Chapter Eight. The General
The 40th army or the "Limited Contingent of Soviet forces in Afghanistan" was yet another illegitimate offspring of the enormous empire under the name of the Soviet Union. Its parents - the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the Ministry of Defense - did all they could to hide their transgression, and for this reason, most likely, forbade the Soviet people to mention the child as if it had done something unworthy, criminal, something that cast a shadow over the entire family.
Millions of the country's citizens did not know, were not interested and did not care that there was a war for almost ten years on its southern boundaries. As for those who served in the Limited Contingent, especially on the first years after the forces were brought into Afghanistan - they did not dare tell even their nearest and dearest about what they had been through and seen, they feared to broach the subject.
Parents of other illegitimate children who did as they wished in more fortunate and not war-torn countries - Hungary, Poland, the German Democratic Republic, Mongolia, Czechoslovakia - were more benevolently inclined.
The 40th army was dispatched to a strange land at the end of 1979 and it tried, over many years, to win the love and good will of its ageing and slightly mad parents. The army was sent to an alien place to preserve order, increase the prestige and might of the empire, work for the growth and fortune of already endless, immense territories. But because the empire was not quite ordinary, and actually the last empire of the 20th century, things were always turning out opposite to plan.
Instead of receiving profit from its subject lands, the empire gave away its life-blood, shared its last crust, and its strength diminished accordingly.
The subjects of the great empire did not know why they had to live so badly, what had happened to the plenty promised them a long, long time ago, at the dawn of the Soviet power; they believed genuinely in the gods which thought up and created the empire; the subjects were romantics, naive people, they liked hearing promises, believed in miracles and in their hearts believed that that the miracle could occur at any moment, like in the fairy-tale about the goldfish that promised to grant the fisherman's three wishes in return for release.
However, they did not really have much choice. They had nothing with which to compare their empire.
"If you've never watched a Japanese television set, you'll go on believing that Soviet-made ones are the best in the world," once said captain Morgultsev bitterly after a walk around the shops.
... he also liked to repeat that "the Soviet wrist-watches are the
fastest in the world, and Soviet paralysis - the most progressive"...
The great empire's army which, in actual fact, had not engaged in any large-scale military actions for more than 35 years, suddenly decided to flex its muscles and test its abilities in reality, assure itself that all the weapons manufactured in recent years worked properly, try out new technology, field test the commanders' knowledge of the tactical theories they had studied in military schools and academies; the Soviet army needed a foe, but as the foe did not attack, it was necessary to think up something themselves, organize a lengthy march into a far away land, moreover as the ideologists had, by that time, concluded work on the latest chapter about global revolution. That chapter was entitled Afghanistan. Convincingly and simply as always, it maintained that in exceptional cases, to transform a feudal country into a socialist one without an intermediate capitalist stage of development.
Muscles tend to stiffen after a long ride on the armor - similarly, the Army and the Ideology got tired of sitting around with nothing to do, like a dog on a chain becomes sick of waiting.
Pride forbade apology or retreat - the empire admitted to no mistakes. So from the first days of its existence, the life of the 40th army went haywire.
...how was the decision about Afghanistan really reached? No chance of finding that out! if they goofed - its a damned shame...they shouldn't take us for such fools! we fought for a couple of years, it became clear that things were going wrong, so why not change tactics? you can't be blind stubborn, you have to weasel around .. or stop pussyfooting around and pit all our strength against them...
... we all understand geopolitics too, even at the level of a platoon
leader, we're not babies... that's what the army's for, that's what the
paratroopers are for - to guard the Motherland from external enemies, to
strike first, preventively, so to speak, to be able to foresee what the
enemy has in mind and put a stop to it! even a moron could see that two
ideologies collided head-on in little Afghanistan, locked horns and will
fight unto death ... the more you see, the further you look - nothing is
all that simple here... we don't know everything .. there are all sorts of
underwater reefs in this place ... so, all in all, it's better not to argue
... better not to resist, not to indulge in masochism ... if you don't know
everything ... you get your orders - forward ... we'll analyze it all when
we're old, retired ... by that time things will become clear ... I hope ...
as for today, the task is simple - never mind discoursing about the global
revolution, just kill the spooks ...
... nobody argues, we're just spent cartridges from a small calibre
weapon by comparison with those who call the tune in big time politics -
with the heavy artillery ... for me, everything falls within the framework
of the company, I can't even visualize the whole division even if I try,
but for them - why, they have to see to the whole country, all the military
areas, industry, know what's going on out there, across the border, keep
their eyes peeled and their noses to the wind, to get ahead of the yanks,
not to lose face ...do they see all this? they must! have they taken
everything into account? they have to! then there shouldn't be any
questions! if you must, you must! give us the picture, we'll understand!
and win! we won't retreat! only keep faith with us and don't go revising
things later -, opinions and views, let's remain united to the end!
international duty - well, let it be international duty! half-heartedness
is the most dread thing of all! the most painful, when someone starts
backing down! then the accomplishments and rewards of the Russian soldier
will not be worth a penny ... if you don't think you can stick it out,
don't get into a fight! ...
In the evenings, the enervating heat eased. The air freshened, especially in the tree-lined avenues on the territory of the army HQ located in Amin's former palace, a three-floor edifice with columns, standing on a high hill on the outskirts of the city and housing the senior command of the 40th army. The daily fuss around HQ died down until sunrise and people became more relaxed in behavior and dress.
The palace suffered heavy damage in December 1979 when the empire ordered the liquidation of Hafizullah Amin, the leader of Afghanistan at that time. Ironically Amin, who had urged the Soviet Union to bring its forces into his country, was killed by those very forces in their first strike.
As the years passed, numerous military installations grew up on the territory adjacent to the palace. A compound covered several square kilometers. It was guarded assiduously against the Afghans and, as was to be expected, Soviet power reigned supreme in that one specific part of Kabul.
Feature films were shown in an open-air cinema behind the officers' quarters so scraps of dialogue floated above the heads of the few couples strolling down the avenues.
A red "Lada" raced past, bearing some visiting Soviet advisor back to town.
Four soldiers in bullet-proof vests and helmets, rifles slung over their shoulders, emerged from the dusk. They were led by a sergeant who was supervising the changing of the guards. One of the soldiers concealed a cigarette in his hand, drawing on it surreptitiously from time to time and blowing out the smoke downwards, over his chin. The men paused outside the commissary for half a minute, eyes right, gazing at the imported goodies in the brightly lit, empty interior: shoes, track suits, Japanese tape-recorders, all inaccessible to them price-wise.
A soldier could hardly gain access to the store in day time, it's not for the soldiers to roam around shopping, nobody will give them permission to leave their unit and, in any case, common soldiers have no money to spend: all they can do is sneak a glance at the imported plenty. Anyone can wish for a better life, even a common soldier.
"What a brand!"
"To a man in 'Adidas'/Any girl will give her ass!"
"Come on you Siberian hick, keep moving," ordered the sergeant.
After dinner in a circle of fellow-generals and a game of billiards in the Military Council hotel built at the foot of the palace, Sorokin took his leave. The meal had been excellent, real home cooking. All the products were specially supplied and superb meals preceded by hors d'oeuvres were separately prepared. The waitresses at the Military Council were selected carefully: friendly, pleasant and easy on the eye.
Sorokin had declined various invitations to visit, having decided to take a break from sitting around tables and drinking. He wanted to check his gear and have an early night in order to go on tomorrow's mission with a clear head. The general donned a track suit and went out into the street, lit a cigarette and set off for a walk. He relaxed, putting everyday problems out of his head.
Nobody recognized him, nobody saluted or greeted him, and the general enjoyed this because it meant that he was here only temporarily, without any regular duties, unencumbered by responsibilities for day to day matters of military administration or the troops. At the same time he was immensely proud of the fact that he was endowed with special powers and responsibilities, which were known and understood by a very small circle within the military command in Kabul and Moscow. His responsibilities concerned party and political issues, and therefore extended to one and all.
Army generals were always divided into categories - popular or unpopular, known or unknown, important or unimportant. The generals were also differentiated by the positions they held, by their temperaments and by the way they had attained their rank and duties.
Sorokin was one of those who came by his shoulder boards due to Afghanistan. He had experienced the true meaning of war on his own skin, earned his colonel's rank under fire and not behind a desk in the Chief Military Political Administration. The next promotion resulted from his participation in the war because in the 1980s "afghan" officers were the driving force of the Soviet Army, they were granted precedence and the main emphasis was on them.
Walking around the HQ territory, Sorokin noted how substantially the compound had been built and recalled that he had seen figures recently which estimated the worth of army property in Afghanistan at some hundreds of millions of rubles. He compared the present conditions with life under canvas in the first years of the war.
...An entire battalion had become infested with lice. The pests had come from the division and then - Mamma mia! - all the soldiers, filthy and unwashed as they were, began scratching furiously. Sorokin had set a day for them all to go to the bath house, ordered their uniforms burnt, tents shaken out and bed linen boiled. As for the men - a bath day is a holiday. The commanders, however, panicked and cursed, because how could they disobey and order from divisional superiors, especially an order from the head of the political section? To whom does one complain about a political officer? Nobody. Sorokin phoned divisional headquarters, reporting that here we are, we've reached rock bottom, the men are living like pigs; send us new uniforms, the unit is not combat worthy otherwise. The divisional commander shouted that Sorokin had gone off his head, that he was a saboteur and would find himself facing a military tribunal. Sorokin stood his ground: there was no way back in any case, because piles of shirts and pants were already burning merrily. This scandal rocked the entire army. However, Sorokin got what he wanted, new uniforms were duly delivered. What else?! That was the way Sorokin cared for the men in those trying years, fought for justice, pressed his point. Not every political officer would have had the guts to do that!..
Now everything had changed. Naturally, Sorokin was glad that today's soldiers were well-equipped with decent housing, air conditioners, bath houses, shops, cinemas, laundries, bakeries, cafes and barbers. At the same time, he felt pity for those who had huddled freezing under their trench-coats in that first bitter winter after the entry into Afghanistan, those ill-equipped officers and men who were ordered "across the river" to render international assistance. He felt sorry for himself in the first place, because he had experienced it all personally.
He was proud that he had been one of the trailblazers. Prior to this trip to Kabul, he had even fancied that his past record would raise his standing in the eyes of other officers, but was quickly disillusioned. Sorokin saw that nobody was interested in hearing about the hardships faced back in 1980. For the colonels and generals he encountered in Kabul now, Afghanistan existed in the present, occasionally - in the future, as from time to time people did wonder about what would happen later, was Moscow likely to order the withdrawal of the Limited Contingent, but nobody cared much about the past.
Sorokin passed the officers' quarters in front of which stood a lonely and incongruous small statue of Lenin on a pedestal, then proceeded past the stone buildings of command staff apartments. A stream of movie-goers straggled towards him.
There was another covert reason for this evening walk, known only to himself. Somewhere deep inside he hoped - who knows their luck? - to meet some attractive member of the opposite sex, of whom there were plenty in the army cantonment.
Sorokin had spent the previous day smoothing over a certain unpleasant incident. A Spetsnaz group that had been conducting an aerial survey of the approaches to Kabul in search of spook caravans had stopped a bus. They had fired a warning volley from the air, landed to conduct a search, but when the men disembarked from the chopper, the bus suddenly drove off. The men leapt back into the chopper and set off in pursuit, opening fire and turning the bus into a colander. Blood streamed from the door and they discovered fourteen corpses of allegedly peaceful civilians inside. Passengers who had remained alive were herded behind a hillock by the group leader, and shot with a silenced pistol. They did not finish off the driver, though. His jaw was slack, and they decided that he was already dead. It was too late to do anything when it emerged that the driver had only been wounded and was now an eye-witness in the matter. Otherwise, they could have blamed everything on the spooks.
Sorokin was pleased with the way he had handled this very awkward situation. His tactic was to defuse it by a number of diplomatic moves at a meeting with members of the Afghan Central Committee and their advisors, attributing everything to the known unreliability of the spook-infested area where the incident had occurred and asserted that their own Afghan intelligence service expected a caravan carrying surface-to-surface missiles to pass through on that day. To cap it all, Sorokin remarked pensively that it might be best to stop all aerial reconnaissance by the Spetsnaz. The Afghan to whom he said this took fright and, unwilling to accept the responsibility for any such decision, agreed that the whole incident was due to an unfortunate misunderstanding and that everyone was fully aware of the need for reconnaissance and the Spetsnaz.
Sorokin regretted what had happened, but worse things can occur in war. Why, whole villages had been reduced to rubble by mistake, sometimes wrongly-given coordinates brought down fire on their own units. It happens. War is war.
When he returned to the hotel, a new receptionist - a young, striking brunette - was seated in front of the television set. Soviet programs came through to Kabul loud and clear.
"Good night," said Sorokin, straightening his back and pulling in his very slightly incipient belly.
"Good night to you too," she replied with a flutter of painted eyelashes and turned back to the screen - it was not part of her job to flirt with transient generals.
Back in his room, Sorokin indulged in a lengthy telephone conversation over SAC - secret automatic connection - with a friend in the Chief Military Political Administration in Moscow, from whom he hoped to learn the latest news and what the weather was like back in the capital. The friend, however, had more practical matters on his mind:
"I'm going to be down your way soon," he informed Sorokin. The voice at the other end sounded stifled, as if somebody had gripped the speaker in a vise and was squeezing out every word with pain. "I want to buy a video recorder. And a track suit. I've been told that 'Adidas' stuff is available in Kabul."
"True. You can buy the suits with coupons. There's a colonel at HQ who's chairman of the party committee and who's in charge of distribution. All our operating group was supplied by him. There aren't many VCRs, but the track suits's no problem."
"Alexei, try to get them to set aside a VCR for me, would you? I'll be flying in next week."
"I'll do my best. I want to ask you something, too. I'm going on a combat mission tomorrow. Phone my folks, give them my love. Tell them I'm fine."
As a rule, senior ranking officers, especially the political ones, could not survive a day without long discussions with distant headquarters, districts and staff offices. To an outsider, not versed in the ways of the senior military, it could seem that SAC had been invented specially for generals, so that they could contact their friends and relatives at any moment to hear the latest gossip, exchange rumors, suppositions, find out about the weather and what the fishing was like in this or that corner of the immense land of the Soviets.
In the morning, while Sorokin was breakfasting, his white "Volga" drew up outside the hotel. The staff car was equipped with Afghan number plates and had curtains on the rear window. Sashka, the driver, parked between two UAZ jeeps. He was in good spirits, as he had finally repaired the car to his satisfaction. His predecessor had almost ruined the vehicle because he was waiting for demobilization and did not give a damn about the car, didn't want to get his hands dirty. Sashka had had to strip the gearbox, regulate all the valves, change the head gasket, adjust the suspension and jump through hoops to get the necessary spare parts. Nobody gives away something for nothing. His "Volga" was not the only general's car around, there were plenty of others and they were all in demand by people of no lesser rank.
Bringing the car up to scratch had taken a lot of time, Sashka slaved over it in the motor pool even at night. If the car was at all mobile, it was in use during the day so he had no choice.
Sashka was listening to the music which issued loudly and squeakily from the cassette player between the seats. He had no idea who was singing about what as the song was in English, but he liked the catchy tune and the refrain, which mentioned some Mary Magdalene or other. Sashka listened and his simple, uncomplicated soldier's head was full of dreams about his return home to his obscure village in the Arkhangelsk region where he would stride around in a pair of "Montana" jeans which he had not yet purchased but which were the most popular although not cheap for a soldier, and sport a smart pen and a quartz watch. The pen was already bought. All his friends would die of envy!
Dreams of civilian life were interrupted when a black "Volga" pulled up by the hotel. The driver climbed out and crooked a lazy finger at Sashka: come here! Sashka switched off the player. He hated that short-legged Moldavian who was to be demobbed soon, and therefore considered it his right to steal whatever he could from the motor pool. He and his pals were expert at disposing of the stolen goods.
Sashka's position was very unenviable, a soldier still a long way from the end of his term of service and thus with no choice but to obey a "grandpa." The Moldavian clapped him on the shoulder:
"Where's your guy going today?"
"To the airport," replied Sashka cautiously, expecting some kind of set-up.
"I've slipped a little something into the boot of your car."
"Why? I've told you - I can't-" pleaded Sashka miserably.
"Yes, you can," said the Moldavian threateningly. "I'm a step away from going home, fuck it, it's time I started doing my shopping. Can a "grandpa" run any risks? Nobody will dream of suspecting you. You're an honest lad. If you don't sell the stuff - don't bother coming back. You'd be better off with the spooks."
Sashka did not know how to steal, how to lie, and had no desire to take part in any machinations. Before he'd been assigned a driver, he had been free of problems. He knew and saw that the long-servers and even men from his own call-up who were more daring and enterprising than himself stole spare parts and took them into town for sale. There was word that the previous week three entire air conditioners had been spirited away. What if the Moldavian had put an air conditioner in the boot of the "Volga"? Or a stolen machine gun or ammunition?
"You go to Kitabula, you know where his workshop is, give him the goods."
" ? "
"I'm not going to argue with you peasant! Stupid Arkhangelsk asshole!"
"But they'll stop me at the checkpoint-" began Sashka, but before he had time to finish, the Moldavian struck him on the ear with a clenched fist, strongly enough for Sashka to see stars for a moment.
"They won't stop you with a general in the car" - the Moldavian headed back towards his own vehicle, "here he comes now."
Sorokin, as a member of the small but all-powerful group of Soviet military men who called the shots in Afghanistan, differed markedly from his divisional and staff peers. Firstly, he bore himself very independently, knowing that he had only a handful of direct superiors. With these, he behaved almost as an equal, or deliberately demonstrated devotion and respect if that particular individual was close to a marshal's stars. The general's clothing stood out, too: he liked to sport camouflage which, although meant for the field, nevertheless looked good on him, reminiscent of summer kit, was better cut, and had gold shoulder boards and narrow red stripes down the trouser-legs.
Sorokin paused briefly on the hotel steps, discussing something with two other generals, then each went to his own car to start the day's work.
Sashka's hands were shaking, so he gripped the steering wheel as hard as he could. How the hell did he get into this mess? There was nothing he could do. Starting a conflict with the "grandpas" in the motor pool was out of the question. Yet if he were to do what the Moldavian wanted, he's be loaded with stolen goods the next day, too. He would have no respite until he found himself in deep trouble. Why, oh why had they put him behind the wheel of this car!
"Morning, Sasha," said Sorokin, climbing into the back. He had gathered a small bag of stuff to take with him. It was his long-standing habit to address drivers by their first name, and not by their surnames. "We'll go to HQ first."
"Good morning, comrade general," replied Sashka, rubbing his ear.
"What's the matter with your ear?"
"Some bug or other bit me-"
"Oh- well, let's go!"
An unhealthy-looking, thin captain was on duty outside the office of the head of the Political Section of the army and member of the Military Council. The captain was flicking through the latest reports in the logbook. His attention was caught by a report from the Kandahar brigade, that a certain commander had punished a soldier by putting him in a fuel drum for half a day in an outside temperature of plus 50 degrees, after which everyone had forgotten all about the miscreant. Twenty four hours later, the soldier died. In another unit, a soldier had hung himself in the store room. The report gave the soldiers name, date of birth and stated that no factors concerning harassment were discovered in connection with the suicide, that he had not earned the respect of his peers. The report concluded with the names and addresses of the parents of the deceased.
The captain read these reports in order to be aware of what was happening in other units, for his own information and out of curiosity, so that when he went off duty he would have something to tell his pals, especially stories like the one about the soldier in the fuel drum. Some sauna! Fancy the commander forgetting all about him!
He opened a newspaper, yawned from boredom, then saw a drably clad, plump middle aged woman coming down the corridor:
"Excuse me, but who are you? " he asked phlegmatically and cracked his knuckles.
"Actually, I need to see the head of the Military Council-"
"He's very busy right now. Actually, why do you need to see him?"
"I'm a milkmaid."
"I understand that you're from the "Milkmaid" retorted the captain snidely, thinking about the call signal from headquarters of the garrison stationed at Pul-i-Khumri in the north of Afghanistan. "But what do you want to see him about?"
"I'm a milkmaid," repeated the woman, standing uncertainly and somewhat guiltily by the captain's desk.
"Yes, I know, I've only just been speaking to the duty officer at "Milkmaid." It must have taken you a long time to get here. The convoys to Kabul take a while," continued the captain with unpleasant, false commiseration.
"What convoy?" Heavens, I walked here, it's just a step. I'm from the residence," she explained. "From the army general's residence, I'm a milkmaid. There."
The captain was at a total loss. From the residence? A milkmaid?
"We've got a cow there, you see, to have fresh milk for Fyodor Konstantinovich. He likes everything to be very fresh, you see, he's on this strict diet, and the doctor says that Fyodor Konstantinovich can eat only fresh food, boiled meat, fresh milk, you see. So the thing is, you see, I promised to bring your general here some milk, you see-"
The captain burst out laughing.
"A milkmaid! And here I was wondering what brought you here?!"
"Yes, I'm a milkmaid, you see."
At that moment the door opened and the general himself came out, accompanied by Sorokin and a man wearing the uniform of an Afghan advisor.
The captain sprang to his feet.
"Well, Alexei Glebovich," said the general to Sorokin, "I wish you a successful trip. I'll be off on combat mission myself in a few days, we'll meet up there. All the best. And to you, too," he added shaking hands with the advisor in Afghan uniform. "You're off to see the commander now? Good, good. Drop by, give me a call any time. Always at your service-Yes? You want to see me?"
"I've come about the milk-"
"Ah! Excellent!"
"I'm absolutely exhausted," confided the advisor as he and Sorokin descended the winding staircase.
The general couldn't quite see why the advisor was complaining of tiredness. He certainly didn't smell of alcohol. And at this early hour, too.
"Time to go on leave," continued the advisor. "The only pleasure I have is coming here - to see my army buddies, have a dip in the swimming pool, spend some time in the sauna - and everything here is fine as far as the fair sex is concerned. You military men are lucky. It's absolute Paradise here!"
"Yes, it might look like that-But the workload is enormous. Saunas are saunas, but there's no time to rest," replied Sorokin, bending the truth. "I've only been to the sauna once since I got here. You know how it is - a quick shower before bed, and that's it."
"Well, let's go now."
"Sorry, but as you heard the general say, I'm off on a combat mission," said Sorokin with excessive pride.
"Next time, then-. I wanted to drop in on the commander. Do you know him?"
"Very well indeed. We fought together back in '80."
"Of course, you told me last time. Why not go and see him together? A courtesy visit," winked the advisor.
Whatever rank one serves in, one has a master at that level. And it is not the Minister of Defense, as some may think, who is the lord and master of the Armed Forces. In the army, the boss is the commander. For a common soldier, it's the platoon or company commander, for a platoon leader or a company commander it's the commander of the battalion, the commander of the battalion is subservient to the commander of the regiment, and the latter - to the commander of the division. Then comes the commander of the army.
Commanders of the 40th army changed every couple of years. Therefore it would be wrong to single out any particular individual. One brought in troops, another took them out, yet another built and fought and so on. Each had his own pluses and minuses, but irrespective of anything, every commander was the viceroy of the distant great power, the master of an estate on which, beyond any doubt, Soviet directives and laws were in force. The viceroy was assisted by party and political structures that kept an eagle eye on the men to ensure that everyone prayed to one God only - the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, that not a shadow of doubt crossed their minds concerning the correctness of the choice made by their grandparents.
For some of the men the horizon is determined by the battalion, for others - the regiment, others think within the framework of a division, and very few who serve in headquarters think in terms of an army comprised of hundreds of thousands. For those close to headquarters, the commander was always a mere mortal.
The lower army ranks had no time to wonder or discuss where this or that general lives, with whom he lives, what car he uses to drive to work, what he eats for dinner and which bath house he patronizes. For them, the level of the commander is inaccessible.
The people at the bottom of the ladder, whose feet supported the weight of the entire army machine, know that it is not done to criticize their commanders, - history would laugh at them later if they were inadequate or foolish, - these people at the top of the iceberg must be cared for and nurtured, they must be objects of pride, because their resonant names were more likely to go down in history than the names of those who served in the same battalion, and some five or ten years later it would be nice to recall that one served under such and such a commander, stress that he would visit once, regiment frequently, that we knew him, saw him in combat more than once and that he was one hell of a guy!
The commander of the 40th army had returned from the battle command center where he had taken early morning reports, and was now engaged on urgent matters concerning the imminent large operation. He was concluding a telephone conversation with someone and gestured the advisor and the general to come in and sit down.
Sorokin made a mental note that the commander was once again acting in a not too friendly manner, for all that they used the familiar "you" form of address. Furthermore, twice in the past few days the commander had not called Sorokin "Alyosha", but "Alexei Glebovich" indicating clearly that no particular buddy stuff was to be expected. His rise had been too swift in recent years, he had become too far removed from his old comrades in arms. Still, Sorokin hoped that during his stay in Kabul there would be a chance to share a bottle, just the two of them, and indulge in some nostalgic reminiscences about those early years. Then everything would get back to normal.
"Over here, please," said the commander, wanting to get rid of his visitors as quickly as possible. "Viktor Konstantinovich, and you too, Alexei Glebovich. Come and take a look."
He led them over to the window and pulled back the white tulle curtains, allowing a view of a summer house with a pointed roof. Right behind it was a swimming pool with sky-blue water, covered completely by camouflage netting. Some home-made deckchairs stood to the left, behind the pine trees. A fat man in striped trunks lay sunning himself, while a second man swam in the pool, pushing himself strongly away from the sides. A small table was covered with various kinds of bottles.
"Don't lose any time, Viktor Konstantinovich, go down to the pool, I'll have my adjutant escort you there. I'm really sorry, but there's no way I can go there myself today. I'm absolutely snowed under with work."
After saying his good-byes to the commander and the advisor, Sorokin made his way to the party commission chairman and went inside.
"Alexei Glebovich! Do sit down! I want to copy some Afghan songs. I could make you a copy too, if you like?"
"Why not?"
The stout colonel who issued coupons for imported technology and 'Adidas' track suits unsealed a block of "Sony" tapes purchased in an Afghan shop, and began to put stickers on every cassette to indicate sides A and B, and on which one could write the name of the content.
"Yes, I'll certainly manage that!"
It was impossible to refuse a request for coupons from a general, let alone a general from an operative group of the Ministry of Defense, but the chairman, sly fox that he was, managed to give the conversation such a turn that Sorokin found himself in the role of a supplicant.
"Come in any time, comrade general. Always happy to be of service," invited the chairman in parting.
Ask a trifling favor, and find yourself indebted, thought Sorokin angrily. That sonofabitch will call in the favor, you can bet on that.
"There goes the younger generation," said the duty officer in the main vestibule to his partner, following Sorokin with his eyes. "Some sharp dresser! Thinks a lot of himself." He waited until the general got into his car. "Before, generals were all five minutes to their retirement date. Nowadays it's all different, Yura. They barely have time to put on their colonel's shoulder boards before placing an order for those of a general. That's all due to Afghanistan, pal. If it weren't for the war, where would the army get new blood? You have to think here, run risks, but those old farts at the top couldn't handle it, this is no office job, or paper shuffling or spending a weekend with the grandchildren at their dacha. You mark my words, Yura, those elders in the Kremlin will soon feel the pressure of new forces, they're already being squeezed with perestroikas and accelerations. How can they speed themselves up?
There were two roads leading to Kabul from staff headquarters. The first was meant for the higher ranks and served as a kind of parade entrance to the HQ of the 40th. It started from the front of the Amin palace, passed the residence where the operative group of the Ministry of Defense worked and where Fyodor Konstantinovich, the personal representative of the Minister of Defense and for whom a cow plus a milkmaid had been flown in on a special freight run, lived.
The road came to an asphalt-surfaced square surrounding the Afghan Ministry of Defense. Another road came out on this square, too, one that was virtually unknown to the army brass because generals, like lords and masters of old, did not like to travel along dusty, uneven roads, they did not look at the rear entrance which was designated for lesser beings, the insignificant, the servants.
However, the general opted for this particular road, which began between the officers' houses, the commissary and the cafe, and was manned by two checkpoints.
They passed the first checkpoint, the thin chimneys of the boiler house which protruded like matches above the single-storey barrackss, the sports field, then the second checkpoint and took the downward slope, leaving behind the shoddy museum of the Afghan armed forces, filled with obsolete, disintegrating Soviet military technology, covered with a thick layer of green paint. A sort of crossroads popularly referred to simply as "the cross" was directly behind the museum. To the left of it lay a road leading to two regiments - the paratroops and the motorized infantry - and the goods depot with its enormous storage hangars. A long line of military vehicles had passed through here early in the morning. Now they were replaced by numerous Kamaz trucks, which raised clouds of dust in their wake.
A swarm of bare-legged urchins "attacked" the trucks. The more agile would seize the tailboards, pull back the canvas cover and throw out everything they could reach. Others ran behind the truck, catching whatever they could and disappearing into alleyways.
"Just look at them! Look what they're doing, the rotten little beggars!" cried Sorokin. "The cheek!-"
Such pirate raids by Afghan kids were carried out frequently on Soviet columns, and were accomplished so swiftly that the truck drivers did not have time to react in most cases.
Sashka couldn't care less at the moment, even though he dutifully made noises indicating agreement. Sashka was thinking his own soldier's thoughts about the load hidden in the boot and caught himself on the thought that those kids must be making a bundle and maybe he, since he had already been dragged into this shady matter, should demand a cut, even a tiny one, for the risk he was running, instead of a mere "thanks!" You can't spread "thanks" on a piece of bread, after all.
A handful of modest container-shops on wheels clustered around the "cross" selling the traditional selection of shawls, "stone-washed" jeans outfits, pens to suit every taste, sunglasses and "biters", nail clippers which were a favorite gift back home; you could buy a bottle of vodka at the "cross" at any time of the day or night. The shops were decorated with notices in mutilated Russian such as "Mischa-empori-shope", posters depicting black-browed Indian beauties or heroes of American action movies such as Rambo, with mountainous biceps, streamlined torsos and cartridge belts slung across their chests.
Several more container shops stood behind the Coca-Cola factory with its yard full of hundreds of cases of empty bottles. The road at this point was particularly bad, the general's car and the trucks bouncing along the uneven surface. They slowed down in order not to wreck their suspension, crawling past the military traffic police post lurking behind a wall. It was here that the dust they had raised caught up with the trucks and hung in a thick pall inside their cabins.
From time to time the shop owners would come out with shovels and throw some water on the road from surrounding puddles in an effort to damp down the yellow, choking dust.
The general's "Volga" came out by the Afghan Ministry of Defense, drove around its perimeter and sped along the tree-lined Dar-ul-Aman, the lengthy strip of asphalt leading to the center of Kabul.
Various ministries and other official buildings, schools, shops and bakeries and private villas flashed by.
Sashka glanced at the general in the rear view mirror from time to time.
Sorokin looked about forty years of age. He was in good shape, but had aged early, gray-haired and with red veins on and around his nose.
The general was puffing on a cigarette and speaking in a slightly hoarse voice, more to himself than the river:
"There's another road parallel to this one, a bit narrower, that leads to the Institute of Polytechnics. .. ever driven down it?"
"Of course I know it, comrade general, " replied Sashka. "It's called "the 'spooker'. We're not allowed to use it."
"-.'spooker,, hmmm-we almost got burned alive there in '80-"
They passed the fork where soldiers from the Tsarandoi, the Afghan militia, stopped and searched vehicles. One soldier made a move to flag down the "Volga", but noticed the uniformed Soviet driver behind the wheel just in time.
They drove past villas, then the Soviet embassy with its two-meter high walls. A lone ancient armored car with the hood up stood in a vacant lot near the embassy - Afghan soldiers on guard duty.
There were some shops to the left of the embassy, and Sashka caught a few glimpses of jeans hung out for sale.
They passed the bridge over the small Kabul River, which crossed the capital in a murky, brownish-green stream. Local women washed clothing along the banks of the half-dry riverbed, bathed children, rinsed dishes, people cleaned cars and if the natives had refrained from urinating in the river, it would certainly have dried completely by now.
At the end of the street, where it entered the city square, a huge portrait-poster of the start of the century Afghan king, Amanullah Khan, was prominently displayed. He had luxuriant whiskers, was dressed in a field jacket with red tabs. Soviet military men and civilians working in Kabul would argue as to who it was really - hero of the Russian civil war Blucher or Beria, and were honestly puzzled why the Afghans had such a reverent attitude to Soviet leaders of the Stalin era. By the end of the discussion they usually agreed that the Afghan people, just like Soviet citizens, respect strong personalities and an iron hand, and sadly miss those times when order reigned supreme.
Sorokin smoked all the way to the airport, immersed in recollections about the introduction of the armed forces, about a lieutenant-colonel's life.
...They had been pushing a division down long wintry roads through the tunnel towards the Salang pass, choking from diesel and petrol fumes. The winding road was made even narrower by snowdrifts along its sides, the vehicles skidded on the icy surface. The column of tanks and APCs got stuck. They pushed a broken down truck off the road into the precipice.
Sorokin remembered how he had been driving through unfamiliar Kabul and wanted nothing so much as to eat some mandarins. On every corner there were rough wooden two-wheeled carts full of crates of mandarins. He told the driver of the APC to stop, hopped out and approached one of the vendors. All he had in his pocket were Soviet rubles. He offered the man five rubles. The vendor turned the unknown blue note around in his hands, handed it back. Sorokin offered ten rubles, with the same result. Damn you, he thought, pulling out a twenty five ruble note from the bottom of his pocket. The seller shook his head again .
Then there was that time when he had gone into town in a new UAZ jeep, and was stopped by a crowd of girls, several hundred of them, near Kabul University. They dragged him out of the jeep, smeared him and his driver with some kind of paint and threw rotten tomatoes and eggs at them.
When you talked about it, everything was crystal clear: international aid, defense of the southern borders. The party said one thing, but the reality was quite different, and one had to live with this ambiguity.
Almost got burned alive- It was in February, on the eve of Soviet Army Day. He was then a member of the Military Council and had been in conference. They were returning late to the division, it was already dark, and they decided to take a short cut along the 'spooker' as Sashka called it: straight for the Institute of Polytechnics, then left to the grain silo and down, along the fringes of Kabul and straight to the division, the "Teply Stan" (Warm Haven) district as it had been named by the Soviets.
The 'spooker' was quite empty, not a single oncoming car. All the streets were empty, the shops closed even though at that time they were usually open, and shafts of light from kerosene lamps speared out into the dark street.
Sorokin rode the armor, legs dangling down into the open hatch, eyes half-shut against the bitter wind. The APC took a sharp bend and began to brake - ahead of them, about a hundred meters away, a crowd of Afghans blocked the road.
"Is it some holiday of theirs, or what?" called Sorokin down the hatch to the lieutenant who sat in the command seat inside the APC. "Slow down as much as possible, easy does it. They'll move!"
The crowd engulfed the APC and would not let it pass any further. What an idiotic situation! For a few moments, Sorokin lost his composure. He tried to smile in a friendly manner, waved his hand, but the response was frankly hostile. Suddenly, the crowd boiled into motion, like a stormy sea, roaring its hatred of the Soviet military.
"Allah akbar! Allah akbar!" screamed the crowd. Sorokin seized the machine gun hanging on the open hatch, slipped off the safety catch, pulled the breech and fired a shot in the air. Something struck him on the back of the head, felt like a stick, just as well he was wearing a fur hat, it absorbed the blow. Rocks flew. He fired a few more warning shots into the air. The crowd continued to press in on the APC. Quickly and therefore clumsily, Sorokin scrambled down into the vehicle - for a moment he panicked, thinking he was stuck - to hide from the rocks and seal the hatch. Noses pressed to the triplex, they waited tensely. Dull blows sounded all around. The crowd was attacking the APC with stones, shovels, hoes. Someone jumped on top of the vehicle, pounding his heel against the closed hatch. The homogenous, infuriated mob, faces distorted with hate, ringed the APC on all sides.
About five minutes went by. The lieutenant was first of the three to break the silence:
"They're coming with torches!"
Someone from the mob threw a bottle of either kerosene or petrol at the APC, then the flaming torch. The armor burst into flame on top, the fire running swiftly along the streaks of inflammable liquid. The mob retreated from the vehicle.
A smell of smoke penetrated the cabin. The lieutenant awaited orders. Rivulets of sweat ran down the lieutenant-colonel's face.
"We'll burn, comrade colonel," warned the lieutenant finally
"Take your choice, son," said Sorokin to the driver mechanic. "Either we roast alive, or we go forward."
Wisps of smoke appeared in the cabin. The lieutenant began to cough.
The engine roared into life and the APC lurched forward. There was a shout, then another and another. The vehicle gathered speed and velocity, bouncing over human bodies like ruts on a country road.
About two hundred meters further along they broke out and raced full speed, banging into and overturning oncoming cars, through the dark city.
Once on the territory of the division, the soldier driver clambered out of the cabin and made his way directly to the barracks, forgetting to switch off the engine. It seemed to Sorokin that the young man had gone gray all of a sudden-.
The "Volga" stopped on one of the central streets, making way for an open-bodied "Toyota." The car was filled to the brim with chunks of butchered camels. A Khazara boy aged about nine lay on the mountain of bloody carcasses. He was incredibly dirty and clad in a much-mended blue nylon jacket. The meat must have still been warm, and he laughed happily, waving at passers-by and calling out something.
Choppers filled the air above the landing strip, affording cover to a descending Il-76. The plane was spiraling down, weaving through the sky and leaving a trail of curlicues behind it - trails of decoys, like the ones being released from the choppers.
The guard on the gates of the airport looked questioningly at the "Volga" with its Afghan number plates. One of the paratroopers remained standing by the gates with their welded-on red star, the other approached the car lazily and peered in from under his helmet.
"What's taking you so long?" barked Sashka.
'Where's the car from?"
" It's general Sorokin's car from army HQ. C'mon, open those gates-"
"I can't admit a car with Afghan plates."
"See this pass?" demanded Sashka, thrusting a cardboard square under the guard's nose.
"Another one's needed for entry to the airdrome."
"Will you quit stalling?!"
"Wait a moment, I'll have to report -"
"Idiots!" muttered Sashka, who was accustomed to more respect from guards.
"I'm sorry, comrade general," said the guard returning from his post, "but I can't let the car through."
"Never mind." Sorokin got out of the car. "I'll let you know when to pick me up, I think I'll be back in three or four days. See you then! Take care!"
"Don't worry comrade general, Alexei Glebovich, everything will be in order. I'll go straight back to HQ now." Sashka did not look at the general when he uttered those final words. He had trouble with barefaced lying.
What if they catch me? Worried Sashka. I'll go to the shop, and what if there's a patrol nearby, or the Afghans report on me? What will I tell the general? He trusts me. All right, he decided finally. I'll go just this once, never again. Just deliver this stuff. But if they make me take stolen goods from HQ again-.No, let them take me off driving duty, let them beat me up, but I'm not taking anything again. And I don't need any money!
Sorokin made his way towards a single-storey wooden building next to landing place.
"Comrade general, we take off in twenty minutes."
"Fine."
While he waited, another two Il-76s landed, rolled forward to park on the concrete apron and disgorged their passengers.
Two UAZ jeeps carrying senior officers drew up. The officers saluted the general respectfully and came up to greet him. They stood there smoking.
"We were coming back from Jalalabad once," said a colonel, "and had a monkey with us for the divisional commander. A birthday present. We had it in a bag, but it managed to get out somehow. Well, I thought, there's nowhere it can go, the doors are shut. We took off, and that damned monkey shot off and got through to the pilot's cabin. There it was, over the pilots' heads, grabbing everything in sight and flipping switches. Can you imagine it? There you are, flying along, and this blasted ape goes and switches off the engines or something. Mind you, the first pilot kept his head, grabbed the monkey and tossed it to hell and gone out of the window.
Two more choppers were brought up, Sorokin entered the first and took a soft seat by the window.
The senior pilot greeted Sorokin, saluted smartly and introduced himself as major Mitrofanov.
Sorokin nodded.
"Put on your parachute, please, general."
"I fly without a parachute. If they knock us down, it's not likely to help."
"Sorry, sir, but otherwise we can't take off."
"Very well, then," agreed Sorokin, fumbling with the straps. "Show me how to get this thing on!"
The choppers passed over the villages clinging to the outskirts of Kabul, swept above the hills. A couple of Mi-24s flew in front, providing cover, greenish-brown-gray camouflaged "crocodiles." They soon caught up with the column, followed the road. Peering out of the window, the general watched the rails snaking through the valley, interrupted in places by groups of cars. Everything reminded him of those first years in Afghanistan, but at the same time, it all looked different, somehow more orderly and better planned.
Its a good army, thought the general, only you need to get everything properly organized. We had it a hundred times harder because when we came in there was nothing. Yes, today's 40th is completely different. Strong, experienced, with sound rear services. Look at the way they equip operations now, they know everything, reconnaissance is reliable, the Spetsnaz is active, there is cooperation with Afghan special structures, all is taken into account. We've certainly learned a lot! The only bad thing is that the political situation hasn't changed, it's getting worse. The rebels have grown in strength in these years, too. If the West wasn't helping them with arms, money and military advisors, we would have crushed this blasted counter-revolution long ago with our strength! The way it works out is that victory seems to be a mere step away, but you still can't see the end of the war. How long is it going to take? We've learned to fight them in the mountains, too, but can we be certain of a final victory? So a year, two, three will pass. Then what? Then the Afghans will have to learn to defend their revolution themselves. We'll help them build up a strong army, and then let them go at it! It looks as though we'll have to pull out anyway. We can't stay here forever! This isn't Germany, or Poland or Hungary!
The general's thoughts turned to inadequacies. Specifically inadequacies. There were and could be no problems in the Soviet Army. Sorokin realized this as soon as he was promoted to colonel. If you've got problems, you're no good as a political officer. There were problems in companies, battalions, regiments. It was permissible now to discuss only matters that still needed perfecting.
Why do we worry most about the men's outward appearance, the neatness of the paths in the compound, bright tents with portraits of Lenin and quotes from party congresses instead of the essence of the matter, wondered the general.
However, despite knowing the deficiencies of the army, occasionally criticizing them in his own mind or in a circle of very close friends, the general had no intention - and he did not conceal this - of trying to right any wrongs, stupidities and window-dressing. He hadn't worked his way up to general only to wreck his career by an open display of dissatisfaction.
He criticized mentally, noted numerous lapses, and was proud that he, unlike the aging generals back home, understood and was concerned by the fact that not everything was ideal in the Soviet army. He comforted himself with the hope that the time would come when he would climb a bit higher up the hierarchical ladder, and then get down to the business of putting things to rights.
In fact, though, the general contradicted his own thoughts on the spot, has there ever been a time when EVERYTHING we had was ideal? Is it possible to correct EVERYTHING? That takes a great deal of time and effort. If I were, say, head of the Chief Political Directorate, maybe I could try to improve EVERYTHING, or at least a great deal. And anyway, not EVERYTHING is all that bad even now.
The officers at the command post looked like fantastic spotted creatures flecked by rings of sunlight under the canopy of the camouflage netting. Sorokin was told that the column from Kabul was making good time, more than twenty vehicles had broken down on the way, two soldiers died in an accident - their APC fell into a precipice - and a major was almost crushed by two APCs when he stood smoking between them: he had been taken to hospital in a critical condition. It was also reported that the main force was expected to arrive by evening.
There were still a few days to go before the operation: all the forces committed to it had to be brought up, concentrated in the necessary areas according to the approved plans, regrouped if need be, reconnaissance data had to be studied and analyzed, the area had to be worked over politically and when the critical mass was ready, when all was set out like pieces on a chess-board, then the game could begin.
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Chapter 7
Chapter 9
