Chapter Six. The Agitprop Brigade
The paratroop company rumbled through a still sleeping Kabul, as if by waking the hated Afghans would give them a measure of revenge for the troops' early start. The tracks of the BMPs grated over the asphalt, powerful motor roared, headlights swung here and there throwing light on stone walls and the few people up and about at this early hour. It was only after the company had left the city behind that mullahs left their beds and the first cries of "Allah is great" screeched out of the loudspeaker in the minaret.
They had to wait for three hours at the last checkpoint before the mysterious agitprop brigade put in an appearance.
Morgultsev cursed, calling headquarters to find out where those damned "artists" were. Meantime, the men dozed.
"What a screw-up! Damn them all to hell!"
Dawn broke. The drivers who had been sleeping in their vehicles at the checkpoint woke up and went off to wash, clean their teeth and eat breakfast. Finally, their transport column moved off toward Salang under BMP escort.
All traffic stopped along the roads with the coming of darkness. A temporary exchange of power was taking place in Afghanistan. By day, the roads belonged to the Soviets, and night was the time of the spooks. Lieutenant Yepimakhov, looking very serious, sat on the turret of a BMP wearing an earphone helmet, new pea jacket and did not let go of his machine gun for an instant.
... let him take an excursion, we'll spend a few days in the fresh air, and then it's
back to the regiment ...
The agitprop brigade arrived at last. Those officers and drivers who had alpine or motorbike goggles put them on to keep the dust out of their eyes. Sharagin nodded to his friend. Yepimakhov raised a thumb in acknowledgment as if to say - this is just great!
The company reformed into battle positions, all the trucks taking their places between the BMPs.
They topped a hill. A breath-taking panorama opened before them: a beautiful valley lay below, bisected by a concrete road. In the depth of the valley Afghan houses clustered among the "greenery" and along its edges, like mushrooms on a tree stump, forming tiny clusters on the cliffs - sort of tiny oasis amid the trees.
"This is zero three, this is Zero three! Can you hear me? Over and out!" came Zebrev's voice through the earphones.
"This is zero one! I hear you loud and clear" Roger!" replied Morgultsev.
"Column's moving OK," reported Zebrev to his commander. His vehicles were at the end of the convoy, covering the rear.
If it were not for the danger, it would have been interesting to watch the column weave its way along the concrete: armored cars, then a couple of Kamaz trucks, the agitprop's armored personnel carrier (APC), a jeep with a red cross, another APC, a fuel truck, a BMP, a "Zil" truck and another armored vehicle to close the line.
"Attention on the left!" barked Morgultsev. The BMP cannons rotated to the left. They were passing a bomb-blasted village, which meant "be on your guard!". A line of Afghan passenger buses and trucks were coming towards them. The column went through the Soviet and Afghan posts along the road and past piles of the rusty remains of destroyed combat vehicles, lonely monument to fallen Soviet soldiers.
They stopped for a while in the regional center, while the forthcoming operation was discussed with the Afghans. Yepimakhov smiled amiably at the Afghans and nodded to the urchins who clustered around, begging.
"Don't mistake those animal grins for friendly smiles!" cautioned Morgultsev as he passed by.
"What do you mean? They're only children!"
"Sons of bitches," corrected Morgultsev.
Several Afghans, unarmed but dressed in army uniform climbed on to the first BMP to show the way to the village. As bad luck would have it, the selected village lay a fair distance from the main road. It was not comfortable going so far. The officers and men traded silent looks of inquiry: were they heading into a trap?
"Should've posted sentries first, and then go into this godforsaken hole!" muttered Morgultsev.
The company spread out over the village, taking up defensive positions. The vehicles were parked as close as possible to the houses, waiting.
"What they're doing isn't worth a tinker's damn, but we've got to cover them!" commented Morgultsev angrily. "Going along any country road without sappers!"
Only Yepimakhov, who did not yet understand all the dangers of this window-dressing venture into an isolated village, who had not yet smelled gunfire and knew nothing of the treachery of the Afghans, was inspired by the situation. He was gripped by revolutionary fervor. Even the officers of the agitprop group kept a wary eye on the surrounding hillsides, at the armed men who mingled with the crowd of locals.
"Who's that with a machine-gun and worry-beads?" asked Yepimakhov, suddenly feeling a stab of unease. "Is that a spook?"
The skinny Uzbek who was the agitprop interpreter, a small man who looked like a ruffled sparrow, glanced at him with narrowed eyes:
"Don't use that word. It means "enemy." That man over there, ' he indicated the armed Afghan with a jerk of his head, "belongs to the self-defense unit."
"Oh...I see...."
"You new here?"
"Yes... My name's Nikolai." Yepimakhov held out his hand.
"Tulkun." The interpreter's hand was small and limp.
"Look Tulkun, could you tell me a couple of phrases that I could say to these people?"
"What phrases?" asked the Uzbek, still eyeing him distrustfully.
"Well, something like 'how are you doing? or 'is everything in order?"', that type of thing'"
The Afghans usually say: "Djurasti, cheturasti?'"
Yepimakhov wrote this down in a small notebook, then repeated the words aloud. The armed Afghan from the self-defense brigade beamed at him.
"Djurasti, cheturasti, grow your dick until your old age-sti, chopper-sti will come here-sti, and that will be fuck-all-sti for you-sti!" mocked senior warrant officer Pashkov.
"I would advise you," said the interpreter when Pashkov was out of earshot, "to learn some verses from the Koran."
"Why?"
"They could come in useful.
Yepimakhov dutifully wrote out a long sentence dictated by the interpreter:
"And what does this all mean?"
"It means that there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. " The interpreter took Yepimakhov by the arm, lowering his voice confidentially. "If you get captured, keep saying that over and over. The spooks won't kill you then... Excuse me, I have to go and help the doctor. We can talk later."
"Capture?" repeated Yepimakhov, stunned. "I've no intention of being captured by the bandits! I'd never plead for mercy like that Uzbek!..."
Sharagin felt strange, taking part in this charitable agitprop venture. He sat on the sun-warmed armor and smoked, eyes roving over the surrounding slopes, the armed Afghans, the activities of the agitprop brigade staff.
... Morgultsev is right when he says that "the only good Afghan is a dead one" ... all these Afghan villages are hazardous ... you have to keep your eyes peeled every second with these bearded bastards ... turn your back, and you'll get a knife in it before you know it ...
... that's how we screwed up over Afghanistan! Instead of bombing the shit out of them, they play Mister Nice Guy with them, thinking that a sack of grain's enough to make an Afghan our friend! ... What utter crap! ... Dream on!..."
He was used to fighting the Afghans, not visiting their villages and playing namby-pamby. Just look!
... Doctor Dolittle in a nice white coat giving them a medical check-up. It's enough to make you die laughing. He's lucky he's got an armed soldier beside him, you can never know what to expect from these monkeys. They say 'this village supports the people's power regime' ... the hell it does! Simply the men have all gone off into the mountains or to Pakistan, where they're being trained to lay mines, what else can they do? There's no work for them, and they've forgotten how to work the land!... then the men will return, and the village will belong to the spooks again...look at that old guy all covered with sores and skin ulcer's pushing his way through to the table with the medicines ... back home he wouldn't be allowed inside a hospital, but would be packed off to a leper colony ... and you, old man, probably go out into the fields every day ... Dolittle there puts some lotion on a piece of cotton-wool and swabs down the sores, not afraid of infection" "there you go," he tells the oldster through the interpreter. "There you go. Next!"... dekhkane, what a word - sounds similar to our Russian 'workers and peasants'! Dekh-kane-ne! Whole village is turning out by the looks of it, they believe that this is all it takes - a swab of something or a pill, and all their ills will be cured! Blessed are those who have faith! That junior lieutenant who's the interpreter can barely keep up translating their babble: hepatitis, ulcers, blood pressure, diarrhea, the clap ....good for you, Grandpa! Says he's got the clap, but I bet his soldier still stands at attention, otherwise why would he bother looking to be cured, probably has a nice new young bride lined up, polygamy's not a problem here ... Bravo, Dolittle! Nothing you can't handle! Calm and collected, helps all the natives, gives one a packet of powder, breaks a pill in half for the other and tells him that one half's for the diarrhea, and the other half for headaches.
...the spooks are pleased the Russian doctor's cured them, gave them three tablets and made them well...that nurse they've got with them is something, though! I wouldn't mind traveling around villages for weeks just for her... she's examining the local women ... shoving a stethoscope under a raised burqa... I can imagine the filth underneath! Probably hasn't washed since the day she was born ... you can't see her face...probably she's uglier than a hundred Chinese... the nurse is monitoring her heartbeats: tick-tock, tick-tock... can't tell the woman's age - could be anything from twenty five to sixty five... they all have equally shriveled hands, and the rest is under those robes...
... hey, nursie, you'd be better off monitoring my heart! ... there they go over by the truck, sacks of grain going one after the other, and just watch the spooks grabbing those free galoshes... not everyone back home's got shoes, and we've been living without decent roads for centuries! dirt everywhere, any town you name, it'd be better if they gave out free galoshes to our own Soviet citizens: here you are, instead of asphalt on the roads! a pair of galoshes for every Soviet family!... like hell! the Afghans need them more, you see... the friendly Afghan people! we're helping the revolution ...if we didn't throw everything away to these so-called allies in the socialist camp and in our struggle, we'd have a chance to live like normal human beings ... hey, the natives have started a fight, what do they call them? saksauls? aksakals? elders? going at each other like angry roosters, give them a chance and they'll work up a real Waterloo! grain being issued by the sack-load, all free of charge!.. ah, they've put on a movie... what in hell's the point? a Russian movie at that, a classical masterpiece ... 'Anna Karenina' isn't it? dubbed of course, but are these creeps likely to have any idea about what's being shown on the screen? ... hey, they've shown only one part, and are wrapping up...some agitation and propaganda exercise! ...and over there, they've got native songs blasting out over a loudspeaker and are handing out leaflets ... it'd be better if they printed more books back home instead of these leaflets, you can only get proper books with special cards, and the amount of paper they've wasted on these leaflets would be enough to print the entire works of Dumas, I bet!... tell me, what use are these leaflets for the natives? they're all illiterate, anyway! They haven't even learned to wipe their asses with paper! they squat for just a piss!....
... the lieutenant who was interpreting for Doctor Dolittle's talking to the elders now ... why don't we bring out a piano-accordion, sing some songs do a little dance for them, maybe then they won't start shooting at our backs when we leave this bloody village! we'll all get ourselves killed with this idiotic agitprop do-gooding!...
"Show's finally over," said Morgultsev, not hiding his relief.
They crawled back towards the surfaced main road and returned to the regional center. The commanding officers of the agitprop brigade retreated to confer with Afghan activists in a one-storey barracks.
... bet they've gone off to eat pilaf ... and we have to sit around and wait, like beggars on the threshold...
Impudent, pestering natives began sneaking around the army vehicles like flies. Some of them were fluent in Russian swear-words. Weaving around, prying, staring, they try to sell something to the Russians: two offering wares, four hanging around looking out for something to steal.
... blink an eyelid, and they'll dismantle the BMP in five minutes flat ...
... that sonofabitch isn't as high as the vehicle wheel, but he's ready to try and lug it off on his back ...
"I'll show you baksheesh in a moment!" roared private Chirikov, and rattled a grenade menacingly.
... those bastards aren't even a little bit scared, they know that nobody'll shoot them here ...
A red and white civilian bus pulled up on the other side of the road from Sharagin's vehicle. A few minutes later it drove off, leaving an old Afghan with a girl aged four or five sitting on his back, her arms around his neck. Bending his trembling knees, the old man set the girl down and stood there, looking around and seeming at a total loss. To the right, a group of Indian traders sat in a group drinking tea, on the left - bearded men with machine guns were exchanging greetings, hugging one another and touching cheeks.
... either they're spooks that are observing a cease-fire agreement, or they're so-called people's militia, who are also spooks , but today they're for the Kabul regime, and tomorrow against it ...
Hesitantly, bowing like a slave and cringing, the old man approached the traders, paused beside them and mumbled something, indicating the little girl with his hand. The traders eyed him contemptuously and shrugged. They turned away from him, but the old man did not go away. He milled around indecisively, turning his head this way and that, finally stopping a passer-by. The passer-by did not want to listen.
... that child looks sick ... or maybe she's sleepy ... Nastyushka, I wonder what my little Nastyushka's doing right now?
He imagined her romping around in the grass in little white knickers, surrounded by butterflies, while Lena lay nearby on a blanket, reading and enjoying the sunshine ....
Sharagin watched the confused old man, who disappeared and reappeared through passing traffic. He shifted from one foot to another on the spot and glancing at the little girl, who was leaning over at a strange angle towards the traders.
... what if that were my Nastyusha?..
"Gerasimov?..."
"Sir!"
"Run down and get me an interpreter from the agitprop brigade. Not that Uzbek, though, there's a Russian junior lieutenant there. Tell him to find out from the old man ... Which one? That one that's crossing the road! Tell him to find out what's wrong with that little girl. Got that? On the double! Savatyev and Sychev - you come with me. You keep a watch here," he added to Yepimakhov, who had just come up.
Had anyone asked Sharagin right then why he was concerning himself with the old man's problems, he would probably have been unable to answer, it was just that at this specific time, he thought of nothing else and, moreover, it looked as though the child was crying.
The old Afghan replied with a torrent of words, gesticulating wildly with typical peasant incoherence.
"His grand-daughter's been wounded. Got a bullet in the shoulder. She needs a doctor," translated the junior lieutenant.
The soldiers carried the child across the road and put her down near the BMP and the vehicles of the agitprop people.
"Chirikov!"
"Sir!"
"Find the doctor!"
"Yessir!"
Sharagin turned back to the interpreter and explained, as if justifying himself:
"I thought she might have got travel-sick on the bus. Then I saw her keeling over...."
Chirikov returned alone.
"Where's that Dolittle?" demanded Sharagin in displeased tones.
"He's over there, comrade lieutenant, having dinner with the Afghans ... Says he'll come soon..."
A crowd of some thirty curious Afghans gathered around in a circle, pushing to get a look, clambering on to each other's shoulders.
"Chase 'em off!" ordered Sharagin.
Private Burkov aimed his gun at the Afghans, snapped the bolt. The kids jumped back, but were unafraid. They mocked the Russian soldiers.
The girl sat there, crying quietly. The doctor arrived finally, rolled up the torn sleeve and took a cursory look at the thin arm bandaged with dirty rags covered with dried spots of blood.
It looked as though the bullet entered the shoulder and was lodged below the shoulder-blade. The interpreter repeated the old man's account of what had happened:
"She was working in the fields in the topmost village. The spooks often fire on the Russian outpost, the Russians fire back, and the civilians get the worst of it. This was a stray bullet. The field's right in the middle of the crossfire... She was hit about three hours ago."
- poor little thing, in pain for three hours ...
The doctor put on a new dressing, gave the child a painkiller injection, and told the interpreter to tell the old man that the girl must be taken to hospital at once, and have an operation.
"Tell him that the bullet may have grazed one of her lungs, and there's damage to the blood vessels. Tell him to hurry. That wound could turn septic."
"I don't know how to say that ..."
"Well, tell him simply that she's got to have an urgent operation. Tell him to take her to Kabul. Otherwise she'll die!"
"He says he's got no money."
"Oh, shit!" spat the doctor. "What's it got to do with me? Am I a doctor, or a taxi driver? Am I supposed to operate on her here with my bayonet knife?!"
"Hang on," interrupted Sharagin. "Are there any sacks of grain left?"
"Probably," nodded the interpreter.
"Give him a sack. Any car will take him to Kabul in exchange for that."
"That should be discussed with the commander..."
"What's there to discuss? How many bags did you give away to the spooks in that village?! I'll go and speak to your commander myself. Where is he?
"Here he comes now. Captain Nenashev. "
The commander of the agitprop unit needed no persuasion, turned out to be a right kind of guy. He understood what was happening at once and ordered a bag of grain unloaded.
In the time it took to flag down a car, haggle with the driver and bring a sack of grain from the truck, the doctor scribbled something on a scrap of paper which he handed to the interpreter:
"Tell him to go to the Soviet hospital in Kabul and give them this note. I've written down what's necessary..."
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Chapter Five
Chapter Seven
