Chapter Four. Chistyakov
He saw Yepimakhov for the first time when he returned to the regiment after conducting the column, and was dragging his tired body to the barracks, thinking only of two things - to have a bath and down a glass of vodka. Zhenka had stopped in town and bought a couple of bottles. Almost as if he knew they would be needed.
The new man with a lieutenant's shoulder boards was being escorted toward regimental headquarters by a soldier. He was dressed in a "Union" uniform, which nobody in Afghanistan had worn for a long time as it had been superseded by the special so-called "experimental" uniform, supposedly tailored to new field conditions. The soldier was lugging a suitcase, bending under its weight, and a carrier bag. The lieutenant, natty in a tailored military jacket with a high collar, carried a greatcoat over his left arm.
.... must be Zhenka's replacement at last ....
Sharagin unlocked the Chinese padlock which hung on two bent nails after they had lost the only key to the dead lock on the door and stepped into the tiny entry hall. He leaned his rifle against the wall, dropped his rucksack on the floor, gave a tired yank at his bootlaces, too lazy to undo them completely, and got his boots off by pushing the heel of one with the toe of the other foot. He flung back the curtain separating the entrance, and stepped into the main room. The platoon leaders and sergeant lived here, surrounded by family photographs and cuttings out of the "Ogonyok" magazine pinned to the walls. Standard iron bunks lined the walls, and a doorless clothes cupboard leaned crookedly. A heating pipe ran under the window with a thin, flat radiator which leaked frequently and was therefore rusted through. Wooden pegs were stuck into the radiator here and there, where the leaks were strongest. They all froze in winter, wrapped themselves in their greatcoats. Home-made heaters made no difference. A lone, naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. Greatcoats hung on nails hammered into the walls. A twin-cassette player stood on the table, surrounded by old newspapers and an ashtray made out of half of a can of imported "Si-Si" soda.
... towel, soap, clean underwear...that's all ...
The burner by the bath-house was silent, cooling down.
... too damn late...
Usually the gas burner hissed, throwing out a tongue of flame, heating up the steam room. Sharagin threw off his stiff uniform and underwear, which stank of sweat and diesel and which he had not changed for some time, and his socks which had a big hole on one toe and also smelled terrible and stuck to his road-weary feet. He did not throw away the socks, but washed them with the rest of his clothing. The trickle of water from the shower was lukewarm, but he gloried in it nonetheless. He stood under it for at least five minutes as if trying to soak himself through and through, rubbing his body briskly with a sponge to get rid of the accumulated dirt, simultaneously shedding the fatigue and nervousness brought on by combat, washed his cropped hair.
... maybe I should shave my head bald once more? No, once was enough ...
He scraped his cheeks under the now cold shower, swore at the cheap blade which lost its edge straight after contact with the stubble of many days.
... the unit had not noticed the loss of a soldier ... they had not even had time to deal with the enemy properly ... this particular lot of spooks was very crafty, retreating from battle along mountain tracks, underground tunnels ... But Chistyakov got his way, did some shooting later ... battalion reconnaissance took three prisoners... one spook was bumped off on the way ...
All these days, the simplicity and unexpectedness of Panasyuk's death haunted Sharagin and the war, which had previously given special color to the imagination, a whole spectrum of exhilarating shades and fascinating variety of sounds, now seemed bleak and almost monochrome. Earlier the war had enticed and beckoned with unlimited shooting, frightened from afar with shell explosions, warned against hidden peril with triggered mines which concussed but did not kill. Now, for the first time, war had struck a vital blow, which was serious and extremely painful. War had descended suddenly on all sides, grim, real, merciless. From now on, Death kept a sharp eye on every individual, walked in step and whispered something, its breath cold on the back of the neck.
The bath-house was fast becoming cold. Sharagin splashed a few dippers on the stones, climbed on to the top bench, stretched himself, closed his eyes and relaxed. He almost fell asleep. Once something similar happened to Pashkov, who had drunk a lot, set out for a steam bath and went to sleep on the top bench. If it were not for the soldier who stood guard at the bath-house, Pashkov would have been broiled like a lobster. When he was shaken awake, he could barely move his whiskers and had no idea about where he was. He drank nothing but mineral water for a whole week after that. When Sharagin had soaked enough and washed himself clean, he felt fresh in mind and body
... like a newborn baby...
He went out into the dressing room and was already standing on the plank floor, barefoot and in his underpants, when he suddenly felt a sharp surge of desire twist him up inside. Male need.
In order not to embarrass himself before other officers, he bent over quickly, sat on a bench and pulled on his trousers.
He had forgotten all about that in the last few months, but now, after the bath, he needed a woman. Badly. So much that he ground his teeth.
... you couldn't bend it using both hands...
The meager handful of women in the company were all accounted for. Paired off, living with senior officers, no way you could approach them.
Sharagin went out and lit a cigarette.
... it's easier for the "elephants" ... those who are more shy, masturbate in secret, on sentry duty, when else is a soldier alone? or in the latrine, surrounded by the stink of shit...but what am I to do? I don't know how to do it for money ... guzzling vodka is all that's left!... Zhenka manages much better, straight into battle with reconnaissance and claims victory over the latest girl...and forgets about it the next day...
... what does a man really need in wartime?..
he wondered, returning from the bath-house.
-"food, medals, vodka and dames!" according to Morgultsev ....well, the food situation is bearable, there are never enough medals to go around, nor enough vodka, either, but especially women ... you'd think they'd bring in enough for everyone, so you wouldn't have to think about it! ... good thing the replacement's arrived, it will mean a drink or two! ..
The orderly on duty pulled himself to attention and reported that Chistyakov's replacement had arrived , and that the company had gone off to eat.
Sharagin hung out his washing, lay down on his bunk and turned his head to the wall, facing the photograph of Lena and Nastyusha. The gray cardboard was cut unevenly around the edges to palm size, because for some time he carried the photo in his pocket. Wife and daughter were frozen in unnatural, tense poses before the camera, having taken inordinate pains to look as good as possible.
The tasteless provincial hairdresser had given Lena a "stylish" hairdo, hiding her beautiful long hair. For some reason she had colored her lips and eyelashes with something. Her wide-spaced, usually bright and warm eyes, high forehead and clear, touching face were immobile, as though they had frozen Lena, enchained her, frightened her. Meek and helpless, but strong in her love for him, and fearful for him, she seemed to look into the camera lens as though trying to catch a glimpse of the future, the day when he would receive this photo, in order to tell him of her love, her anxiety, about all that surrounds a woman who is left for a long time without the husband who has gone off to war. Nastyusha had huge bows of ribbon on both sides of her head, making her look like a funny toy.
... it would have been better to take the photo at home ...
At the moment when "the birdie" flew out they, naturally, were thinking of Daddy, who was serving in a distant country, and their fears were involuntarily captured on film.
He had never known the pulling power of photographs before. That a glance at a photograph is like a voyage in time: a moment of human life is permanently fixed on a card, so tiny that the person probably did not even notice it or attach any significance to it, it's like a trip into the past, a projection into another dimension.
He closed his eyes and imagined the hairdresser's they usually went to - on the corner near the railway station, possibly the only one in town. Then - how they stood in line holding the receipt until their time came, probably going to the mirror a few times to check how they looked, tried to tune themselves up to smile and then headed back home, dressed in their Sunday best, along the pitted, dirty streets.
... I bet it was Mother's idea to have that photo taken ...
He did not lie alone for long. Solitude is a great luxury in the army. The door squeaked open, and senior lieutenant Ivan Zebrev, commander of the 1st platoon entered and, in joyful anticipation of the imminent drinking spree, announced:
"Chistyakov's replacement has arrived.!" and added his favorite "Ulyu-ulyu!"
"I know, I saw him."
"Zhenka's beside himself with joy. He's making sure not a speck of dust settles on him. You could die laughing. He even missed going to the bath-house, but took the lieutenant by the elbow and steered him off somewhere. Listen - this is what we'll do. My "elephants" - harrumph! - are on kitchen duty today, so they'll set up everything, and we'll all make tracks there after lights out. We'll have a wow of a time. It's been a long time since we got drunk. What's that you said? You sick or something?"
"Just tired. Is there anything to drink right now?"
"Harrumph!.." Zebrev dived under Chistyakov's bunk and emerged with a bottle in his hands. "How much d'you want?"
"About a hundred grams..."
It was hard to force down the industrial alcohol. Even if drunk half and half with juice or water, it gave off a tang of either kerosene or rubber, seemed to stop in your throat and, after drinking a bottle of that garbage some people broke out in red spots.
"Going to eat?"
"No thanks, Ivan, I won't bother if we're going to be eating later."
"Right. I'm off for a wash, and then to feed my face."
"There's almost no water left."
"See you!"
For a while longer Oleg remained alone. Relaxed by the alcohol, he pulled out and re-read his wife's last letters. Lena never complained and never would complain about any difficulties, especially in a letter. She wrote only about good things, even if they were a tiny drop once a month. She wrote that she loved him and was waiting for him. She described all the new and funny things Nastya had said, how quickly she was changing, how fascinating it is to watch a child's reactions to the surrounding world, and did not fail to mention that Nastya loves her Daddy very much and misses him.
He really ought to sit down and write, but he couldn't get into the right mood. The words written down on paper became generalized, even if warm and sufficiently understandable to someone close who was far away and suffering anxiety. As a rule the tone of his letters was restrained, brief, from a desire to save the really important words for his return home.
... Lena will understand. Lena will forgive ...
Distrust of the army postal service precluded putting anything secretly sentimental in a letter. Letters from home were sometimes a week late, and on the back of the envelope he had twice seen the stamp "Letter received in damaged condition." That meant that the letter had been opened, checked, possibly read. Sometimes letters did not arrive at all. It was assumed, in such cases, that some swine of a soldier on duty at the post office had opened the letter in search of money - cash was often enclosed - and then thrown the letter away instead of resealing the envelope.
Suspicion also fell on the KGB personnel, and he did not want some KGB sneak finding out the thoughts of lieutenant Sharagin.
In the barracks, everything went haywire whenever senior lieutenant Chistyakov appeared on the threshold. The men would report glibly, one after another. Chistyakov had trained them well, had them running on a string.
Zhenka was a bit "under the weather", his face red
... he's already had a drop or two...
thrusting the lieutenant in the "Union" uniform into the room. "Olly! Fuck it, why are you lying around? Reveille! It's my big day today! Look who's here - my replacement!"
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Nikolai Yepimakhov, " said the newcomer, standing uncertainly between the doorframe and his big suitcase.
"Come in, come in," urged Chistyakov, dragging him forward. "Take a seat, you'll soon be at home here. "
"Where?"
"On this chair. We need some more glasses," fussed Zhenka. He fished under his bunk for the bottle and was surprised to find it had been opened. "Shit, you're gone for half an hour, and some sonofabitch takes advantage!"
"What's the matter?" asked Oleg, not understanding.
"Someone's been at my vodka!"
"Actually, I took a swig."
"Oh.. well, in that case, all right," replied Chistyakov approvingly. "Right, mate, we'll drink later. Meantime, let's go get you some cotton clothes. It won't do to be wandering around the regiment in Union uniform.!"
Chistyakov's farewell party made Oleg feel sad. Zhenka had been part of his first months of service, Zhenka had taught him how to survive in Afghanistan.
However, Sharagin liked the look of the new lieutenant, and this helped lessen the gloom.
There was something child-like in Nikolai Yepimakhov that immediately appealed, something clean and naive - in his eyes, his long eyelashes, in his unfeigned enthusiasm, mixed with a measure of shyness, in the way he would spread a thick layer of butter on a slice of bread and top it off with home-made jam or sweetened condensed milk from additional rations, sipping tea into which he put at least six lumps of sugar.
... interesting, how did he get into the army at all? ..
Yepimakhov changed his uniform for the "experimental" rig and now held himself proudly, trying not to crease his imperfectly ironed new outfit. His uniform stood out in its bright greenish-yellow markings and smell of dust from the quartermaster's shelves. The clothing of the other officers in the room was faded from numerous washings, almost colorless.
"Fabulous uniform!" enthused the lieutenant. Like a child, he played with the Velcro stickers on the pockets. "It's really comfortable, and all these pockets...!"
"Sure," interjected Ivan Zebrev, "only for some reason you're cold in it in winter, and boil to death in summer..."
Zhenka Chistyakov, as hero of the day, poured the drinks. He also offered a toast: "To replacements! I've been a long time waiting for you, baby!"
... we drink the first seventeen toasts quickly, and another forty nine
slowly...
That was how such parties usually went.
In the short breaks between toasts, everyone questioned the newcomer about news from home, and where had he served and with whom.
Paratroops means a school in Ryazan and a few air-borne divisions and storm brigades for the entire Soviet Union. Its like being on a small island, on which it is hard to land and even harder to leave, where everyone knows everything about each other: either they studied together, either they served together, or from hearsay. A closed circuit. Being a paratrooper means belonging to a caste, the elite among the armed services, great pride and amazing chauvinism with regard to the other branches of the armed forces.
... paratroopers are like mythical beasts, descending from the skies ... there's nobody to equal us! ... the paras strike unexpectedly, like the wrath of God, they are as unpredictable as Judgment Day...
'Where'd you guys buy vodka?" asked Yepimakhov in his turn.
"From the locals," replied Sharagin.
"Wha-a-t?" Yepimakhov glanced warily at his glass, and tried again. "I've heard that they often sell poisoned stuff..."
"Hey, you don't want it, don't drink it!" retorted Pashkov. "Personally, I've become im-mu-ne (he stressed the word deliberately, don't teach granny to suck eggs, boy!) to it."
"Quit scaring him," protested Sharagin. "They'd never dare sell poisoned vodka in Kabul, and everyone knows where they bought their supply."
"If need be, we'll shell the shop," explained Zhenka Chistyakov.
They were nearing the end of the third bottle when captain Morgultsev arrived together with captain Osipov from Reconnaissance.
The entrance door flew open, and somebody coughed loudly. It was clear that the arrivals were friends, so everyone continued eating and drinking as though nothing had happened except for lieutenant Yepimakhov, who shifted uneasily and put aside his glass, obviously afraid of being caught drinking on his first day.
Yepimakhov did not know that any appearance by one of the regimental or battalion brass within fifty meters of the barracks would be spotted immediately by some of the juniors, who had been taught to stand guard, and who would warn the officers in time to avoid being punished for drinking just because some damn sonofabitch in the political section had insomnia.
Captain Morgultsev was worried about something, and therefore sounded aggressive:
"Bloody hell! Why are you giving me this thimble? Pour me a proper glass - right, right, half is enough. Got another glass?" Warrant officer Pashkov trotted over to the hand-basin, rinsed out a mug and placed it in front of captain Osipov. "Right men, your health! To you, Chistyakov!"
"When are you off?" asked Osipov.
"No need to hurry now."
"I thought you'd be off first thing tomorrow."
"I have to get rid of the hangover tomorrow, tidy up any loose ends..."
"Any loose ends are already in the hands of the military prosecutors," joked Pashkov, who was on the jump, opening new cans and clearing things from the table.
"...get a good sleep, get my gear together," continued Chistyakov, oblivious of Pashkov's attempt at humor. "Then I have to go around and say good-bye to everyone..."
"And get roaring drunk again in the evening. Ha-ha-ha!" needled Pashkov with a braying laugh that shook the barracks.
"By the way, Sharagin, take a good look through your idiots' stuff. I feel it in my bones that they got some hash when you went out on combat duty. Damn their eyes," said Morgultsev angrily. "They'll smoke themselves silly on shit ... You know full well that our sergeant does bugger all about it," he indicated Pashkov. "All he can do is chuck grenades at scorpions..."
Everyone laughed except Pashkov.
"Sorry, comrade captain, but that's unfair. Everything in our unit's tip-top..."
"Nobody's asking you, warrant officer!" snapped Morgultsev. "Never mind shoving your fucking nose into officers' discussions!"
"Senior warrant officer, " corrected Pashkov.
"Same shit," retorted his commander.
Pashkov never took umbrage. He was not young and very cunning, like all warrant officers. Morgultsev once remarked, that "being a warrant officer is a state of the soul" and that "the world is divided into people who can become warrant officers, and those who cannot." The company commander was fond of Pashkov, but yelled at him in public, chewed him out like a raw recruit and accused him of all the deadly sins. Pashkov drank in one gulp, not eating anything afterwards. He was older than the other officers in the company, but the alcohol which he consumed in inordinate amounts seemed to rejuvenate him. Amazingly, nobody ever noticed in the mornings that Pashkov was suffering from a hangover.
"Solid bone," declared Morgultsev, rapping Pashkov on the forehead. "Nothing there to hurt." Pashkov was always first for physical exercises after any drunken spree. "A bottomless pit," the commander would say jokingly. "Don't give him any more, it's a waste of a precious product. If it's free of charge he'll drink a full jerrican of vodka in three days."
After an "introductory" amount, Pashkov's cheeks would redden as if he'd been out in the sow, he would perk up and become full of energy, like a car which had just received a tankful of gas. And if he had been ordered to do so at that moment, Pashkov would have scaled the peak of the highest mountain in Afghanistan, dragging a mortar on his back, taken on ten spooks and beaten them!
Pashkov's favorite word was "Montana." He applied it universally - from the brand of jeans so popular in the Soviet Union, to delight, understanding, agreement with an interlocutor, happiness and joy. If he did not like something he would say: "That's not Montana!" He savored today's vodka very much, real, not some cheap substitute, and he repeated over and over, wiping a hand across his whiskers:
"Montana, real Montana!"
Pashkov took a bite of ham, spread a thick layer of butter on a slice of bread.
"Yakshi Montana! Dukan, baksheesh, hanoum, buru!" This was the sum total of the senior warrant officer's knowledge of the local tongue.
"What did you say?" asked Yepimakhov.
"It's an old Afghan saying," replied Pashkov sagely.
"Literally: shop, gift, woman, get out of here!" translated Morgultsev. "Don't give him any more to drink!"
"Why's that?"
"Because every time I hear that idiotic phrase, you go on a drinking bout!"
Ivan Zebrev winced when he drank vodka, so his face always looked worn and tired.
"How the hell do the Bolsheviks drink this shit?" he would say every time.
To which Morgultsev's usual reply was:
"Yes, it's as strong as Soviet power!"
Some nights Zebrev, swearing profusely, would command in battle, waking Sharagin, Chistyakov and Pashkov; without saying a word, they all tacitly agreed that Zebrev, if he didn't get killed in the meantime, would be the next company commander. Because inside this medium-built, unprepossessing and grayish man there was a stubborn, conscientious officer who, through his ability and application and devotion to the army would climb the career ladder to the height of battalion commander. People like that are born so that in due time they will occupy their proper place in the armed forces. Ivan Zebrev was born to command a battalion, and by all laws he would be a battalion commander at thirty, and forty, and go on pension with the battalion commander still alive inside him. At this stage, Zebrev dreamed of captain's shoulder boards because, as he often stressed and repeated tonight for Yepimakhov's benefit:
"Captain's boards have more stars on them than any others."
Zhenka Chistyakov always took a sip of pickled gherkin brine after drinking vodka. Waving aside a can opener, he pushed the lid in with his elbow, prized it up with his thumbs, speared out all the gherkins with a fork as if they were fish in a pond and put them on a plate. The can with the brine he put by his own plate and wouldn't let anyone else touch it.
The deputy commander of the company's political section, senior lieutenant Nemilov, never drank his entire glass, always left a little at the bottom. Neither the officers nor the men liked Nemilov, he didn't fit in. From the very first day he was disliked for his small, cunning, deep-set eyes, which seemed to lurk inside his skull. It was obvious that he had come to Afghanistan out of career considerations and personal ambitions, that he couldn't care less about his colleagues and despised everyone. Even if he had been a teetotaler, as was implied by some of his fiery speeches at meetings, the others would have treated him with a measure of distrust, but would have forgiven what they considered sheer nonsense. But because Nemilov only acted the part of a high-principled communist, obeying the instructions of the Party and the new secretary-general comrade Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev, who had declared war on drunkenness and alcoholism and even ordered that there should be no champagne at weddings, the officers and men turned their noses up at the political officer.
However, despite his superciliousness, high-handedness and sententious pronouncements, senior lieutenant Nemilov did not miss any opportunity to have a drink with or without good reason, because everyone in Afghanistan wanted to drink vodka, but not everyone was willing to spend their own money on it. Moreover, Nemilov did not say much in company, and this fueled further suspicions.
Nikolai Yepimakhov prepared to down his vodka after every toast with great care: first he would breathe out, tip the drink down with difficulty, and it was clear that although he was unaccustomed to drinking in such quantities, he was doing his best to keep up. The new boy became visibly drunker by the minute.
Morgultsev, whose lower jaw tended to stick out, and who was often the butt of jokes to the effect that he must get a mouthful of water every time it rains, followed each draught with a gherkin, crunching them in evident enjoyment. He had a prominent forehead, and was the author of many snappy phrases and sayings such as: "An officer has a head not to eat porridge, but to wear a cap."
This was his second tour of duty in Afghanistan. He never talked about the first months after Soviet forces entered Afghanistan in 1979.
Captain Osipov was an unexpected guest, but the legendary "regimental scout" was greeted enthusiastically, despite the old Russian saying: "An unbidden guest is worse than a Tatar."
"An unbidden guest is better than a Tatar," quipped Chistyakov when he saw Osipov.
Osipov drank vodka as though it was ordinary water, occasionally sniffing an onion. His reconnaissance company had recently caught a caravan carrying a large consignment of weapons, so a medal for past accomplishments arrived right on cue. For some days, he had been "watering" his award. Osipov was of medium height, sturdily built, a tough nut with wiry hair cropped short, with a prickly mustache and a hard stare, the stare of a lone wolf. Even drunk, his eyes never lost that hardness, his gaze did not become blurred but seemed even more penetrating.
"Fuck it, Vasili, show us the medal!" Zhenka Chistyakov held out his hand. Somewhat reluctantly, captain Osipov parted with his trophy. Zhenka had no intention of examining the "piece of tin", he had one exactly like it himself. Chistyakov just wanted to test his friend, so he said: "Shall we 'water' it again?"
"What?" asked Osipov.
"One more time," proceeded Chistyakov, putting the medal in a glass and filling it to the brim with vodka. "Can you handle it?"
"Sure thing!"
"O, my replacement," said Chistyakov, slapping Yepimakhov on the back and pointing at captain Osipov: "Remember captain Osipov, he'll go far. A regimental legend! Not just the regiment - the division! A famous scout!"
"Come off it!"
"This man will soon be awarded the Hero's Star. Fuck it, I heard with my own ears how the commander said: "I'll give the Hero to whoever gets the first Stinger from the spooks!" So when are you going to get a Stinger, Vasili?"
"We're working on it."
"There you go!" Chistyakov held out the glass and slopping out some of the vodka. "Drink it down, Vasili. God grant you'll be given the Hero. But that'll be without me. I'm fucking off out of here. .. Enough, I've fought enough. It's impossible to kill all the Afghans. The bastards breed faster than we can kill them!"
Captain Osipov stared into the glass as if he were preparing to dive off a bridge into the river, but couldn't decide at the last moment whether he should remove his shoes, or the hell with them? He gathered himself and took the plunge .... Choked, but kept drinking. His short hair seemed to stand on end, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like the breech of a rifle, forcing down the vodka. The glass rose to a steeper angle, now it was vertical, now the medal slid down the side. Captain Osipov seized it in his teeth and sat there beaming and looking for all the world like a satisfied walrus. He took the medal out of his mouth, put it back into his pocket, cleared his throat and took a bite out of a chunk of ham, which had been cut the way men cut - in thick slices.
"Basta! " said Osipov when Zhenka began to pour for the next toast. "I've had my litre for today ... one should practice moderation, my fellow gentlemen-officers!"
"That's what I'm always saying," added Morgultsev. "Drink your norm, and into bed."
A few months ago Morgultsev had behaved differently, more simply and comradely, and would not have left until the last drop had been drunk. Now that he was aiming to become battalion commander, he kept his distance from his subordinates. Furthermore, the captain felt that the newly-arrived lieutenant should begin his service in strict observance of discipline, and not a drunken spree. However, there was no way he could forbid Zhenka's farewell evening.
Morgultsev reluctantly stayed another strained quarter of an hour, but managed to drink quite a lot in that time. Finally he rose from the table, pleading pressure of work and collected Osipov, who was dead drunk. Nemilov began taking his leave as well.
... it's way over time...
Morgultsev poured a final glass, breathed out with all his might and downed it with a single gulp, belched loudly and grabbed the last gherkin:
"I'm off, guys. Make sure you keep order here, dammit! Sharagin, you're the least drunk. I'm making you responsible!"
"Don't worry, Volodya, everything will be fine," promised Chistyakov.
"Bye, Volodya," intoned lieutenant Yepimakhov, completely drunk and barely able to move his tongue, without realizing that Morgultsev had not left yet. "He's a first class guy, our commander! And all you guys are all first class..."
"On your feet, comrade lieutenant!" bellowed Morgultsev, forging back into the room. "Attention! Who the hell do you think you are, comrade lieutenant? You go teach your granny to piss through a straw first! I'm not your kith and kin for you to use the familiar form of address to me! Do you understand that, comrade lieutenant?"
Lieutenant Yepimakhov stood rocking slightly and trying to find an answer. Instead of that, he suddenly gave a loud hiccup.
All the officers burst out laughing, and the tension dissipated.
"What's so funny?" asked Pashkov plaintively.
After Morgultsev left, everyone took a turn at imitating Yepimakhov. He sat there, embarrassed and magically sober, blushing like a schoolgirl.
Everyone in the room was drunk.
... when you're drunk, you want it even more, I'd smother anyone I could drag into bed right now ...
Sharagin drank all evening without cheating, taking little part in the conversation and watching Chistyakov and Yepimakhov.
The lieutenant choked but forced himself to drink vodka in order not to shame himself before his new comrades. He listened avidly to stories about the Panjsher Valley, twiddling his wheat-colored mustache and poking at it with his tongue. In spite of the drink, his eyes glistened with interest.
Chistyakov was not as tall as Yepimakhov, but more solidly built, more muscular. His hair had started to thin and hung down onto his forehead in stringy wisps, his eyes either went around the room slowly, softly, then seeming to stop, die. When he looked at his neighbor with that colorless gaze, it was impossible to tell whether Chistyakov felt anything about what he was telling, or not.
Drunk Chistyakov was remembering how he was wounded and had to pick out fragments which had entered his body in different places. Pointing at a deep cleft a centimeter from his eye, he explained:
"Just a fraction over, and I could have played the leading part in a film about general Kutuzov. "
Zhenka knew dozens of stories about the spooks and took pleasure in regaling his replacement with them, so that the new boy would realize that there was a real war on here, fuck it, that they weren't playing pick-up-sticks.
Chistyakov called the Afghans "monkeys" and repeated constantly that if he had his way, they would all be exterminated, root and branch.
"But why all of them?" protested Yepimakhov. "Are the simple peasants guilty of anything?"
...O, God, another truth-seeker ...
"Why?" exploded Chistyakov. "Why? Because your fucking peasants finish off our wounded with pitchforks! And hang out severed heads in the marketplace! Animals!"
... poor naive kid ...
Yepimakhov wriggled around uneasily in his chair while Zhenka informed him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The Afghan lay without breathing
Yepimakhov wriggled around uneasily in his chair while Zhenka informed him how he had shot a captive spook, and Sharagin remembered, because he had been there, how Chistyakov had emptied a whole magazine into that spook. The Afghan lay dead, his body jerking as it was riddled by bullets.
...Zhenka laughed, then spat in the spook's face ...
The new lieutenant was fascinated by stories about the real war, no doubt about it, it was all new and rather strange, rather frightening. Not frightening because combat officers could casually discuss with panache how to kill someone, and not from the realistic descriptions, but out of fear that something like that would happen to him, the way it had with the platoon commander Chistyakov had mentioned - the one who got blown up on his first sortie. As for any normal person, something quaked inside Yepimakhov at the thought that there were two more years he would have to spend at war, that anything at all could happen to him, that he might stop a bullet from a "Boer" at the very beginning of his service.
"That's an old rifle, dates back to the start of the century, " explained Chistyakov. "The spooks can hit you in the head from a distance of three kilometers. The rifles were left here by the English. The Afghans beat the shit out of the English. Killed half the expeditionary corps, the other half dies from hepatitis..."
The vodka helped in overcoming bad premonitions and Yepimakhov listened, spellbound. They filled him to the brim with stories and drink.
That evening he had only one real hero, one truly combat-hardened officer - senior lieutenant Chistyakov, who would be leaving Afghanistan in a few days time with a combat medal.
Sharagin reacted quite differently to his friend's tales. He was genuinely fond of Zhenka, pitied him but acknowledged that he feared him a bit at times because Zhenka was not quite right in the head, just like many who had served a full term in Afghanistan, not sitting in HQ, but taking a big and real part in the fighting.
It was said that Zhenka had changed noticeably in two years. He came to Afghanistan voluntarily, like his brother Andrei.
... probably came here just as green and naive as lieutenant Yepimakhov ...
There was no more cheerful officer in the regiment or, indeed, the battalion than Chistyakov He lived easily, served diligently, fought well and bravely, so he was put up for a medal in a few months' time. The battalion commander thought the world of Zhenka.
Then once Zhenka wandered in to visit the regimental Counter Intelligence officer - they were practically neighbors back home - and saw a pile of specially selected photos of "brutalities committed by the spooks." The Counter Intelligence officer kept them mainly as an object lesson for the common soldiers. Once you see photos like that, you'll think twice about venturing beyond the gates of the compound, trade with the Afghans at the post or on sortie, stay within twenty meters of your position and not take a step outside the guard post.
"See this soldier with the star cut on his back - he left the post to go for a swim," the Counter Intelligence officer would say in confidential tones, steering a soldier into a separate room. Then he would apply pressure: "That's what will happen to you, too, but the whole band of spooks will fuck your ass first and tear it apart into the shape of a swastika. Never been fucked in your ass before? No? Good, that means you're not a queer. The spooks will make one out of you, though! Then they'll cut your balls off!"
The Counter Intelligence officer worked on the newcomers who, according to his information, had been driven to the edge of desperation by the violence in the ranks and were contemplating whether to make a run for it, or hang themselves.
He would scare them, shove the photos under their noses:
"Is this what you want, you idiot? No, don't turn away! Look at me!"
If a soldier shot himself, that was no big deal, it could be swept under the rug, write it off as careless handling of weapons or some such thing. In a case like that, let his direct commander find a way out. But if a soldier driven to despair were to run off into the mountains - that would be something the Counter Intelligence officer would have to answer for.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Pour yourself a cup of tea, help yourself to some jam. I'll only be a moment." The Counter Intelligence officer slid out into the corridor.
Chistyakov scooped a spoonful of jam, licked the spoon. Delicious! Raspberry jam. Just like mother used to make. He put a spoonful of jam into his tea, reached out and picked up the half-open file. Sipping tea, he leafed through it dispassionately: torn bellies, guts scattered around everywhere, eyes put out, probably prized out of their sockets with knives, a cut off penis thrust into a mouth like a gag, severed heads. Nothing special. Back home Zhenka would have been horrified by such sights, but here it was run-of-the-mill, he'd seen just about the lot.
"Hey, let me put that away, said his host when he returned. "That's for special occur..."
He stopped in mid-word in the center of the room, because Zhenka suddenly jerked, went pale. He thought he'd recognized his brother on one of the photos. He took a closer look. Yes! It was him! Andrei! Rather, he recognized a severed head, lying next to a body.
Andrei Chistyakov had served in the "Spetsnaz", their group had been ambushed and nobody survived. Zhenka went to his brother's funeral back home, but it had proved impossible to find out the details of what had happened. The authorities were evasive. They kept silent about what the spooks did with wounded Russians, how they desecrated the bodies of the dead. The spooks did not dent themselves anything with prisoners. Some were skinned alive, and the skins were hung out to dry in the sun in the market place for all to see. The men taken prisoner died terrible deaths.
"You knew all the time, you bastard! You knew it was my brother! And showed these photos to the men as a teaching aid! You fucking sonofabitch!" yelled Zhenka in fury.
The Counter Intelligence officer was perturbed, demanded the photo back, threatened with dire consequences.
"You rotten swine! And a fellow-countryman at that! All you Counter Intelligence bitches are the same, dirt! Don't you come near me!" Zhenka picked up a chair and swung it warningly. He clutched the photo, then thrust it into his pocket.
They really went at it, a genuine fight, Zhenka almost gouged out the man's eyes. He was totally beside himself:
"Just try and take it away, I'll shoot you, you bastard!"
It was when he found out about his brother that Zhenka went slightly crazy. He became vicious and retreated into himself. And for the rest of his term, he wreaked revenge for his brother, showing the spooks no mercy.
...Their parents had been afraid that the older brother would one day land in jail, he kept bad company from his early years, got into fights, all sorts of mischief, carried a prison-made blade, dreamed of using it on some "deal", even had his arms tattooed.
yet after all, he had turned into a fine officer, a brave commander, and his nature helped.
He stopped drinking, took up sport, entered the Ryazan military school. He found himself when he joined the army.
Andrei never went around minefields, but plunged across regardless. He got a charge out of it. He proved an ace in capturing caravans, came out without losses of life from the most incredible situations. If rumors could be believed, the spooks set a price on the head of "commander Andrei" to the sum of 100.000 afghanis or more.
There was just one unexplained episode. No one could say what had really occurred. The fact of the matter was that some general became infuriated and almost sent Andrei before a military tribunal. "What the hell, they were one spook short!" fumed Zhenka. Andrei's early recommendation for a medal was withdrawn, and he had been under a cloud for a long time. The general had a long memory. When Andrei's group was finally killed in ambush, he was recommended by his captain for a posthumous award of Hero, but the recommendation was turned back, all Andrei got was a Red Banner order.
Andrei was shipped home in a zinc coffin without a small glass window. As if he's been canned. There was no way of opening the coffin for a last look. The coffin stood on a table in their apartment, alien and cold; their mother tore at the coffin with her fingernails in grief, pleading for a look; she never came to believe, not having seen with her own eyes, that her son was dead. She moaned, holding a photo of Andrei to her cheek, his graduation photo from military school.
"Leave her be," their father said to Zhenka. "Let her cry herself out."
Zhenka worked out a reflex for spotting spooks, just like Pavlov's dogs learned to salivate on cue. He could tell them at a glance, or so he thought, thrusting any doubt aside, and later it would be too late to check, and why bother? Usually he finished them off on the spot, straight after battle, taking no prisoners.
... paying bloody barbarians in their own coin ...
and nobody could stop him, even Morgultsev. He just pretended that he knew nothing. Nemilov tried once, when one of the men tattled to him, tried to threaten Zhenka with Court Marshals, and then wished he hadn't opened his mouth.
...Zhenka warned him: "you're either with us, or against us"...
However, despite his hatred of the Afghans, Zhenka did not let his men go too far and forbade any brutalities against spooks taken prisoner, just as he never allowed any marauding in the platoon, any theft, and punished all violators with all severity.
He was the sole judge, avenger and executioner.
... and if Zhenka's brother had not died in such tragic circumstances, if his body had not been desecrated by the spooks, Zhenka would not have turned into a blood-soaked avenger ... that's for sure! ..
Nobody tried to stop Chistyakov because everyone knew the reason, understood that he was wreaking vengeance on the Afghans for his brother, and sympathized.
... who hasn't been changed by Afghanistan? ..
It usually started when one heard about the cruelties of war; this was topped of by personal experiences and impressions, which followed one another like pieces of good, juicy meat on a skewer; and then, without consciously realizing it, a man would move further and further away from the values he knew back home, the norms of behavior, and become infected by the local, temporary Afghan morality, rough mores;
... just like the times of the Golden Horde ...might becomes right ..
that which seemed barbaric back home, somehow became natural in Afghanistan, everyday, customary, like the passage of day into night, like reveille and lights out.
Incredible sufferings and grief for lost friends, the difficulties of semi-nomadic existence essentially incomprehensible life in a strange land, hundreds and hundreds of kilometers away from home, physical deprivation, encounter with medieval barbarity and cruelty, horrors endured - all this dulled the senses, drained pity, sapped the good nature so common to Russians, reawakened long forgotten, lost in the mists of time crudeness and inhumanity inherited by one's ancestors from the times of the two-hundred year reign of the Mongols over Russia.
... Zhenka will come home and everything will change, all the bad things will be forgotten, be left behind, forever in the past ... or am I kidding myself? ..
In order to break the silence which descended on the room, Zhenka Chistyakov began a casual account of the last raid, stressing that everything had gone well:
"... as far as carrying out my socialist obligations in the matter of collecting "ears." Well, I collected a bagful. They've already dried out quite nicely... I'm going to give them away as presents. I've put them on a string, like beads. I'll give you a couple if you want, kid! How about that? For luck!" offered Chistyakov sincerely, smiling at his replacement for the first time that evening and dipping a hand into one of his pockets.
Lieutenant Yepimakhov grinned uncertainly, probably thinking this was some kind of joke invented by his new friends. When the truth finally penetrated his alcohol-dulled brain as to what was being offered as an Afghan souvenir he paled and stared as if hypnotized at the little rag Chistyakov had unfolded in the palm of his hand. It contained a small cluster of shriveled brownish-black human ears.
"There you go, kid, they don't bite," urged Chistyakov, thrusting the ears at Yepimakhov.
"...?..."
"Get them out of sight, fuck you!" said Sharagin angrily. "He'll spew all over the table if you don't...Everyone's fed up with those ears..."
Zhenka did not seem to take offense: he gave a snort of laughter, shrugged, wrapped up his trophies again and put them back in his pocket.
* * *
Chistyakov flew back to the Soviet Union, having said his farewells. With his departure, the company suffered a tangible loss, everything became quiet and dull. The newcomers slouched around the barracks, making Sharagin feel bleak. He studied their sleepy, inexpressive faces, having trouble remembering their names, surnames, recognizing the new recruits by their snub noses, freckles, prominent ears, watched their awkward movements with distaste, was annoyed by their hesitation in handling weapons and machinery, but nonetheless, saw potential in several of them.
Gradually, he got a picture of the replacements. Asked a few of them in passing about their lives prior to being drafted, about their families. He learned about some of them from their personal dossiers; a whole host of small, seemingly insignificant details, made a mental note of them for the future. He wanted to have a clear idea, and quickly found out, what determined the mind-set of this or that soldier, whether they were all suitable for duty in Afghanistan, what sort of news from home upset each young man before going out on a sortie.
It was still too soon to try and guess who was capable of what, because only the war can put things into proper perspective. As captain Morgultsev liked to say on such occasions: "Only the spring thaw will show who shit where..."
Write to ArtOfWar
Chapter Three
Chapter Five
