Chapter Five. Yepimakhov
That first evening, Sharagin had not noticed that lieutenant Yepimakhov was one of those people towards whom, after you have spoken with them, you begin to feel sympathy and even a degree of pity when you spot a far-off, as yet unplayed tragedy behind his indestructible or incredibly youthful interest and enthusiasm. Yepimakhov turned out to be well-read and educated above army level. Paratrooper in the bone and a dreamer at heart.
After a few weeks, Sharagin realized Yepimakhov's leadership potential and grinned dourly:
"A brain like that shouldn't be confined by straps and belts. That would be criminal! Let's go out and catch a breath of fresh air, Nikolai"
"Did you do well at school?" asked Sharagin casually, dragging on his cigarette.
"Reasonably well, I suppose," replied Yepimakhov modestly.
"D'you remember everything?"
"Everything..."
"Well, forget all that crap!"
Yepimakhov proved to be an obedient, attentive and grateful pupil; he absorbed advice like a thirsty sponge, and did not hesitate to ask questions: what does one do in such a situation? what if it happens like this? He went into everything in the finest details.
Only he was more inclined to talk about other things. Like a kid (and he was little more than that - almost a contemporary of the long service soldiers!) Yepimakhov swallowed all that he was told here and there about the war, all that was heroic and tragic; about the war which lived next door, somewhere beyond the fencing of the camp, and everyone had seen it except him.
He was impatient, a typical trait for a newcomer. Yepimakhov wanted to try, prove himself in battle, under fire, he probably imagined medals and all sorts of feats of valor.
And in those blue eyes, as yet unshadowed by the war, Sharagin saw the unspoken question, to the point but not quite: "Have you killed many people? What did you feel then?" The question shimmered in the air, then disappeared - lieutenant Yepimakhov could not bring himself to ask outright about such things, even though they had become friends.
Furthermore, he had burned his fingers in those first weeks, had become more cautious and restrained. Firstly, he had been put in his place in no uncertain manner when he had used the familiar "thou" form of address to captain Morgultsev, being drunk at the time, and then being told to go fuck himself when he had interrupted someone else's story about something.
"We're not interested in your philosophy, lieutenant," another officer had said. "You're a snotty-nosed newcomer, and you're shoving your oar in! We don't need your clever quotes out of books, we graduated from other universities!" And an even more telling blow: "Your philosophy starts with dinner, and ends up in the latrine!"
There was no need to ask Zhenka Chistyakov whether he had killed. Just count the ears he kept as trophies, but Sharagin was different. He knew how to listen, he read if he had the time. He was the only one to appreciate the books Yepimakhov had brought. The others were still laughing, and would probably be laughing still when he ended his service.
"What have you got that's so heavy?" asked senior warrant officer Pashkov with that rehearsed respect for officers and ill-disguised hope of a freebie, when he first met Yepimakhov and hefted his suitcase. "Bet you've got some beer in here! I could murder for a beer right now!"
"No."
"Sausage? Smoked fat?" ventured the slightly disillusioned Pashkov, still hoping for a miracle.
"No, just personal stuff and books and journals."
"Wha-a-at?" asked Pashkov in disbelief. "You brought books here? You crazy or something?" he burst out at this unexpected turn, shifting in amazement from the formal 'thou' to the informal 'you.' "What the hell do you need them for?"
The newly-baked lieutenant felt a bit miffed at being addressed in such a manner, but Pashkov's age and the fact that he had been here for a long time did not allow Yepimakhov to show his chagrin. Anyway, there was nobody else in the room at the time.
Yepimakhov tried to see Pashkov as simply nice but stupid, a man twice his own age, especially as Pashkov really was kind, something you could read in his face at once, no matter how he puffed himself up.
"To read. I think I've brought enough for the first year. Actually, there are some very interesting books there, a good detective story, for instance ... I'll show it to you later."
"Good Lord, what have we come to? Bringing books into the war zone. Don't tell anyone else."
"Don't tell what?"
"That you dragged books across the border. There's got to be about ten kilos of paper here." Pashkov kicked a dismissive toe at the bag. "Have you brought the Great Soviet Encyclopedia, or the complete works of Karl Marx?"
"Why shouldn't I tell anyone?" persisted Yepimakhov.
"They won't understand..."
Sharagin was the only one who understood. Yepimakhov was sure of him immediately. He was different from the other officers. He put on a stern appearance to the men, but apart from that he was friendly, open, refined and cynical in reasonable measure. Who else would have spoken confidentially to a newcomer:
"You think you'll come face to face with the enemy immediately? If so, I don't envy you, if you have to look into their eyes while they're alive. You take a look, and it means you've come too close. It's not likely you'll live to tell the tale. It's better to look at dead spooks after battle... And don't think, never think that you're smarter than them. The spooks can watch you from cover all day, and when they find your weak spot, that's where they'll strike... And another thing - Don't be afraid of being demanding and meticulous with the men. If you nursemaid them, they'll be on your back in a flash. If you can't control them through strictness - use force! A good fight in wartime is good practice, insurance against losses. If you see that the "elephants" are getting out of hand - beat the shit out of them! So that they won't loosen up after Chistyakov. You have to keep a constant eye on those slobs. See that they don't sell fuel to the spooks, that they're wearing their bullet-proof vests when you go out on combat duty. If one of them catches a bullet, you're the one who's going to have to drag his body. If anyone disobeys you - pow! Straight in the kisser! All they understand is force! They behaved themselves beautifully under Zhenka. And Zhenka kept them safe. Now they're grateful that he beat some sense into them and they're still alive..."
"But you don't hit them, like Chistyakov..." demurred Yepimakhov.
"When you've served six months here, you can decide whether to bash a soldier in the liver, or address him formally... As a matter of fact, you haven't seen me working out, but if need be, I can hurt them more than Zhenka could, if they deserve it..."
"Know something?" asked Yepimakhov, looking like a mischievous small boy. "Yesterday, after lights out, there was this stamping on the roof. I thought it was a whole herd of mice running to the other end of the barracks to feed, racing each other to the table, so to speak. Claws scratching on the wood. You know what the men thought up? They've already killed about a hundred mice, put out traps for them."
"That was a favorite pastime of Zhenka's."
"...then last night I heard: snap! Everyone ran to see. A mouse! Honestly, everyone was so happy! They were squealing like children."
"They are children..."
"They put this mouse into an empty pail, sprayed it with petrol - I thought there'd be a fire, but there wasn't - and threw in a lighted match. You should have seen it! The mouse went up in flames, it must have hurt terribly, it was all aflame and running around the bottom of the pail like crazy. Everyone was laughing! It was just like a living torch!"
"Check out that everything's all right in there," said Sharagin, indicating the barracks, "and let's go eat. I'm starved."
In the smoking room near the mess hall, hungry officers milled around under a canopy of camouflage netting. Lieutenant-colonel Bogdanov, who was temporarily in command of the regiment, was strutting past headquarters, shoulders back and chest forward, like some hero from a folk tale. Warily, they eyed this officer, with fists like basketballs. It was said that he once killed a spook with a mere blow of his fist....
...there is an unpleasant look in his eye, that lieutenant-colonel...makes your skin crawl...the 'grandpas' straighten their belts and backs at the sight of him....they're afraid of him....they respect him .... Bogdanov is strict beyond the call of duty...and rarely fair ....a petty tyrant ... if he's appointed permanent commander, it'll be curtains for us all... commanders like that only think about ranks and titles...
"...what in hell do you want with Yugoslavia, Petrovich?" demanded a warrant officer. "What will you do there?"
"They sell these cans of cherries from Yugoslavia in the quartermaster's store. What does it say on the cans? Yugotutun or something. "
"So?"
"I want to go to that factory in Yugoslavia and see how they take the stones out of the cherries."
"There's probably a machine that does it," suggested captain Osipov. "That's really interesting - can't say it ever occurred to me before."
"Or they sit there and remove them by hand."
"Nah, by hand? That many cans? Can't be done."
"Why not? Easy as anything. D'you know how many potatoes a platoon can peel in an hour?"
"About five sacks."
"Five? Ten! You just have to clout them hard and often enough."
"A few tons in a night," was the general agreement.
"So in Yugoslavia they've got soldiers pitting those cherries. So what?"
"Wheeee!" the eyes of all the officers senior and junior followed a very plump young woman who was heading for the mess hall.
"A new waitress!"
"Hey, Yakimchuk, look at that ass! All that fat! You'd never manage to eat that much in a year!" said someone.
Then it was a free-for-all:
"That's some workbench! Enough for a whole platoon!"
"Yes, man, that's a delayed action sex bomb..."
"Nah, she's not my type..."
"Who's asking you?
"In Afghanistan, pal, you don't have much choice. You take what's available..."
"Spending winter with a woman like that would be easy. She'd keep the whole barracks warm."
"Where the hell did they find her?"
"She's instead of Luska..."
"What Luska?"
"Remember, the one with the big tits?"
"Oh yeah, I remember her..."
"She didn't work long before she got herself under Bogdanov."
"He's a real one for the ladies, that's true. A stallion!"
"He didn't have much time to ride her, though. She got herself in with a general from headquarters while Bogdanov was away on combat duty. The general had her transferred closer to him. Maybe it's a lie, but I've heard that the general recommended her for a medal."
"Well, well: "Ivan gets a poke up the ass for being in the attack, and Masha gets a Red Star award for her cunt..."
"That's what I'm saying: this new one will be under some colonel soon enough."
"Who'd want a fat slob like that?"
"They could have sent someone a bit thinner. I went to pick up the "elephants" last week, and you should have seen the dames that arrive! Make your eyes pop. And what do we get? We have to look at that fat ass every day in the mess hall! She'll never squeeze between the tables! Makes you sick... I'm not going to the mess any more."
"So who's forcing you?"
"You lads have got it all wrong," chided a gray-haired warrant officer after the doors into the mess hall slammed shut behind the new waitress. "You're laughing, but there's a man for every woman here. Not a single one will be left with nothing to do. This one will find her match, too..."
"Maybe it will be you, Petrovich?" suggested someone. Everybody laughed. "In that case, all the parachute silk in the regiment will have to be used up for her knickers! ..."
Butts were thrown into the shell case that served as an ashtray, the smokers headed for the mess. Only two remained in the smoking hut - Sharagin and Yepimakhov. Oleg had wanted to draw his friend away, but the other was obviously interested in the neighboring conversation, even though he pretended he was not listening and sat with his back turned.
"Take my family, now, Petrovich," said one of the warrant officers. "My wife doesn't work. Two kids. A third was born last year. D'you know what she gets from the state? Thirty five rubles a month! Thirty five! If anything happens to me here..."
"Nothing'll happen to you, you're in the rear, damn it!"
"No, I'm serious. If anything happens to me, how will she live? I wouldn't walk to the fucking checkpoint for thirty five rubles! "
"You will, what can you do?" insisted the gray-haired warrant officer. "If you're ordered, you'll go."
"No I won't! As a matter of principle! But you tell me, how can anyone live on that? And they want me not to steal!"
"All right, let's go," said Oleg rising, bored with this chatter. "No wonder their character reports say that warrant officers are "thoughtful" and "have staying power"...."
"In what way?"
... this kid's really from another world...
"Well...how shall I put it to be fair? I don't mean all warrant officers. Our Pashkov won his medal fair and square. But those two - they're quartermaster's rats. They're not equal to Pashkov. So they're "thoughtful" and "have staying power" because they sit around in their store jerking off until dinner time, thinking and thinking, and after dinner they need staying power to carry away all that they've stolen. When you go into town, you'll see that all the shops are full of our products. You and I are supposed to be fed normally, but these sons of bitches sell off everything right and left, while we Soviet officers are left with fuck all!"
"When do you think there'll be a chance to go into town, Oleg?" asked Yepimakhov once they were in the mess hall.
"Been here five minutes, and he's already wanting to go into town," commented Nemilov sarcastically.
"But it would be interesting to take a look..."
"Save up your chits first," advised Zebrev across the table.
"Everything in its own time," winked Sharagin.
Spooning soup from a plastic bowl, Sharagin remembered his first clandestine visit into town. Together with Ivan Zebrev, who was going on leave and had to buy up as much as possible, they had taken their chances and gone around the shops. Unfortunately for them, an order had been issued forbidding anyone going into town for security reasons. You could leave your unit only with written permission from headquarters, so the MPs were having a field day rounding up everyone from the shops.
They dressed in "civvies" and gave a bottle of "Stolichnaya" to be taken out of the camp in a BMP, worrying all the way that something would happen and their absence would be noticed. Nemilov might report them. They dodged patrols. Sharagin almost fainted the first time he entered a shop and saw the abundance of imported goods: jeans, all sorts of cloth, shoes, folding sunglasses, quartz watches, cigarette lighters of different kinds. He suddenly felt offended on behalf of Lena and Nastyusha, who were back there in the Soviet Union and would never see anything like this.
... how wonderful it would be if Lena could choose whatever she wanted!...I'd give her all my chits - let her enjoy herself...and the children's things! why are all our children so gray and unattractive? why can't we make decent clothing for them?!..
Oh, what a chewing out they got from Morgultsev later! He treated them like naughty children! He almost burst with indignation when he found he'd been fooled by his lieutenants, he'd shouted and shouted, about twenty minutes, turned red as a beet, and ended by saying:
"You have been formally reprimanded, and it will go on your records!"
That meant that they would have to give the commander a half litre to get his nerves back in shape.
...of course, we're used to him and don't react or take particular offense, he is what he is ....on edge, easily wound up, shouts a lot, but usually without real anger ... he cools down soon, so we forgive him his quick temper ... you resent it when he yells and yells, but once he quietens down you feel sorry for him, because you know that he's not mean, that he cares about us, his company, his officers, the "elephants"...
Shall we go?" asked Yepimakhov, interrupting Sharagin's reminiscent train of thought.
"You go. I'll stay and have some tea..."
Almost everyone had finished eating. Sharagin sat alone in the empty mess hall. A soldier went around lazily swiping crumbs off the tables with a towel, two waitresses were exchanging confidences near the kitchen. A soldier without a belt was mopping the floor. Oleg dipped sugar cubes in his tea and sucked them lazily, holding them in two fingers. The sugar changed color, fell apart, melted in his mouth. He ate a slice of bread with butter that smelled rancid. The day they had made their illicit sortie to the shops, he had been indescribably happy. Together with Zebrev, he sent his first presents home for Lena and Nastyusha - a musical postcard and a tin of tea...
... with bergamot oil...not just any old Georgian tea, or that Indian one with three elephants!...how they'll love it!..
Zebrev had taken the trouble of going to the Sharagins, stayed a while and told Lena that they were living and working well, comforted her by saying there was virtually no danger, there were only rare clashes somewhere near the border, far away from the regiment. "Unusual woman, your wife, " he commented. "Harrumph! - Quiet and meek. Wish mine was like that. I took out the parcel from my bag, and she just put it on the couch without opening it. I barely managed to talk her into unwrapping your presents. You have to make sure everything fits, I told her. How many chits did you spend? Actually, you did the right thing. I was too stingy in that shop. She particularly liked that blue dress. I thought she'd rush out and try it on, but she's a strange woman, she just sat down by the table and burst into tears. I asked her why she was crying, and she said she'd never had such beautiful things in her life. How do you like that! I felt really awkward. My wife did nothing but bitch and criticize everything I brought. That dress will be just right for your wife, don't worry, she's very slim. Then she sorted the children's things and dressed up your daughter. Then she sat down again and started asking about you. What could I say to her? - Harrumph! - I can just see her now, sitting on the edge of the chair, pale as anything. Is she sick or something? Very fragile, she is....
... like a cup from a Chinese tea service... Pashkov bought himself one
like that...
...So there I am, talking all sorts of crap, and she sits there listening, smiling and crying. Silly little thing...."
Sharagin picked up a tin of aubergine caviar, thanked the waitresses smoking at a corner table and went back to the company.
Morgultsev looked annoyed..
"Get yourself ready!" he ordered without preamble. "You'll be going out tomorrow."
"Again? Where?"
"Who the fuck knows? They called from the political section . They've got some production brigade, or musical brigade or propaganda brigade on their hands. Damn it! I couldn't make head or tail of it, so don't ask me! Don't rile me up, Sharagin, I'm in a bad mood today, so be warned! ...What are you standing around for?"
"I'm waiting for more detailed instructions."
"Wash your ears, Sharagin, I said you're going out tomorrow!"
"Where are we going exactly?"
"How the hell would I know? ...The task is a simple one. They want an escort, see, to drive around the villages and teach the fucking spooks to play the balalaika or some such shit!"
"Seriously?"
"How can I know?! The vehicles are falling to pieces, we've got no spare parts, it's time to write them off and not barge around playing amateur theatricals! I said to them: "The company's not ready to go!" And what did they say to me? "Obey orders, fuck it!" So - you're off tomorrow. We pull out at zero four hundred hours..."
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Chapter Four
Chapter Six
