saw him about 10 times before and never
even spoke to the man. But suddenly tears were in my eyes and something
pinched in my nose. Now I regretted that I never got the chance to properly
meet the lad. I think he wasn't even one of the permanent staff. Right
before the Chechen campaign, he was attached to our brigade from Abakan.
- They nailed him to the cross and put it up on the roof. The cross
collapsed from the explosion and that's probably why we didn't notice it
before. - Picasso tried to explain something to me, feeling a little awkward
that we didn't discover the body earlier.
- He's one of ours. - I pronounced, labouring to stay calm, - Semeonov,
of the sappers. Disappeared off the "North" while minesweeping. I found his
ID tag on one of the shooters.
The grunts were like lightning-struck; they fussed about Semeonov,
removing him carefully from the cross. While doing that, they tried not to
hurt him, handling his body like he was still alive, whispering not to wake
him up and tears were falling down their faces complicating this chilling
job even further. I looked away, pulled out a smoke and lit it up. Thirstily
inhaling I tried to push the clog in my throat further down, glancing at the
hustling grunts at times to see how things were moving along. When
Semeonov's body was at last removed from the cross, lads placed it on some
kind of stretchers they put together from all sorts of rubbish they could
collect around here. When it was all over I said:
- Glue, get on the "boxes". Tell them to come closer and that we are
coming with a "cargo 200"... Our "cargo 200".
I was coming down the stairs ahead of the rest, checking for anything
suspicious along the way. My grunts were carefully carrying the stretchers,
like the man on them was only wounded. At the rear, Glue was struggling
under the weight of his radio transmitter and scraps of the armoury we
discovered at the rag-heads' nest.
We loaded the body into the infantry compartment inside our APC and
started for the home. I felt that for any "spook" that tried to stick his
nose out now, this attempt would be, for sure, his last. Confirmation to my
thoughts was the empty and terrifying look in my grunts' eyes, were I could
see the reflection of my own feelings. Only the fire of vengeance was
blazing inside them and nothing else. Blood; blood; I now only craved for
blood to drown my rage, breaking their skulls with my rifle's butt, crushing
their ribs under my boots, tearing and ripping their veins with my finger
nails, looking in his, her, their eyes and asking: "Why, why did you shoot
at the Russian soldiers?"
OK, hold on motherfuckers, I'm coming. No mercy for anyone, not for the
elderly, not for the children, not for the women - NO BODY will be spared.
Ermolov and Stalin were both right - these folk are not to be re-educated,
only exterminated.
Our APCs were both speeding ahead. It seemed they were feeling our mood
too with their engines running absolutely fine now. Periodically, they
drenched us with their oily exhaust fumes, adding some kind of foppish gloss
to our black appearance. But our eyeballs were ablaze with mad fury,
demanding vengeance and there was now no place in our minds for fear.
Probably, in this state of mind, men run at machinegun nests to save others'
lives at the price of their own. Desire for vengeance suddenly grows into
care for those who are close to you and self-sacrifice for others.
Glinting at the surroundings I could feel movement inside the rubbles
with my skin. Resting AK on my elbow, I pulled out other ID tags and flicked
through a few more. Petrov Andrey Aleksandrovich - Maikop Brigade. Elizariev
Evgeniy Anatolievich - Internal Forces (they and the Rangers have their
garrison numbers marked with four digits and The Army have theirs marked
with five). Altogether, eight IDs - eight lives. Where are you boys?
Probably, no one will ever know and your mothers will be crying tears until
the end of their lives: their dead sons will have no graves. All of this is
awful. I finished off reading all of the remaining IDs, I was positive there
were no more grunts from our brigade in there. I hid them back in my inner
pocked, looked at my "cavalry" and shook my head, assuring them that none of
the remaining IDs belonged to anyone of ours. They again turned away,
watching out, racing past onetime battlefields. Demolished houses, torn down
trees, burnt and given up machinery. It was mostly tanks with torn
caterpillars and their turrets ripped off and tossed over to great
distances. APCs, with their thinner armour plates, were just blasted to
pieces. All depended on where the rockets hit and how much ammo the "boxes"
had onboard. Some drivers were lucky, others - not so much.
With pain I was looking at the trees. I like nature. Humans have a
choice. They can refuse to come here and go to jail for desertion or self
inflict an injury, thus buying themselves "the white" ticket out of here:
crafty Russians are capable of anything. But the trees and animals are
helpless. Men planted them at will; others came and wiped them out. And they
can do nothing in response. Neither trees, nor animals can flee or defend
themselves. Thus many died together with their owners on their porches. What
remain, people will eat later because of the famine. These-days people are
frequently seen tottering about like shadows amongst the rubble. Mostly
these are elderly men or middle-aged women. Everyone, who could fire weapons
and more or less think clearly, escaped into the mountains seeking
vengeance. No problem, we, in turn, will take revenge on them. Thus, closing
up this vicious circle. Every one of us thinks he's right. We all believe in
our own gods, praying them to help us and demanding retribution for deaths
of our friends and brothers. But God deals spoils and losses equally for
everyone. OK, so we'll fight. It would be pretty tough to fight the whole
nation though, as opposed to a regular army of one particular state. That's
what we've been taught to do. In an open field, busted your opponent,
occupied a town, picked up the spoils and back to the field. Here it's more
like in Afghanistan, fight the folk all you want. The whole thing is not
even a war. According to the law, all this is a piddling policing operation,
exclusive purpose of which is reinstating of the constitutional order.
However, no one knows what this order used to be like in the first place.
OK, while the "spooks" and us are mincing one another, someone in Moscow has
hit the jackpot. We've all seen a lot of that going on. For some, war is
like their mother. Not even one son of a bitch went down for all the blood
they've spilt in our spacious former Union. Not counting the Baltic States -
a couple of squealers and OMON guys went to jail, so what? They did nothing
but avenge the deaths of their friends, but those who gave them orders...
their bellies I would twitch with my bayonet, looking in their wide-open
from pain and fear eyes, listening to their deafening screams and breathing
in smell of their blood. That would be fun.
Yet here, people lived by penitentiary laws for four years. We fed them
with money, supplied with weapons and taught how to use them. Then we sent
them to fight in Osetia and Abhazia for us, - like we are not even aware of
what's going on. And when there was no longer need for them, they should've
been eliminated, but no, - we tried to domesticate the Chechen. Yeah, right!
He turned against our Moscow gang. Why, though, should the whole country
suffer? We even came here from Siberia to break up the dogs. China is closer
to us than Chechnya. Then men from ZabVO, DalVO and TOF were dragged down
here too. They can walk to the States or Japan. One thing isn't clear
though. Why is it so that the rag-heads left the oil refinery intact? We,
too, were strictly ordered not so much as touch it. Here is our Air Force,
happily bombing the city's living quarters, but as for the Staropromyslovsky
part - no way.
All of which means: the plant is somebody's property. Somebody who can
hush our Defence Minister and tell him specifically to leave it alone, - you
can level the whole town to the ground, but don't you dare ruining the
refinery. Of coarse, when Russian soldier is in rage, he's very difficult to
hold back, so too the rag-heads, not all are aware of the refinery's
importance. They naively think that they are actually fighting for their own
fucking freedom and don't get it, morons, that we are all simply taking part
in an ordinary criminal quarrel, very big though. One little baron decided
to screw The Big Daddy and start his own business. Then, Big Daddy sent his
own hood, the Russian Army, over, to bang the little fellow. But the baron
was a smart chap; he squalled with independence and sent his "bulls" in.
That's how the quarrel has begun. Now, no one can remember why the whole
thing started in the first place. The hoods are busy taking vengeance on
each other; meanwhile, their barons are making big bucks expropriating
salaries and pensions. The little one is pulling in Islamic World now, with
his cheap religious mottos. God, help us and forgive!
My APC took a sharp U-turn, which nearly cast me off the "armour".
That's right, moron, your business is to keep your teeth from clapping:
you'll break your neck one day, falling off the "armour" or a sharpshooter
snaps you. Your COs are there to think for you and supply you with the
ready-made decisions. Your objective is to survive and complete the task.
All else is shit. Take Andrei Petrov, former mortar platoon commander. He
had principles, right? He demanded that he be given two weeks to prepare his
men, considering the fact that his grunts were only drafted in November and
have only seen their rifles once before - during the oath. He was dismissed,
made an example, like a coward, a deserter. Replaced with a raw lieutenant -
two-year-termer college graduate. Where is that lieutenant now with his
mortar platoon? During the Airport assault he lost almost all of his men
and, himself, perished too. You see? They draft too many morons in The Army.
Some of them you have to stand for two years, others for twenty-five.
We tried to reason with our multi-star commanders that we are not ready
for any war, not technically, not logistically. Men are not prepared
physically. Then, in December, when the order came to load the gear onto the
locomotives and step out, the weather was freezing cold. As it is always
done in our Army, the diesel fuel, that vehicles were filled with, was of
the summer kind and rather depicted a tomato sauce. So, some smart ass from
our garrison came up with the idea to mix this "sauce" with kerosene. Yep!
You guessed it. One of the APCs blew up right in the parking lot with its
full ammo complement onboard; by some weird luck nobody was hurt. Second
burst while loading onto cars. And again God was on our side. And, as it is
customary in The Army, these events were used to write off much of the
property, just like Suvorov described in his "Saviour". According to the
official documents, those APCs had on board: not less than fifty uniform
coats, twenty-five night-vision devices, no fewer than a hundred pairs of
shoes and BDUs. When the papers were to be signed by the HQ representative,
he read that masterpiece and pronounced: "Add one more parka plus one more
BDUs, for me". Supplies XO added each of them by one and the General signed
the papers with his eyes shut.
Now this general is here somewhere. Thank God, he's just signing
papers. "Material battle losses" is probably his credo.
For now, my mind was occupied by thoughts of the dead sniper. What do I
tell at the HQ? How did it happen that he didn't make here? I knew well,
that no one would be breathing in my face with his honourable anger, only
with disappointment that they couldn't hank his guts themselves.
Particularly, the GRU and recon guys will be sad. It's their cup of tea,
just let them play with the fellow, they'd make him talk. We can do that
too, quick and simple, but they handle it gracefully. Liquor can't kill the
mastery.
Suddenly something moved in the rubble, twinkling with rays of the
setting sun. My mind hasn't even produced a thought yet, but my hands
already responded, quickly raising my AK, finger clung to the trigger. And
only then my judgement kicked in - I saw our artillery spotters, the lads
constructed their positions in one of the remaining pieces of a house by the
road. They too met us with their rifle barrels. All of us, however, managed
to keep our cool and hold fire. Moreover, they just began to wind their
"Shilka" in our direction. It is a large calibre anti-aircraft gun (ZSU)
with four barrels. It would've chopped us to chips for sure. Alright, at
least we identified each other in time. We shouted merrily something to each
other for greetings. This meant the HQ is near. Yep, there is the blazing
fire-fountain from the breached gas pipe. 200 or so yards and we're "home".
Now we can relax a little.
- Hey, radioman, - I said to Glue, - Let them know we're coming, or
they'll shoot us to hell.
Glue tattled something in his headset and nodded to me that we were OK
to go. Talking or rather shouting through roaring diesels seemed senseless
and inappropriate with the dead man onboard our APC. Everyone felt a little
guilty for some strange reason, although, on the other hand, knew well that
he, himself, could've been down there in his place.
Cars retarded a bit and, manoeuvring this way, we passed a virtual
labyrinth of remaining concrete blocks and bricks. Soldiers watched us
through their sights from behind every corner. Their faces were all covered
with dust and, from that, seemed made of stone. They all looked exhausted,
with their dog-tired red eyes. The lads greeted us with smiles and gestures,
lowering their guns. We greeted guards the same way. I knew, our officers
and men would be betting on me delivering the sniper alive and well.
Personally, I wouldn't put my money on his safe journey.
Lucky, we returned before the daybreak. Some smarty-pants in the
defence ministry invented a new password system for us. Before, everything
was nice and simple, but now, the thing is a brain surgery, without ten
years of high school or lots of liqueur, impossible to translate. For
example, before, the password was "Saratov" and the reply to it was
"Leningrad", even a moron could understand that. Some grunts can barely read
or write: outcomes of the "perestroika". The core of the new system is the
number: say thirteen. The guard, seeing a silhouette in the dark, calls out:
"Stop! Password - seven!" Now, you have to instantly take away seven out of
thirteen and quickly yell back: "Reply - six!". After all this, the guard
must add his "seven" and your "six", get "thirteen" and then let you pass.
But, if any one of you can't count well enough or has something else on his
mind, then, according to the Statute of the armed guard service, the guard
can, and will, shoot you on the spot without any further investigation. And
no one prosecutor would lift his finger to pursue this issue any further.
You, moron, should've been learning your math back in high school. Fine, if
you are not completely deaf and the grunt on duty can actually count, but
some smart asses call out fractions and negative numbers. That's when you
recall all of his relatives, and your math skills, while you're at it. For
all this, some shithead got promoted back in Moscow, or maybe, even a medal
on his chest. Those snakes are capable of anything.
Thinking this way, we stopped near the partly demolished kindergarten,
where our brigade's HQ was now situated. I jumped off the APC, rubbed my
stalled and frozen feet and started for the entrance dragging my stiff legs.
I had to see our HQ's CO, Lieutenant Colonel, Alexandr Alexandrovich Bilich
first. All of us called him San Sanych. Already on my way, I ordered my
grunts:
- Start offloading our hero, carefully.
Grunts nodded understandingly.
San Sanych was about 1.75m tall with broad shoulders and constant
sparks in his blue eyes. Or were the sparks just a fruit of our imagination?
San Sanych was somehow different from all the officers in our Brigade. He
was actually well mannered. At first, it seemed superficial, but the more
you got to know him the more you were convinced that it is really in his
nature. It seemed, he should've been born in times of chivalry, high society
and duels, definitely not in our mad century. Even now, when we are more or
less bottled in OK and started hammering our opposition, when the war, maybe
only at times for now, but has taken a proper shape of the trench warfare,
every day our lieutenant colonel Bilich has found the time for brief morning
exercises.
Every morning, if it was possible to catch any sleep at all at night,
we crawled out of our cellars shacking from the cold. Because it's winter,
may be southern, but still a winter. As a rule, there was no water, and our
old unshaven whiskers were no longer rough, but felt rather fuzzy. However,
looking at your CO, you, unwillingly, pick yourself up and find the time,
the water and the razor. Although, many officers, some superstitious or some
just plane lazy, grew beards and moustaches. Some even looked great like
that. The only one who looked exactly like a Chechen, was, our recon platoon
leader, Hlopov Roman, naturally possessing dark skin and having grown a
dense beard. This way, during the Station siege, he was nearly shot by his
own grunts. Luckily, he put on a helmet and his armoured west; otherwise,
our sporty protectors would've definitely done him. Since then, Hlopov - we
called him Hlop - developed a habit to shave every morning no matter what.
About one and a half weeks ago, when he and the reconnaissance CO broke
through to the Airport "North", the allied commander's HQ, on the way back
they ran into an ambush. Their APC was blasted by RPG fire from a point
blank range. Hlop died instantly, the CO had a bad concussion. For two days,
skirmishing along the way, their grunts were slowly sneaking home. They
brought back the Hlop's mutilated body and the severely concussed, almost
deaf and blind, reconnaissance CO, Captain Stepchenko Sergey Stanislavovich.
As they recounted afterwards, the days they spent in basements and at
nights, risking the bullet from Chechens or from us, they crept back to
their home base. They slept in turns, using parts of the poor Hlop's body as
pillows.
Maybe after his concussion or maybe after hiding in basements with the
corpse, Sereoga Stepchenko started having problems. We almost cured his
sight and hearing with liquor, but he couldn't stand closed and tight spaces
anymore. Mostly he's OK, working and fighting, but sometimes he's just
mumbling something completely out of this world. Our brigade's Commander,
Colonel Bahel Alexandr Antonovich, placed an order to dismiss Stepchenko
from his post, and watch him so he doesn't make any trouble. There was no
chance to medivac the man as even our wounded were lying in bunkers:
choppers couldn't land. He was, temporarily, replaced by senior lieutenant
Krivosheev Stepan. Bilich San Sanych was taking care of Stepchenko, not just
him though, of everyone around him. He arranged for the grunts that brought
him and the Hlop's body back, to be awarded each by the Hero Of Russia
Medal. But for now, the papers were kept in Chiefs of Staff's safe.
Out of his principles, Bilich didn't recognised physical methods during
conversations with the enemy or cursing with his own men. But the
interesting part was, I knew from my own personal experience, that if you
yell cursing at somebody, everything is done more quickly and clearly.
And now I had to explain to this gentleman that I failed to deliver the
sniper because grunts' thin patience wore off and they hung him off a tank's
barrel. Trying a few combinations in my mind that could spare San Sanych's
delicate hearing and let the Com-Batt and Ivan off the hook, I entered the
HQ. On the way in I met our Supplies XO, Kleymeonov Arkadi Nikolaevich.
Everybody was describing him with Suvorov's words: "...we can comfortably
hang any supply officer in one year time...". Looking at the well-shaped
figure of our "rear XO", you knew that the Generalissimos was absolutely
right: in his time, Kleimeonov would've being dangling off the tree by now.
His personal luggage has been growing in size by the day, regardless of the
heavy fighting.
- Ah, Slava, how was the trip? Got the sniper?
- No such luck, Arkadiy Nikolaeich, he passed away, - I made a
compassionate face, my eyes were telling a different story though and the
rear XO picked up on my game.
- Really? - Kleymeonov made a puzzled face and asked me, sounding
surprised.
- Weak heart, - I smiled, - he was wounded too, so didn't survive the
departure. Now I have to delicately explain it to San Sanych. He'll be
really sad.
- He's too busy for that now. By the way, nobody believed you'd bring
him anyway. Il'in and yourself could've thrown him harakiri over there on
the spot. It is a petty though; we had people queuing up to converse with
him, - Kleymeonov shone his teeth.
- They were betting, weren't they? - I asked.
- Sure, but mostly on your failure.
- By the way, I also brought a soldier with me, Semeonov, disappeared
during the "North" siege; my grunts are offloading him now. What else is
new?
- You were only gone for four hours. Oh, yeah, - his voice turned
gloomy, - Chief of Staff of the Second Battalion was wounded.
It seemed that the walls around us swayed.
- Sashka Pahomenko? - I asked.
- Himself. They are trying to break through to the hotel "Kavkaz".
There are as many rag-heads there as there are demons in hell, so he caught
a bullet in his chest. Medics couldn't get up there. Sargent patched him up
for now. Now we're getting a storm group ready, made of scouts. Under the
cover of dark, they'll try to get him out of there, - I could see Kleymeonov
was pretty sad, telling me all that.
Captain Pahomenko Alexandr Il'ich was loved by all in our brigade. Very
tall fellow, open-minded, he loved having fun. He knew countless gags, funny
stories and practical jokes, never malicious. The main thing about him was
his openness and honesty. It always deeply affected people who knew him.
While taking to him, in about ten minutes you felt like you had known the
man since your college years. With all that he was never a layabout or an
idler. He was always the first one where it was the hardest, always rushed
in to help everyone. Our officers and men liked him unmeasurably. He could
help with his words or action, he could also swear like hell - was a real
virtuoso in that field. He could get behind the steering wheel of an APC, in
freezing cold fix an engine or give soldiers a good lecture. Well, the very
type of officer that our information sources were always pounding us with.
Detesting his enemy, never hiding his genuine feelings, never refusing to
give a helping hand. A bit loud at times, but you get used to it in time.
That's what he's been to us, Sashka Pahomenko, who always asked to call him
"simply Il'ich". Strange, but at war, these little, long forgotten things
are suddenly surfacing in your mind. And now this young man was lying in
some basement with a hole in his chest. God help him.
- OK, Arkadiy Nikolaevich, I'm off to see San Sanych, - I nodded and
headed off along the corridor.
- He's in there with an Allied HQ representative. Bahel is out in the
Third Battalion's HQ, meanwhile this clean-cut chap is stamping Sanych's
brain. They'll probably throw us in to push somewhere, where our elite
forces shitted themselves. It's always like that, they get to receive medals
and fire at the parliament palace in Moscow and we, Siberian mahra, to
crunch asphalt in winter. For that, we get to go home and they will pose for
cameras and tell stories to girls, - he spewed and wondered off.
The corridor was full of officers and soldiers. Some were smoking, some
taking a snooz, leaning against walls riddled by bullets and shrapnel and
raising their heads time to time from close explosions.
We paid one hell of a price for this kindergarten. In his time, Dudaev
announced that Chechnya does need scientists but needs warriors. Thus, boys
should go to school for three years and girls for only one. Since women stay
at home at all times anyway, kindergartens became obsolete. Then, people,
close to his government, some with bribes, some with force, has claimed them
all. This one too was rebuilt as a villa and belonged to one of the Dudaev's
bandits. The owner and his gang fought for it with ferocity.
We were busting these snakes out of here for 12 hours straight and when
finally broke in, learnt that he maintained a pretty good live style in
here: all floors were covered in carpets, not the cheap stuff but handmade.
Design furniture, crystal and china, appliances we only ever saw in
brochures. Left around photos had all his family pictured. We lacked women
here, that's for sure, but I have never seen a pretty Chechen, not on
pictures, not in real life. All had small faces, narrow eyes, hooklike noses
and thin lips. Just like rats, if you ask me. Everyone has different tastes
though. As we say, - "there are no ugly women, there is just not enough
liquor, but I couldn't drink that much..."
Occupied by this kind of thoughts I entered the main HQ's room in the
basement. I pushed the door covered up by a raincoat-tent and felt the
warmth coming from the army camping heater in the corner. I guess these
heaters are only still alive in the Army. As long as the army exists they'll
always be there on manoeuvres and at war, to offer soldiers warmth and
comfort.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, captain Mironov, reporting back to duty,
- I reported, looking at Bilich, who was leaning at the map. Next to him,
bent over the map, were my partner or, as we called each other, "henchman",
major Ryzhov Yuri Nikolaevich and some other officer.
- We've been waiting for you, Vechaslav Nikolaevich. Did you pick up
the sniper? - The Chief of staff asked me, inquisitively looking in my eyes.
- Here is your mate, - he nodded at Ryzhov, - was betting a six-pack of
cognac that you won't.
- If I had only known about the cognac, Alexandr Alexandrovich, I
would've brought back at least his head. But the dog died from his wounds
and probably from some kind of heart condition. The son of a bitch was, from
his own words, our compatriot, from Siberia. Thirty-two slashes I found on
his rifle's butt and a fine Japanese scope too.
- Where is the rifle? - Took interest in our conversation Ryzhov.
- I left it back there. They show it to the grunts for ferocity and not
a bad feed for themselves too.
- Yeah right, "feed". We all need only one feed now - air support,
probable enemy positioning and where the bustards are getting their
resupplies from. They were not ready for this war for sure and prepared
nothing: no arms, no ammunition and no food.
- That's not all, - I interrupted Bilich, - on the way back we were
fired upon and took on the rag-heads. After the counterattack, destroyed our
enemy and found these on the corpses... - I reached my hand out with the
dead soldier's ID tag. - One of ours. Semeonov.
Again a clog was stuck in my throat, making it difficult to talk or
breath. I pulled my cigarettes out. Bilich wouldn't object, realising what
state I was in, although himself was a non-smoker. After a few deep gasps I
felt the clog disappearing and continued:
- The snakes, probably, were torturing him for some time, and likely
while he was still alive, cut his penis off. Then nailed him to a cross,
like Jesus. Penis stuck in his mouth. We brought him back; my grunts are
probably offloading him now. Here is some more, - I fetched the rest of the
IDs, - them too I got off the dead "spook". No more of ours though.
San Sanych carefully listened to me, looking straight into my eyes,
then, took the ID tags, briefly flicked through them, noting only the
garrison numbers, added them up in a little pyramid and handed it to the
unfamiliar officer.
- By the way, let me introduce you, - he turned to the major, - Major
Karpov Vechaslav Viktorovich, Allied HQ representative, General Command HQ
officer. And this, - he said pointing at me, - Captain Mironov, our
Brigade's HQ senior officer, an adventurer and a warrior. Still can't get
accustomed to the fact that he is a HQ officer now not a combat company
commander, - San Sanych somewhat fatherly lectured me.
I was a bit stunned by the fact that my CO would speak of me so
heartily. I reached out and shook the major's hand.
- Vechaslav, - he introduced himself.
Namesake. We'll see, what kind of bird you are and what the hell you're
here for. I figure, one of the big boys, since was sent to us. They might
want us softened up before giving some suicidal task or maybe find out in
what state of affairs the brigade is in and then fire the CO. These fat cats
from Moscow love this kind of tricks.
I looked at him a bit more carefully this time. The face definitely
looks familiar, but where I saw him before, I, for now, couldn't recall. OK,
we'll figure that one out later. The fact that he was from Moscow and from
the General Command HQ, immediately made me, like any other line combat
officer, dislike him. All grievances come from them. They are all bastards
and voracious rats. All soldiers knew this axiom, watching them do nothing
but drink themselves stupid at every inspection and then departing for home
with generous gifts. Human garbage, from first to last. It's their fault
we're here in the first place. Moscow has planned the first and this Grozny
assaults. 25[th] of November and 1[st] of January will
both be black pages in the Russian Army's History Book.
I thought about it while I was shaking the Moscow officer's hand and
squeezing out of my face some kind of smile. Although, I think, my parched
face reflected all my thoughts pretty well. But I couldn't send this coxcomb
to hell right here, in front of San Sanych, whom I respected too much.
- Vechalsav, - I introduced myself back to this Moscow rooster.
- Major Karpov, take these IDs to the HQ please, let them work out
which regions the soldiers are from and notify their families, - San Sanych
passed the tags to him.
The rep nodded, took the IDs and without even looking or counting,
dropped them into one of his parka's outer pockets. Any normal officer
would've at least counted them respectful of the dead.
I was a bit disturbed by this and asked the son of a bitch with badly
hidden irritation:
- Aren't you going to loose them like this, my honourable man? Human
lives are behind them.
Spotting the rage in my voice, San Sanych and Ryzhov looked at the guy
like he was an enemy of the state. He must've understood his lapse, mumbled
something and placed the IDs in one of his flank jacket inner pockets,
meanwhile giving me a very expressive look, like he wanted to grind me into
dust. Alright, my boy, look all you want, I can chill a drunken soldier with
my look, as for you, dandy ass, I can bring you down to your knees. I calmly
stood the look of his watery eyes. He even seemed flimsy. About a meter
seventy in hight, may be less, skinny and with small head. All blond, like
albino, except his eyes, they weren't red, but rather colourless. His
appearance was just repulsive, and his quiff, that he was fixing constantly,
was even adding something female to it. Maybe he's gay: a funny thought
breezed through my mind. The General Command HQ Officer is a homo. That
would make a lot of noise. Well, I heard, in Moscow, it's very fashionable
these days - alternative sexual lifestyles. I don't think I'll be sleeping
next to him. Though, I think he's just lifeless, like a jellyfish. I might
offer to paint this queer orange, for fun. Would make snipers' job easier
too.
For a second, I imagined the major painted in red colour and a smile
stretched my lips. Karpov studied himself nervously - something wrong with
his dress? Having ensured that his uniform was intact and finally realising
that I'm just laughing at him, he stared at me angrily in response.
Knowing my wild character and to relieve the tension in the air, San
Sanych declared, talking to everyone at the same time:
- Let's stop plotting against each other for now and go see Semeonov's
corpse. We'll fill in the paperwork and you, Vechaslav Viktorovich, - he
looked at Karpov, - would have to take him with you to the airport and send
home.
We all moved for the exit. Officers and men were already out in the
yard. The corpse was carefully placed on the rolled out canvas, hands folded
on his chest. Nail holes in the wrists were clearly seen, his face was
thoughtfully covered with a soldiers' handkerchief. Hats off, all present
were just standing around in silence. What was on their minds could only be
read on their tight-lipped faces. Lucky for the sniper, he was dead. Here,
he would've lived a long time, to his distress.
Bilich came over to the diseased, lifted up the handkerchief, looked at
his dirty face with forever frozen mask of terror on it, sighed and, turning
toward standing next to him Kleymeonov, gave him an order:
- Arkadiy Nikolaevich, fill in the ID report and prepare the body to be
sent home. The HQ representative will take it with him.
- Sure, Alexandr Nikolaevich, - and then to the surrounding him grunts,
- Take the man inside. It's warmer in there. Call for the bookkeeper; tell
him to write up the ID Act, the death notification and whatever else is
needed.
Everyone suddenly went active. Bilich announced, talking to Ryzhov, the
Moscow dandy and me:
- Let's go eat.
I had, of coarse, nothing against throwing something in my stomach and
tipping a nip or two, but not in the company of this faceless shit, that's
why I politely refused his offer:
- Thank you so much, comrade Colonel, but I'd rather do it later. I
have to wash off the dust first and get the sniper and Semeonov's reports
out of the way. Other paperwork can't wait for too long either.
- As you wish. But at 2100, please be here at my meeting. Com-brig
should be too back by then, - carefully looking at me, said San Sanych. It
seemed that he figured out what the real reason for my refusal was.
They went inside. I watched the grunts carrying away all that remained
of Semeonov, then turned around and wandered off to my truck. Every
brigade's HQ officer had his own truck. With Yurka Ruzhov, between the two
of us, we shared GAZ-66 with a plywood cab. Although, most officers
preferred to spend those few minutes of rest in basements, we loved our cab.
We also had a personal driver, Harin Pashka, one meter and seventy tall,
with broad bone, big and always twinkly face, little eyes but red hair,
short, almost shaved, hairdo at the back, according to soldiers' fashion,
and always waving long quiff. Naturally, Pashka was a crook and a worm, but
I repeatedly observed him in gunfights: many times he pulled out the truck,
with us, from under fire, for that we cared for him and trusted him. In
peacetime Pashka was a leave abuser, bitter disciplinary offender, big
liquor fan and a womaniser. His pregnant fiance was waiting for him back
where we came from. He had another year to serve before discharge. Pashka
knew practically everything that was going on in the brigade thanks to his
friendship with the grunts from the HQ, communications hub and canteen. He
supplied us with news, some of which he found out significantly earlier than
we did, receiving his information from the comms operators. All of this gave
us more time to think about it and then come forward with good advice and
initiatives during the Sanych's or Com-brig's meetings, while others were
only chewing on the newly received information. For that our superiors
regarded us highly as competent officers. Although, we've always been on top
as it is, the head start was never a burden.
Walking up to our truck I noticed with satisfaction that Pashka managed
to fill up the sandbags and enclosed the truck with them. Now we can breath
almost freely. There was a thin puff of smoke rising from the pipe meaning
that we've got heat, hot water and dry cigarettes. I came up to the door and
called out without opening:
- Pashka! Where are you?
- I'm here, comrade Captain. Guarding.
Pashka's figure emerged from the dark; I glanced at the position, he
has chosen for his guard and noted to myself that he did it rather cleverly.
- All right, my lovechild, what've you got to make your father happy?
Did you behave? - I asked him jokingly.
- Everything's fine, Vechaslav Nikolaevich. Enclosed the truck with
sand, got some food too.
Food was a problem, same as matrasses, linen and the BDUs.
Reinforcement columns were left behind at the airport; it made no sense
dragging them down with us under fire. Only the tankers, carefully guarded,
carried over fuel for vehicles and power generators. Of coarse, every
officer and soldier had reserves in their tanks and APCs: canned stew and
meat kasha containers. But that's no real food, a paved road to stomach
ulcer. That's why everyone was constantly busy hounding for nutrition.
During the assault on this nice kindergarten, in its basements, we
found a decent supply of food and beverages. Much of that we've already
eaten and drunk, but we all knew who amassed most of it and using Pahka's
personal charm or his cheeky character, periodically expropriated some from
the comms operators.
- Sonny, - talking to Pashka, I worked my way into the cab, - What
kinds of entree and oversees brandy do you have to soften up your old and
sick father?
- Dutch ham, roasted lamb, sardines, I think French, and two bottles of
cognac, judging from the labels, also French.
- Got the hot water? - I inquired taking off my rifle, coat and other
apparel.
- Yep, full kettle, - reported Pashka, throwing the rifle behind his
back.
- Let's go, flush some on to me and then have dinner, - I have already
comfortably settled in the warm atmosphere of the cab and now unwillingly
stepped out into the night cold undressed.
I scrubbed myself slowly and carefully, huffing and spitting out dirt
and dust that clogged my nostrils and mouth. We had no steamer here so far;
for that reason we gathered a lot of fresh towels and some cheap polish
fragrance in the airport and periodically, stripping naked, rubbed ourselves
with them. Our underwear we just chucked, putting on new pairs each time.
I got back into the cab, put some cloths on and was wiping up my rifle
with a piece of cloth. Meanwhile, Pashka cut up the ham and smelly lamb ribs
and opened up a can of sardines. In the centre of the table he set up the
sealed bottle of cognac "Hennessey". I opened it and smelled the contents.
Not bad at all. Poured out some of it into plastic glasses, a bit more for
myself. I lifted the glass, looked though it at the light, shook it and
smelled once more, I definitely liked the aroma.
- So, Pavel, to good luck.
We cheered and tipped the glasses.
- Vechaslav Nikolaevich, what happened to the sniper?
- Don't you know already? Glue, Semeon, Americanets and the others
must've told you all about it by now. He died from the heart condition and
his wounds; the rest is none of your business. Now give me the news. Isn't
the war over yet?
- Not by a long shot, - pronounced Pashka, - on the contrary, the order
came through, to speed up the assault of the hotel "Kavkaz". They even
promised us air support. And then the brigade will be thrown in to storm the
Minutka Square with the Dudaev's Palace.
- That's where we'll all drop dead, because it is an obvious suicide to
attack a structure of this kind with only one brigade. What else?
- The second batt's Chief of Staff was wounded and some artist is up
there stuck with them. Shevchuk from "DDT". Ever heard of him?
3
- No, never heard of him before. What's he doing up there anyway?
- Nothing really. He came to Grozny for a concert and then asked for a
ride to the front line. Left all his musicians at the airport and popped up
over here. Who could predict that the second batt would be then screwed like
this? So now he's stuck there. Lads said on the radio he's pretty snappy,
not scared at all and even rushing into battle.
- Yep, now they'll throw our reserves in there to get him out and maybe
even take the hotel for once. Finally medivac all our wounded to the airport
and then go home.
- The Moscow officer was going around taking to grunts. What's up in
the brigade and how they're coping?
- You should've told him to go screw himself and that's that. They
won't send you any further than here. We've got our own zampolit to do this.
We've all seen him in action; he's not hiding behind grunts' backs and
doesn't crunch on his rations under the bed. And never throws any theatrical
shit either. OK, I'll figure out later what to do with that dick. It's
killing me that I can't remember where I saw him before, but I did for sure.
- He says he was in the Prednestrovie at some stage. Something like
this went down there. You were there too, weren't you? May be that's where
you met the man?
- May be so. Only I can tell you, Pashka, Pridnestravie of coarse was a
lot of fun, but compared to Chachnya all that was like an innocent walk in
the park. Over there, the war was more of a classic trench style, although,
Bendery and Dubosary did change hands a few times. But overall, compared to
this madhouse - boy-scout camp "Sunrise".
Now I noticed that Pashka was wearing a rifle bullet on a piece of rope
around his neck - an ancient soldiers' amulet; supposedly this very bullet
was meant for you. If it was only so! These "charms" only relax you
unnecessarily and flatten your sense of vigilance. I smirked:
- You better hang a hand-grenade there by its safety pin, and I'll
fetch it, or a mine. How about artillery round? How do you know that this
bullet was cast for you? Not shrapnel or a concrete block? Go ahead, hang
everything on your neck, it might be useful. Remember that grunt from the
tank battalion? They found him strangled by this very rope with bullet, just
like yours. It didn't save him. Thus, don't be a moron - take it off and use
the bullet as intended
Gabbing this way, I slowly wiped out the food on the table and leant
back. Lighting up a sniper's cigarette I took a puff. The packet was a bit
wet though, possibly from my sweat or humidity.
- Pashka, got dry cigarettes?
- Yep, - he handed me a packet of "Palmira", or, as we call it, "Bum in
the mountains". Because the packet depicted some kind of hobo with a stick
over his shoulder, wearing vocational panama and jellaba (just like a
"spook") and a mountain gorge on the background. - Please, Vechaslav
Nikolaevich. I've got more drying out on the heater. Give me yours; I'll fix
them up too.
I took the packet, twirled it, then lit up and stashed it in one of my
pockets.
- Give me paper, will you. I'll start on the sniper's report.
Pashka gave me paper and sat down near:
- Kozaks arrived, asking to let them fight. Even submitted letter of
recommendation from the Commander in Chief, - Pashka said softly while
cleaning up the remainders of my dinner. Meanwhile I was finishing off the
report.
- Well, if they are so anxious to fight for mother Russia - let them do
it. In Moldova they fought pretty well, even captured weapons for
themselves, - said I without raising my head.
- Bahel said the same thing and sent them to the recon guys. All five
of them.
- I suppose I should go and meet them at some stage.
All of a sudden, somewhere close by, a furious skirmish broke out. Both
of us flew out of the cab at once. Shivering, I pulled on my coat; my mag
pouch with a few extra clips was dangling on my shoulder. In case of an
attack on the HQ, every officer and soldier knew his area of responsibility.
That's why without any extra fuss we sprinted for our little foxhole, dug
about by Pahka a few days ago.
Somebody was discharging long bursts, meaning that the contact was a
close one. Someone was yelling from the dark:
- North-east, white five-story house. Discovered an infantry
detachment, about ten men in all, could be a diversion of some kind.
Not much could be seen in the settling dark, except a few blurred
silhouettes. Somebody started launching flares. Pashka too launched a
couple. Then, in about thirty yards, I noticed rag-heads, crawling toward
us. They were all dressed in nice Turkish camouflage of significantly better
pattern and quality than ours. If I catch a "spook" of my size - definitely
strip him. Back in Prednistrovie, we caught a "policeman" once, in May's
excruciating heat. My feet were boiling and this guy was wearing these
really cool boots. Back then they were a rarity, light afghan type with the
reinforced base, especially for mountaineering. So I got them off him. Back
then we didn't kill prisoners; they were kind of the same as us, fighting
because of morons politicians. Now I have been wearing them for three years,
although they lost their attractive looks but nobody makes them anymore.
Maybe, someone will pull them off me just like I did, perhaps alive or maybe
dead. God alone knows.
I touched Pashka's elbow and showed him the rag-heads.
- Let's go, - I whispered.
We opened up in short bursts. In flares' light we could see the little
geysers of mud and snow. The rag-heads realised that they have been
discovered and fired back at us. They were definitely in a worse situation
and thus were letting off long bursts, crawling backwards. Someone opened up
from his under barrel launcher cutting them off. Suddenly a machinegun fired
from behind us. Did they plan to encircle us?
No freaking way, assholes! I felt my fatigue beginning to disappear and
again, intoxicating rush of the gunfight was consuming me, the flow of blood
thrusting into my head forcing out remainders of the grogginess.
- Pashka, cover me, I'll do them from my launcher, - I yelled with
excitement, getting the weapon ready.
- Come-on my darling, don't let me down, - I muttered, shoving grenade
into its black trunk.
"Bang", said my launcher, spitting the grenade towards the rag-heads.
Too high, I noted correcting. Another one. Gotcha. The grenade burst right
in the middle of the group of crawling "spooks". Two of them whirled around,
obviously wounded; the third got up on his knees holding his head and then
dropped face down in the mud.
- That one's cooked, - I yelled in intoxication, meanwhile spotting
another target. But the rest of the reg-heads managed to hide behind the
rubble and began to gush at us from their rifles. Now, the flares worked
against us, clearly giving away our positions.
A grenade exploded right behind us. Looks like they too have the
launchers. "Issued from the same warehouse?" I thought, bitterly grinning at
my sad idea.
I switched to automatic now, trying to spot where the enemy fire was
coming from. Somebody was running at us from behind, heavily treading. We
turned around sticking our rifle barrels into the dark, ready to open up at
any moment. That was Yurka Ryzhov.
- Shit, man, you scared the devil out of us, - said I getting back to
business.
- Yep, it's definitely more fun over here than with that Moscow creep.
Ragging and ragging constantly. This is not right; that document is not
correctly filled in. Do not write down that the man was captured prisoner;
indicate that he is being unlawfully detained by the illegitimate armed
formations. He also recommended that we speed up the hotel "Kavkaz" assault,
ourselves, take it in the shortest possible time and then proceed toward the
Minutka Square and storm it on the march, - he stopped for a second and then
added: - head on.
- Stuff that. They can storm it themselves if need it so much. As for
us, we need more air support, - I yelled angrily, firing back into the
night. After the Yurka's news I went frantic and was hammering with long
bursts, - you see, I just took one out, the other two are over there
whirling, probably wounded.
Judging from the shooting, we figured the reg-heads were not leaving
just like that. Somewhere from behind our backs we heard "Shilka" talking,
the one that was set up this morning. Well, now it'll chop them up like
salad with its rapid fire and calibre. Yurka together with us, was, with
excitement, picking at the rag-heads with long bursts, keeping the bastards
from raising their heads.
- Slava, the Moscow shithead says he saw you before in Kishineov.
All of a sudden, it became crystal clear. Now I remembered everything.
When back in Kishineov, without any ID papers, we were transferred over the
front line back and forward; this degenerate was there in the Staff Office.
Then his Office was reassigned to the Moldova Republic. Although he stayed
there in the same department and rank. Our personal folders then fell into
the Moldovans' hands. At the end, all of us were pronounced war criminals. I
came to him asking to return my folder, but he bluntly refused, motivating
that I am, in fact, a war criminal and he wouldn't want to be my accomplice.
Then he suggested I leave immediately or he'd call the guards and arrest me
on the spot. The son of a bitch changed colours quickly, but apparently,
eventually had to run for his life too. In a few months, they declared an
amnesty and I am, for now, not a criminal anymore.
The rag-heads started hammering our positions with renewed energy.
Somebody screamed from behind us after the next burst. Shit, someone was
hit. We saw a flash in the dark and redirected our fire over there. In a
couple of minutes somebody in there screamed and something made a noise.
For a few more minutes, in excitement, we kept going in the enemy's
direction, but there was no response. Apparently the rag-heads retreated
having got enough. We had no particular desire to go and check the area.
We'll find out when the sun rises.
- Apparently the original owner came for his liquor, - jested Yura.
- The moron must've forgotten what Karl Marks wrote in his "Capital" on
the second page first paragraph.
- What did he write, Vechaslav Nikolaevich? - Pashka enquired from the
dark.
- A very simple phrase - was yours, now is ours. Expropriation of the
expropriators. If they hadn't screwed around, we wouldn't have come here in
the first place.
- Anything left to drink? - Ryzhov wondered.
- Sure, don't you worry; haven't you had a drink with the faceless
shit? - I replied.
- We have, but he is too fussy. We didn't offer him any cognac but
rather had Vodka. The son of a bitch wondered if we, by any chance, had any
spoils left.
- Moscow motherfucker, - I spewed into the mud, meanwhile, in complete
darkness, filling up empty magazines, feeling the rounds with my fingers. -
All seems quiet. Let's go back. I still have my report to finish and San
Sanych's meeting to attend.
- OK. Pashka you stay here and guard, if you spot anything - call out,
we'll come and rescue you form the evil Chechen, - Yura jested.
We got out of the foxhole and, shaking off the dirt from our BDUs,
started for the cab. Around us in the darkness, officers were walking, to
their trucks to prepare for the meeting.
- Hey people, who was shot? - I yelled into the night.
- The comms driver, Larionov. He's OK though. The shrapnel only
punctured the skin but the bones are fine. He is in the sickbay now. He'll
live, - a voice answered me from the dark, sounded like the Arms XO
Cherepkov Pavel Nikolaevich.
- Soon, there won't any more room in the sickbay to put the wounded. We
should try to break out the blockade and ship them all out, or we'll lose
them, - said loudly Yura, returning to the cab.
- We should look into it and discuss with our COs, - I picked up his
idea.
- Let's have a drink and then go listen to the rant of the Moscow pimp,
- said Yurka, casting his rifle in the corner, - for I am sick of doing it
alone. According to their perception, we can't fight for shit; we have to
inspire men, make them imagine that all this is the Berlin assault and the
Dudaev's Palace is the Reichstag. Bloody paranoia. If it were up to them,
these bastards would lay us down like rails for their cheap glorious
speeches, - Yurka was heating up more and more, that however didn't keep him
from pouring out Vodka and opening sardines cans.
- Alright, Yurok, stop it. Let's drink up and later on the meeting,
we'll bonk the asskisser. Don't worry too much. Whatever they cook up, we
are the ones who will be carrying it out. With the present air support and
artillery back up, we're stuffed anyway. He can go and screw himself. OK, -
I lifted the glass to my eye level and looked at the colours play, - let's
go, to us, the good guys, and death to the morons.
- Yeah right, start holding your breath, - Yurka just wouldn't cool
down and, it seemed, was boiling even more. - Fight them all you want
they'll win anyway. It looks like they are intentionally working for the
Chechens, to kill as many our men as possible.
- OK, Yura, stop yelling, we have to think of the way to get the
wounded out of here. They won't give us a break until we step out anyway.
And during the assault we'll take in more casualties for sure, now you do
the maths. If you ask me, tomorrow morning we have to fetch the recon guys
from the third battalion with whatever they still have that we can ride on,
and break out. Otherwise we'll lose shitload of men. Drink up, - I raised my
glass and toped it without cheers. Yurka too drunk his.
Since we were under our full strength during the departure, we were
complemented by one more battalion from Novosibirsk. According to the
initial plan, we had to complete all preparations by autumn and depart for
Tadzhikistan for integrating into the 201[st] division or some
peacekeeping force; anyhow, to fight for God knows what or who. So this
battalion arrived on new, experimental BMP-3s. The machine looked great,
everything seemed thought of, - however, turned out total shit. Stuffed with
electronics like your Lexus, but made in mother Russia. Thus, at first, we
coped so much shit from it. It couldn't fire its weapons on the run:
equipment failed from vibration. All its sighting systems were electronic,
thus totally useless garbage. When it did fire, it couldn't move: something
again to do with the damned computer. Well, all in one word, - very crude
system and thus terrible. In the third battalion, twenty-four men died in
the first quarter of January because of this buggered APC. Terrible
statistics, isn't it? All because this unrefined machinery was shipped to
the Army, furthermore, to the war zone. About five of them we've lost
already. We've moved them off to a safe place and, for now, use as
machinegun nests. Although the cannon jams after it fires its first shot. Or
as taxi charter in the more or less safe neighbourhoods. I wish those snakes
that accepted this weaponry dropped dead.
Having my second drink I listened to Yura telling me about my Moscow
namesake. He was on fire after I left - at war, he said, some officers let
themselves loose and do not exercise proper behaviour code towards their
superiors; the discipline is lax and so on and on. Then, having sent all
this Moscow bullshit artists to hell, we finished off the bottle and in good
mood left for the meeting. We felt like teaching the Moscow rep a lesson in
gallantry and military science, in front of all the brigade's officers. At
war, feelings towards all representatives are always the same - nobody can
send you any further than these tranches, and their official warnings are
not like clap, they'll hang out there for a while and then fall off at some
stage. By the way, my honourable reader, - clap (gonorrhoea), is "the
officers' heyfever". Back in their college years, half of the officers'
corps managed to catch it. In the Army, compared to civilian life, this
disease is not considered shameful. Shit happens.
At the meeting, every officer knew his spot. Like all HQ officers, we
were sitting close to the Chief of Staff. The meeting room was situated in
the former children's basketball court, which had become a lounge room at
the Chechen owner's villa, where he built in a beautiful fireplace, which
we, in turn, were feeding with his own furniture. By the way, red timber
burns badly, a lot of smoke and not much heat.
Our com-brig was sitting at the head of the big dinner table. As we
could see he didn't even wash up since his return. Judging from his mood, we
figured second battalion was in deep shit. Somebody was talking behind us; I
turned around - it was our Recon CO. His face was just as dirty as the
com-brig's. I figured they went together and thus asked him:
- How did you two go? How is the second battalion?
- Totally stuffed. On the way back we drove into an ambush, one APC was
hit. Driver wounded, Gusarov, you know him? First, busted the track then
wasted us at close range. Barely escaped with our lives.
- No, I don't know him. - I shook my head. - Bad wound?
- His wrists are badly burnt, shrapnel cut his shoulder and part of his
ear is gone. If they keep his hands, he'll be fine. It's a petty though, he
is a smart fellow and I wanted to make him a sergeant.
- Listen, I'll be suggesting now that before we go out and help the
second battalion, we should ship our wounded off, or they're all goners,
your driver too, by the way. For that we have to contract the third
battalion and your lads. What do you reckon?
- Sure, count me in. While we were offloading the wounded, I remembered
that there is a republican drug warehouse here near by and our corpsemen
have nothing besides aspirin and their enthusiasm.
- OK, go on, make a suggestion. We'll work on that and snatch the drugs
from the rag-heads. Otherwise addicts and marauders would bag them anyway.
- Attention please! - Chief of Staff spoke out.
The humming in the room stopped and everyone was now looking at the
COs.
- During yesterday, our brigade was participating in the following
assaults: central train station, hotel "Kavkaz" and here. Also, while
proceeding to locations of the brigade's detachments, several HQ Groups were
fired upon and became involved in short skirmishes. As a result, our brigade
has lost, - there was absolute silence in the room, - two KIA, private
Azarov - tank battalion, sergeant Harlapidi - engineering battalion. There
have been four wounded: Chief of Staff of the second battalion, senior
lieutenant Pahomenko, first battalion company commander lieutenant Krasnov,
Private Gusarov - recon company and private Larionov - communication
battalion. Also, we found a body of private Semeonov - engineering
battalion, who was earlier declared missing in action. The man died a
terrible death, - here San Sanych looked up, faced everybody in the room and
continued without the bulletin, - his was tortured, then nailed to the cross
and his penis cut off and placed into his mouth. Horrible image, I have to
tell you, gentlemen.
The room went buzzing. Officers, despite the presence of their COs and
the representative from Moscow were loudly and resentfully discussing death
of the soldier.
- Calm down, gentlemen, - Bilich resumed his speech after pausing for a
moment, - I'll continue, I am no less disturbed by this, but let us dedicate
our emotions and rancour to the enemy, right now, there is nothing we can do
about it. Next, first battalion captured a sniper, from his own words our
compatriot, from Novosibirsk. Captain Mironov was not able to bring him
over, from his words, the latter died from his wounds and heart condition.
And again the room went buzzing with noise, this time with approval.
Those, whose eyes I met, were nodding and winking to me, approving, as I was
the one who wasted the sniper. Someone from the back of the room declared:
"his guilty conscience killed him". Officers cackled with approval. The room
was scarcely lit, actually, only the table with the Com-brig, Chief of Staff
and Karpov was illuminated, the rest was all covered in darkness. That's why
those at the back were making all sorts of comments without the fear of
being recognised. Lucky bastards.
Again San Sanych had to call for order. Slowly the buzz settled. I
inwardly was watching the faces of our Com-brig and the Moscow major. If our
CO's lips were touched by a smile after the "conscience" remark, the
representative kept cheerless expression on his face with his thin lips,
displaying his negative impression of the matter. A rat is always a rat. It
would be interesting to know if he was ever a platoon leader or a company
commander. Or straight after the college he popped up on the HQ parquetry?
I've gone through all the necessary stages, neither was I ever elevated in
rank before the right time, kissing commanding asses along the way. That's
probably why I travelled all over our country's hot spots. I have no desire
for my son to serve in the military, although my father, my uncle, father in
law and myself went to the same damned military college. If I had ever
learnt English language, wouldn't have ended up in this shithole.
Now San Sanych was telling us about our future objective, which Karpov
brought with him. The latter was erupting with self-importance; it seemed
all this was his idea and we owe him everything. The officers were listening
carefully, quietly exchanging their comments at times.
Then Karpov made his speech:
- Gentlemen! Our Allied Force Head Quarters has set up an honourable
task for you: amongst the first troops, you are to spearhead the attack on
the lair of the savage and then destroy him. The Commander in Chief himself
is keeping this operation under his control. You have proven yourselves in
the past battles and therefore, as the Commander's representative, I am
confident that the Siberians will handle their challenge with honour.
And more of that boring rant, in the worst traditions of the soviet
cinematography. If he thought his listeners would explode applauding and
give him standing ovations, he was dead wrong. There was nothing in the room
besides quiet chuckles and calm remarks. Then someone from the back clearly
and loudly yelled out "Go to hell". From the construction of the phrase I
figured who that was. Only one person in the room could express himself like
that - our tank battalion commander, Mazur Sergei Mihailovich. When we came
here, we had forty-two tanks T-72, now we have twenty-six. In ten days we
have lost sixteen tanks, mostly with their crews. That's why major Mazur had
the right to send all smarty-pants from Moscow the farthest and most often.
Everyone was waiting for the response. It came swiftly:
- Who said that? I suppose it's not a smart and honourable officer and
unlikely that he would come out and say it to my face.
But Mazur rose, and pushing away officers in their chairs, came up to
the table.
- I said that, so what are you going to do? Because of fucks like you I
have lost forty-eight men and God knows how many more I will lose because of
your hallucinations. Why won't the air force and artillery beat the crap out
of this damned square with all that's still there? And the grunts would
block the approaches and take out everyone who would try to sneak off.
That's all. There won't be as many soldiers' blood spilt though and we'd
have to spend more time.
Now everyone was watching Karpov. He was obviously confused:
- The problem is that the whole world is watching what is happening
here. All major news agencies and television stations have been registered
at the Head Quarters. If we use air force and artillery on a square of this
kind, the world community might not take it well. As you correctly mentioned
that it would take more time, but our government needs this conflict to stop
as soon as possible. Local opposition, which is on our side, would also be
against using air force and artillery to solve this problem. Maybe somebody
would wish to surrender? Moreover, we had received authentic information
that a group of well-known human rights activists headed by the Duma
politician Krylov is in one of the Dudaev's basements. Krylov is the
guarantor of Dudaev's personal safety. As a result of a massive air strike
they might get hurt.
- Screw them!
- I'll become an artillery spotter, so that the lads wouldn't miss!
- Hang the bitch!
The well-known human rights activist Krylov was called many
unflattering names. This madhouse would've gone on for a while, if the
Com-brig hadn't barked:
- That's enough! Please comment only on the subject. Orders are not to
be discussed - they are to be carried out. Other details like air and
artillery support, time frames and interactions with other units would be
discussed later on. I am listening. Please note that the hotel must be taken
within the next three days. Any suggestions?
I raised my hand.
- May I? Comrade Colonel, - the CO nodded to me and I went on, - If we
are to face an assault like that it is possible to expect that we will take
more casualties. Our wounded, however, are cramped in the sickbay as it is.
We are also running out of medicaments. Therefore, I suggest the following:
tomorrow, with the strength of the third battalion, support of the recon
company and chemical defence company we would break away to the "North"
airport and medivac all our wounded out of here. Then, in our immediate
proximity, we have the republican medical warehouse. Medicaments definitely
wouldn't hurt to have at this stage.
- This warehouse is for the local population only! - The moron moscvich
gave off a remark. - We must never do that, it would set the locals against
us!
- Keep quiet, major, - cut him off Com-brig, - we've already given you
an opportunity to speak up. This war has already set them against us. There
is no way back. Mironov, continue.
- I'm pretty much done here. If my plan is approved, I offer to
personally head the convoy. Other than that we have to notify the battalions
so that they ship their wounded over at the HQ as early as possible. We
should be under way at about 9.30 and if everything goes according to my
plan, we could be back by about 17.00, leaving us enough time to start on
the medical warehouse.
- What about the hotel "Kavkaz" and the Square?
- I suggest, that during evacuation of the wounded, myself, or someone
else, would contact our front command office and discuss all available
options. If somebody is willing to take over the train station from us, the
first and second battalions could easily bust the rag-heads out of the
hotel. We can also give them the third battalion for support and clean up
operations. If we could also move the self-propelled howitzers a bit closer,
we might be able to complete the task within the previously mentioned time
frame. Only if our friends from the "North" don't shell us again, as it has
happened many times before, - I couldn't help myself and again kicked the HQ
rep.
The discussion of all "for" and "against" arguments of my plan took a
while after that. In about half an hour, our CO approved it overall. He made
a decision to personally head the convoy to the "North". He was also taking
several officers with him: myself with Ryzhov, recon CO, medical CO, third
battalion CO and Supplies XO. After brief calculation, it turned out we had
one hundred and twenty-two wounded to transfer, including all from the
battalions. Many of them refused to medivac. It's strange though, for them
this war was over, they didn't chicken out or self-inflict their wounds,
many of them were even about to be awarded medals, some could be discharged
before their term after this. But even the badly wounded refused to be
shipped out. Their COs yelled at them, some ordering, some trying to
convince them to go.
A lot of grunts were broken down crying, like they were unjustly
punished or something. A few didn't want to go because of the soldiers'
brotherhood, the real one not the imaginary kind. Some were frankly saying
that their thirst for blood isn't quenched yet for their fallen comrades.
Looking at their faces and their madly blazing eyes, you begin to understand
that these men could easily give up their own lives for their comrades. No
looking back, no bargaining with death or enemy, just stand in the path
between the bullet and his comrade without making demands for rewards or
medals. I asked myself a question that I haven't yet been able to answer,
maybe that's what this superior spirit of the Russian Soldier is, that no
army could ever break? Despite the fact, that every government in Russia
hated and dreaded its own army, trying tirelessly to break its backbone,
something that no enemy could ever do. But the Russian mahor, regardless of
his superiors' scams, has always sunk his teeth into his enemy's throat, in
spite of his furious resistance, avenging the deaths of his brothers,
himself died but killing his foe. The death of one would cause desire for
vengeance in the others and this would go on to the last soldier. The
government, knowing this phenomena, periodically makes new opponents,
because when the obvious enemies are dead, you, having tasted their blood,
can't stop any more and start looking back.
And if you did look back, you'd understand, my reader, that while you
were fighting here, at someone's obscure order, life in your country calmly
went on. Somebody even made a little fortune from this war, someone else
transferred money overseas. But your comrade, whose mutilated body you were
dragging out of the killing zone, under fire, yourself soaking in blood and
sweat, he now receives a pension from the government, for both his legs that
he lost out there, 300 rubles.
When after the third toast, he'll grab your hand and, looking into your
eyes, ask you in breaking voice: "why the hell did you pull me out of there,
why?" You will feel sick and ashamed that you saved his life. This very act,
that you were so proud of and maybe even rewarded, - will be the most
shameful and bitter act of your life.
Because your government sent you into this butchery and then, chucked
you out, the still living ones as well as all the dead. It has bedamned and
forgotten you. There was nothing there. All this was your paranoid
hallucination caused by the posttraumatic syndrome and multiple concussions.
But don't you worry. We'll fix you up in the mental home in about five
years, come on in. Whatever remains of the army, we'll disperse and
downsize, so that they don't tell anybody anything and debate our actions.
Same as witnesses after a crime, they'll remove the military after each of
their "salvaging operations". Like they did after Afghanistan, Germany, and
so on. Because they knew for sure, the Army can turn around and see that the
real enemy is right here in Moscow.
Thus, when they throw you out or lock in a God forsaken garrison, you'd
look back at your life and realise that the brightest, most memorable
moments and impressions, the taste and price of life you experienced back
there at some war. Your whole life will be now divided in two parts:
"before" and "after" that war.
Here you will be put before the choice, the infinite Russian question:
"what do I do now?"
You can try and live you life like everyone else, but you know that you
won't get far. You can try and enter the police force. By the way, they are
not ecstatic to see us there, they say we are all psychos. We can become
contract killers, our familiar business and the money's good too. To kill,
not as many people, not for some principles or vengeance but for money.
Would you do it? Does it make you sick? Some go for it.
There is a third path however - mercenary. It's true though you'd be
fighting side by side with those you were shooting at not so long ago, but
that's OK. Money doesn't smell and who knows, you might even like it and
take vengeance on the locals for your fallen friend who used to be your
enemy.
All our wounded grunts knew it only too well. Some knew; some sensed it
with their skins that all this is what a man lives for, and if they leave
now, they would never again experience it. That's why they hung in to every
opportunity to stay. To some their COs plainly lied, telling them that they
are only going out there to accompany the column and would then come back
here again. Some of them believed it while others wanted to believe, hoping
that the convoy won't be able to break out and would have to return. Some
grunts anticipated that before the medivac they would, for one last time,
fight and send a few more true believers to see their Allah for themselves.
They do like squalling "Allah akbar, Allah akbar", - so what? We too
know that he's "akbar", but they, for some reason, don't rush to meet him.
That's no good. Moreover, they are promised a heaven for the holy war with
the kafirs. Therefore, we are actually doing them a favour, sending them to
paradise, but they are resisting it like blind puppies.
This night at the HQ was pretty much sleepless. All of us, Yurka,
myself, Chief of Staff, recon CO and other officers were working on the
details for the medivac convoy. We talked to all the neighbouring units,
arranging the safe passage through their territory and interaction in case
of an ambush. Mechanics were busy getting their vehicles ready for the
transit and gunsmiths tried to adjust BMP-3s. There was enough work to go
around for everybody.
When all arrangements were made and all questions answered, only the HQ
officers were left in the room. Now the head of the Operational Department
initiated the meeting. We now were discussing our options for the Minutka
Square complex assault. At first we said everything we had on our minds
about the Allied Command and Moscow smart asses, but gradually we cooled
down and the meeting went along a calm path.
All of us came to the conclusion, that a head-on assault of the square
would be a sure suicide. But first, we had to take the bridge over the
Sunzha River overlooking the square. There, marching our men under the
deadly close range fire, we could lose them all. This bridge was right in
our path and could not possibly be avoided, unless we took a detour over
half of the city.
Suddenly, chief of the guards barged into the room.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, - he started anxiously, addressing our
Chief of Staff, - the Moscow rep just left.
- What? - San Sanych couldn't grasp it at first.
- Got on to his BRDM, said that he was called in and left.
- When?
- About fifteen minutes ago. I called him on the radio, he says that he
must be at the "North" before the sunrise.
- What a moron? He'll die himself and lose his men. He should've been
riding with the convoy tomorrow morning. Idiot, nutcase, - the head of the
operational department, major Ozerov was furious.
We all knew too well what that meant - riding alone, in the dark,
through a besieged town on a light armoured APC. The end result is almost
always same - be captured by the rag-heads or catch a bullet from your own.
Every soldier knew that, not mentioning the officers. It can't be that this
screwed in the head even considered that his rank would save him!
Martial law in Grozny was in full swing, which meant that sometimes we
couldn't even medivac our worst wounded to the better-equipped hospital at
the "North".
And now this bonehead, this pimple on our asses, endangering the lives
of the grunts escorting him, just vanished into the night.
Immediately we called on the "North" and told them about their
knucklehead. It's likely he did it on impulse, trying to get to the Command
HQ before any news from here could reach them, and report that we dared to
openly debate orders of our superiors. He actually had the poor Semeonov's
body with him too. There is just no peace for him. Forgive us, private.
In the "North" they all went nuts. I can only imagine - an officer has
gone missing. An officer, who knew about, maybe only parts of, but still,
plans of the General Command. Moreover, the allied HQ staff member. Looks
like Karpov actually knew quite a bit, because a search party was organised
to look for him in the middle of the night. The radio traffic was red hot.
All detachments were reporting that the BRDM with the rep has not yet passed
through their roadblocks. Down here, we were prepared to face the music of
future allegations that we deliberately sent him away in the middle of the
night. Thus, instead of catching at least a tiny bit of sleep, we were busy
making up reports that we were never here and there or never did this and
that, and all that bullshit. God forbid for you to be accused of sabotage
towards your superiors. You can make a wooden souvenir out of your opponent,
but don't you dare giving looks to your COs. Well, there are many morons for
us to face in this life. Although, we do, feel petty for the bastard. He's
our blood, Russian. So could the grunts in his escort, get hurt for nothing.
For some reason everyone was convinced that, if the units along his route
keep silent, he is a goner. Probably a captive now, in the rag-heads' hands.
God, let him be captured dead, otherwise, a lot of our plans would have to
be changed.
Sometime about eight in the morning we received information that the
BRDM with Karpov drove into one of the OMON roadblocks that was set up right
before the dusk. As we have predicted he tried to wave his rank into their
faces. The OMON lads, of coarse, didn't give a shit about some General
Command HQ together with their major Karpov. At first, they really mistook
him for a spy. For the rest of the night they kept kicking the crap out of
him and the grunts. Before the sunrise they put him before the firing squad
a few times, hoping he makes a confession. A couple of times they even fired
a few shots over his head. In the morning everything became clear. Airborne
fellows arrived, threw a few punches around for their grunts, picked up
knocked out Karpov and the remains of Semeonov's body and left for the
"North". Karpov went back to Mozdok with the first available flight and from
there probably to Moscow. It's likely he'll be awarded a medal of some sort
and later would be, on TV or in his memoirs, recounting how he, alone, rode
through half of the whole Chechnya, or something like that. Well, good luck
to him.
4
At 8.00 in the morning we began loading our wounded onto cars and
lining up the convoy. Earlier, clashing along the way, armoured vehicles
from the first and second battalions broke through to us with their dead and
wounded. Since there was not enough room in the yard for everyone, only the
worst ones were loaded up there. The rest, who were relatively OK: in clear
mind, were squashed into armoured trucks using stretchers, crutches and
whatever else could be utilised. All who could fire weapons rode on top of
APCs. Everyone knew well, that those inside armoured carriers would
inevitably die in case of a direct grenade hit or a mine explosion. Thus,
responsibility for them rested heavily on shoulders of those riding atop of
the "armour". The convoy turned out bigger than expected. In all:
fifteen A
